I grabbed the pages and clutched them tightly in my hand. “But Melissa was hit with a brick. This description might not be a perfect match for Tilly’s death, yet it fits Melissa’s. West has been around both women. And the teddy bear? That can’t be pure coincidence.”
“We can’t assume that Melissa and Tilly were murdered by the same person, Lila, not without solid evidence, although it is certainly suspicious that two real-life murders as well as a fictional one involve a child’s toy. We’re going over to West’s place, don’t you worry. Still, I prefer not to charge in, guns blazing, without having all the facts first.” His tone was patient, yet tinged with a hint of reproof.
But my guilt over possibly being complicit in Tilly’s murder only served to increase the urgency of the situation. My hands clenched into tight fists around West’s manuscript and I was on the verge of losing my composure and balling up each and every page. Luckily, Hastings burst into the room and waved a printout at Sean.
“Guy’s real name is Thomas Jefferson Wipple and he’s in a town house by the movie theater. One moving violation. That’s it.”
Sean raised his brows. “Thomas Jefferson Wipple? No wonder he used a pseudonym.” Turning to me, he said, “We’re going to pay Mr. Wipple a visit. Do you want to wait for me or go back to Inspiration Valley?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. Sean dipped his chin in acknowledgment and strode out of the room.
Left to my own devices, I spent the time rereading West’s first fifty pages. It certainly didn’t seem like the prose of a coldhearted killer. Even though my opinion on the author was completely tainted by this point, I still found his writing skillful, amusing, and entertaining. Could West really be capable of this kind of duplicity? It was hard to imagine that someone who could draw the character of the plucky widow with such sensitivity also harbored the ability to commit murder.
When I’d finished reading, I helped myself to the desktop computer and did a Google search on Thomas Jefferson Wipple. There were very few results. One was from the white pages and displayed his age, address, and phone number. For an additional fee, I could acquire his email address as well. I shook my head. There was no such thing as privacy anymore.
Another page listed forty-nine-year-old Thomas Jefferson as an active member of the Dunston Rotary Club, and a third site showed a photo of him participating in a walkathon benefiting the Make-A-Wish Foundation along with a group of other Dunston General Hospital employees. This led me to a search of the hospital’s staff page, and I was able to locate Thomas Jefferson within a few clicks of the mouse. He was a registered nurse.
I sat back in the chair, confounded. Could this male nurse who wrote cozy mysteries and worked to improve his community truly be a murderer? It seemed impossible, and yet I knew it wasn’t. Over the summer, I’d learned firsthand about the masks people wear and how there are those among us who are masters at the art of deception. Victor Hugo had once written, “Virtue has a veil, vice a mask,” and while we all try to conceal our faults behind a fa?ade, West had adopted a public life that made him look like a saint. But behind the polished veneer, he could very well be a killer.
A cop with a shock of red hair suddenly appeared in the threshold, thankfully keeping me from waxing philosophical any longer. “Griffiths here?” he asked.
“No, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back,” I said.
“I’m collecting cash for pizza. It’s almost lunchtime and I know he hasn’t eaten a thing since last night.”
No wonder Sean looked so peaked. He’d had neither sleep nor food for far too long. Grabbing for my purse, I handed the redheaded officer a twenty. “Please get him a whole pie. And maybe a salad?”
The cop’s mouth fell open in surprise, as if I’d ordered something utterly foreign. “A salad? Uh, yeah, I guess I can do that. Anything for you?”
I gave him a wan smile. “No appetite right now, but thanks.”
Sean returned before I could make additional headway in searching for tidbits on Thomas Jefferson Wipple. I found nothing to connect him to Melissa or to Tilly. Only Dunston united the three people.
“It’s not him,” Sean was quick to assure me. He sank down into a chair, his face ashen with exhaustion. “In fact, Mr. Wipple is as nice as they come. And he was quite disturbed to hear about the murders. Says he works with women all day and couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to one of them. He was in the middle of a twelve-hour shift when Mrs. Smythe died and was at the book festival’s costume party with a group of friends when Ms. Plume was murdered.” Sean rubbed his eyes. “And it would have been difficult for him to sneak out seeing as he was dressed up as the Scarlet Pimpernel.”