“Oh, okay, sure.” Kirby’s shoulders dropped. He walked past me and put his dune buggy magazine and keys into a cubby behind the counter.
I was taken aback by his reaction. As far as I’d figured it, he and I had gotten along just fine since my father’s heart attack. Maybe he didn’t like me telling him what to do. If that was the case, he’d have to get over it sooner rather than later. I didn’t have time to get into that conversation because I’d been waiting for him to show up for hours. Now that he was here, I could finally get out of the store and try to help Ebony.
“I meant to tell you, I talked to Varla. She’s stoked about the discount and the background. She asked if I could take measurements of the window so she could start working on something,” Kirby said.
“Why don’t you tell her to come and see it for herself? She can still take measurements, but it might help to see it in person.”
“You want me to ask her to come here?” He turned beet red.
“Don’t you think that makes the most sense?”
“I guess so.”
“Great. Call her now if you want. I need to head out for a bit and I don’t want to wait until it’s too late.”
He perked up. “You’re going out? Sure, I’ll take care of everything.”
I scanned the store for a project to delegate, but Kirby was already opening the boxes that he’d carried inside. “If I’m not back by seven, are you okay closing up?”
“Yep.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Kirby liked working in the store a lot more when I wasn’t around. Was I such a bad boss? I shook it off, grabbed my keys, and left.
*
I took my scooter this time and drove directly to the house of Linda and Black Jack Cannon. The same black town car sat in the driveway as before. I parked the scooter and walked up the sidewalk, preparing to knock on the front door. I adjusted the hem of my tuxedo T-shirt and stood straight. The door was answered four seconds after I rang the bell, something I knew only because I counted out the Mississippis to help calm my nerves.
Linda Cannon answered the door herself. Today she was elegant in a light blue skirt suit set off with deep blue earrings, necklace, and ring set in gold. Her blond hair was up in a French twist and her lipstick looked freshly applied.
“May I help you?” she asked with no apparent recognition.
“Mrs. Cannon, I’m Margo Tamblyn. We met at your son’s memorial service.”
“The costume woman,” she said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
She glanced at my T-shirt. “Won’t you come in?” she asked, indicating a path behind her.
“Thank you.” I entered the grand foyer and glanced up. The chandelier that hung over my head must have been at least twelve feet in the air. For a paranoid second I feared her hospitality was motivated by an elaborate plan to have the chandelier fall on my head, eliminating me from her life. I shook off the thought. It had been too long since my last therapy session.
“May I offer you something? Tea? Water? Wine?”
“No thank you,” I said. “I came here to talk to you.”
She picked up a glass filled with ice and took a sip, leaving a faint smudge of coral lipstick on the rim. “I’m afraid I may have been rude to you at the memorial,” she said. “My husband thought it would be a good idea to throw a public memorial for our son, to help me grieve. At the time I agreed with him, but perhaps there are things that should be kept in the family.”
“Mrs. Cannon, I understand that you were upset. I may have been a little upset myself. My father is hospitalized with his second heart attack in two weeks.”
“That must be hard on your family,” she said.
“My father is my family. My father and Ebony Welles.”
“She’s not your mother!” she proclaimed.
“She’s the closest thing I have to one. My real mother died when I was born,” I explained. “Ebony became friends with my dad when I was five. She was the most consistent female role model I had.” Linda Cannon looked away. “I don’t know what I would have done without her,” I continued. “She taught me to be strong, honest, and hardworking. She’s the person I turned to when I couldn’t talk to my dad. And now—”
Linda set the glass down. “You seem like a fine woman, but I’ll credit your father with your upbringing, not Ms. Welles. She has been nothing but trouble for this family since I first knew her. And after my late husband’s generosity, what she did to my son . . . I just can’t forgive her. I cannot.”
“Ebony is innocent,” I said quietly. “She didn’t hurt Blitz.”
“Margo, your loyalty is misplaced. Ebony Welles blackmailed my late husband, killed my son, and robbed my house. Now, I’ve been hospitable and invited you into my home, but if you are going to insist on defending that woman, then I must ask you to leave.”
I stood up. “How can you convict a person without proof?” I asked.
She stood up with me. “The police have all the proof they need. Ask yourself: who was standing over my son’s body with a knife in her hand?”