“Exactly.”
“There are a few sticky wickets, though,” I said, repeating an old expression my dad liked to use. “Jesse wouldn’t have bragged about it to all those people if he’d stolen it, would he?”
“Probably not, so that might be an issue. On the other hand, you wondered why he was willing to sell it to one of those pawnshops for less than it was worth. There’s your answer.”
“Right. If he stole it, he would want to get rid of it quickly.”
“Exactly. He couldn’t afford to hold out for top dollar.”
I grabbed my wineglass and took a quick sip. “Sadly, this scenario is worthless because Jesse didn’t sell the necklace. But wow, if he did, then good old Ned would’ve zipped to number one on my suspect list.”
“See? Fun, right?”
“Very fun. Except for the grisly murder-suicide aspect of the thing.”
“Yeah, but since we’re on the side of truth and justice, it’s okay to enjoy the process.”
*
Staring at my suspect list later that night while waiting for Robbie to finish his business outside, I realized that Mac and I hadn’t applied the Scooby process to Cuckoo Clemens or any of the other shop owners who’d admitted seeing Jesse’s necklace. Of course, except for Cuckoo, I really didn’t suspect anyone in that group.
It had been a long day and dinner was fun. Mac had stayed awhile longer because I offered him three different choices of dessert. I had all of them in my freezer because Jane had begged me to take home a bunch of the desserts left over from her open house party.
Once Mac left, I was so tired and full—thanks to the chocolate mousse cake I gobbled up for dessert—I barely made it up the stairs before falling facedown on my bed. Tiger gave my back a nice little massage before curling up on top of me and we both went right to sleep.
*
The next day I revisited my suspect list and wondered why I should’ve excluded those shopkeepers. They’d each seen the necklace and could be just as guilty as the next guy.
I also had come up with a great new way to gauge my suspects’ guilt.
I found Mac in my garage, researching something for his next book that involved two of my torque wrenches. I just hoped it didn’t have anything to do with torturing somebody.
I gave him an hour to work out his torquing issues and then tracked him down for some advice.
“I made this groovy chart,” I said, showing him the spreadsheet. “It lists all of the shop owners and their addresses and the distance each would have to travel to get to and from Jesse’s place.”
“Aren’t you clever?” he said, straining to unscrew a bolt using the smaller torque wrench I’d given him.
“I have a socket wrench,” I said, wondering if he’d appreciate me showing him how to do it.
“I know, but I’m trying to make this work with the torque wrench.”
“You might want to use the bigger one, then.”
“Nope,” he said through clenched teeth. “Need to make this work.”
“Okay, then. Anyway, I had this plan to sneak into the suspects’ cars and check their mileage, but that wouldn’t do any good because I don’t have anything to compare it to.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then set the wrench aside. “Unless the person who snuck into Jesse’s house happened to take his car into the shop within the last two weeks or so. Then you might be able to get the earlier mileage from his mechanic and see if the mileage jumped more than usual.”
“Right,” I said, so loving how he got the way my mind worked. “Because of the extra miles he’d have to travel up here all those nights of the break-ins.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
I thought of the logistics. Getting inside their cars. Checking out their mechanics. And even if I found someone with tons of extra mileage on their odometer, it would be inconclusive at best. “You’re being kind. I’m grasping at straws.”
“It gets complicated,” he said sympathetically.
“I know. I should go pound nails.”
“Don’t take it so hard,” he said.
“No, I really have to go pound nails. We’re framing a house over on Chambord Street.”
He grinned and grabbed me in a warm hug. “I love it when you talk construction.”
*
Three hours later, Mac hunted me down at my construction site. He’d never done that before, so I figured it must be important.
“Guess what,” he said, when I climbed down from the ladder.
“I have no idea.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Come over here.” He walked me over to his big SUV and we climbed inside for privacy.
“Okay, what is it?”
“You know how I have access to police files and information.”
“Yes, because the mayor loves you.”
“Exactly.” He grinned as he shifted in his seat to face me. “So listen. There are traffic cameras out on Highway 101.”
“Oh yeah.” I shook my head. “Everyone whines about those.”
“They take pictures of cars and license plates.”