We dined at my house because it was roomier and closer to the grill. Two baked potatoes were roasting in the toaster oven and the salad was made, so Robbie and I joined him outside at the grill. While we chatted, Mac tossed a ball for Robbie, melting my heart. Of course, Robbie wasn’t all that interested in the “bringing it back” part of the game, so it petered out rather quickly.
After Mac regaled me with the latest gossip in the fascinating world of New York publishing, the conversation naturally drifted back around to Jesse’s murder and the subsequent break-ins and oddities that some of us had experienced.
“Whatever happened with that hotel suicide?” he wondered. “How does that fit in with Jesse’s overdose?”
“You mean Jesse’s murder?”
“The cops are still calling it an overdose.”
“They’re being ultracareful,” I said, “but I know it was murder and Jane agrees. And even if he won’t admit it, Eric agrees, too.”
“Interesting,” Mac said, sipping his wine. “And the hotel suicide?”
“Murder.” I told him how all the fingerprints in the room were wiped clean. “How can that be suicide? Why would he wipe away his own fingerprints?”
“Good question.”
“Because someone killed him,” I said easily.
“Just like Jesse?” He flipped the two rib eyes over and I watched the meat sizzle and the fire spark. “Two homicides meant to look like suicides? That’s quite a coincidence.”
“I guess.” I frowned. “I was suspicious of Andrew when he was hanging around Jane, but I can’t really see a tie-in with the two deaths, can you?”
“If I were writing this as a book, there would absolutely be a tie-in. I try to avoid writing actual coincidences. Everything’s got to count for something, and each action needs to be meaningful. So let’s talk it out. You’ve got two people dead within a few weeks of each other. Both of them supposedly committed suicide. In one small town. What’s the connection? Because there’s got to be one.”
“Okay. Jesse died of an apparent overdose, Andrew of an apparent suicide by some kind of drug administered by syringe. Oh, and there’s Bob. Not that it’s connected, but he slipped into a diabetic coma yesterday.”
“Bob? Jesse’s friend? He’s in a coma?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” Mac scratched his head. “Well, there’s your third suspicious event. That can’t be a coincidence. And look at the similarities. Nobody was killed in a truly brutal or ‘in your face’ manner,” he said. “No gunshots, no strangulations. They’re all nuanced attacks.”
“Nuanced,” I said, liking the word.
“Subtle,” he added. “Their deaths could skim under the wire, be accepted as accidental. And the killer could get away with murder.”
“Until you put them all together in one small town in the span of a few weeks,” I said, getting angrier. “And then it’s not nuanced at all.”
“No. It’s bold.”
“It’s ‘in your face.’”
“Yeah.” He sipped his wine. “I wouldn’t actually write something like that, because it becomes obvious to the reader. The killer isn’t necessarily obvious, of course, but the crimes are beginning to stack up. And still, it could just be a coincidence.”
“But you don’t honestly think so,” I said.
“Nope, given the fact that there’s somebody digging through Jesse’s house and trashing Jane’s hotel rooms, that pretty much adds up to foul play in my book.”
“That’s what I told Eric,” I cried. “But he insists on following the rules, checking all the evidence, waiting for reports, blah, blah, blah. It’s so annoying.”
“I feel your pain. Why aren’t you on his must-call list when he gets those reports in?”
“I don’t know,” I said, laughing. “Doesn’t he know how important I am?”
Mac grinned. “You know, I’ve been given full access to those reports. I drive along with the cops to check out crime scenes and domestic disputes. I’m allowed to sit in on interrogations and interview the guys who’re in jail. But I still have a hard time getting any real information out of Eric.”
“He’s disgustingly circumspect.” I stared up at the dusky sky with its ribbons of coral and pink streaming wildly across the dark blue, the last remnants of sunset fading slowly into nighttime. “I guess it didn’t help that he and I started out on the wrong foot, so to speak.”
“How so?”
“Remember when you first moved here and there was a rash of attacks? And I found the body of that guy I’d threatened to, well, kill?”
“Of course I remember.”
“It didn’t look good. And Eric was new in town and he didn’t know me, so he automatically assumed . . .” I shrugged.
“That you were a cold-blooded killer.” He laughed wryly. “Yeah, that’s how I read you, Irish.”
“I don’t blame him, and we did become friends. But now there’s another murder and I feel like I have to tiptoe around him to get any information.”
“And that’s where Tommy comes in.”
“How’d you know . . . ?” Why did I bother to ask? Mac seemed to see all, know all. “Tommy’s an old friend.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“People in small towns have big mouths,” I grumbled.
He laughed. “Bless their hearts.”
Chapter Fourteen