Софи Райан - No Escape Claws

Jia nodded. She dropped her arms to her sides. “Gina is dead because her drinking finally caught up with her the night she set her house on fire. And if you’re thinking that somehow my husband confronted her and drove her to get drunk that night, sorry. As usual she got that way by herself, but for the record Ben was with Hannah the night of Gina’s death, exercising in the pool at the Y. I was on a training run for the winter half marathon—in other words, I have no alibi.”

It was apparent from the closed expression on her face that the conversation was over.

“Thank you for your time,” Mr. P. said.

Jia nodded and walked off to join her husband.

We headed back to the SUV. “You’ll check Ben Allison’s alibi?” I asked Mr. P.

“I’ll get to it as soon as we get back,” he said.

“He’s very angry.”

“But his wife is the more likely candidate to have done something,” Rose said.

I leaned around Mr. P. to look at her. “Are you saying that because she’s a mother?”

Rose shook her head. “No. I’m saying that because her husband’s anger is so easy to see. Look how it spilled over when he spoke to us. His wife on the other hand, all of her anger is inside.” She patted her chest with the palm of her hand. “Her feelings go very deep.”

“Deep enough to have killed Gina?” I asked. I was afraid I might know the answer. I’d seen Jia’s right hand flexing and then clenching into a fist at her side.

Rose looked troubled. “Maybe,” she said.

There wasn’t anything else to say. We headed back to the shop.

That evening, about eight thirty, there was a knock on my door. Elvis and I had just settled in for an exciting Friday night of TV and nachos. It was Mr. P. with his laptop.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your Friday night,” he said.

I smiled at his words. My Friday night was a plate of cheesy tortilla chips, a cat and a TV remote.

“No problem,” I said. “Come in.”

“I confirmed Ben Allison’s alibi.” He was wearing a pair of yellow fuzzy slippers. It wasn’t the first time. I decided I didn’t want to know why.

From the corner of my eye I could see Elvis eying the nachos. “Don’t even think about it, furball,” I said.

Mr. P. smiled. “Could you look at some numbers for me?” he asked, setting the computer on the counter.

I checked the columns of numbers on the screen and realized that what I was looking at were times and standings from the winter marathon that had been held just weeks after Gina’s death. I found Jia Kent-Allison in the left-hand column of names. I compared her previous and subsequent times with her time in that marathon.

“She didn’t do very well,” I said, shaking my head. “In fact, her time was awful.”

“I came to the same conclusion,” Mr. P. said, “but I wanted to see if you agreed.”

I shook my head. “It’s possible she had some kind of an injury.”

He nodded.

“It’s also possible she just didn’t put in the miles?”

Mr. P. looked thoughtful. “Well, if that’s the case, what was Jia doing when she should have been training?”

I had a bad feeling I might have an answer.

Chapter 10

Liam and I were loading an antique pie safe into a customer’s SUV the next morning when Liz pulled into the parking lot. He had the top of the cupboard and was leaning in the back passenger door trying to maneuver the padded piece into place while I held the legs.

“You need to go about an inch to your left,” he said.

The pie safe—made of oak with the original hardware and punched tin doors was heavier than it looked. With a fair amount of grunts from me and a couple of muttered swear words from Liam, we managed to get the piece of furniture secured.

I was sweaty and rumpled and my hair had come loose from the ponytail I’d pulled it into. I blew my bangs back out of my face. “Thank you,” I said to Liam. “I don’t know how I would have done that without you.”

“Anytime,” he said with a smile. “I’ll put it on your tab.” He headed back to the sunporch, where he and Nick had already replaced a second window. I had a feeling my tab was getting pretty high.

I walked over to Liz, pulling loose the elastic that had been sort of holding my hair. “Hi,” I said. “What did Avery forget? Her phone? Her lunch? Her eyeliner?”

“I’m not here because of Avery,” Liz said. “Alfred called me. He’s found Wilson’s former assistant at the foundation. Remember I told you about her? Marie Heard.”

“I remember,” I said. “So where is she?”

Liz shook her head. “I don’t know. Alfred said he’d explain when I got here.”

“Let’s go find out then,” I said.

We found Mr. P. at his temporary desk. “Hello, Elizabeth,” he said, getting to his feet and setting his coffee cup on the end of the workbench.

“Hello, Alfred,” Liz said. “So tell me. Where’s Marie? Is she still in Arizona? Is she in Florida?”

Mr. P. shook his head. “No. It turned out she was in Arizona.”

I caught his use of the past tense. “Was?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Mrs. Heard is dead.”

Liz closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “Dead? When did it happen?”

Alfred glanced down at the notepad next to his laptop. “About six months ago. I do have the contact information for her son, if you’d like it.”

She nodded. “I would. Thank you, Alfred, very much.”

He tore the top page off the pad and handed it to her. “If there’s anything else you need, let me know.”

“I will,” Liz said. “I appreciate this.” She folded the paper and stuck it in her purse.

We started for the shop. “I can’t believe Marie is dead,” Liz said. “I can’t believe Wilson didn’t stay in touch with her. We should have sent flowers or made a donation in her name or something.”

I gestured at her purse. “You have her son’s address and phone number. You can still make a donation and you can send a note to her son.”

“I think I’ll do that,” she said. She made a face. “I know this is selfish of me, but this doesn’t help us figure out what was going on at the foundation.”

“I know,” I said. “We’ll just have to figure it out some other way.” I wished I had even an inkling of what that other way was.

Just then John came through the door from the shop carrying a large cardboard carton. We’d found a beautiful 1930s vintage pink blush and clear pressed-glass shade in a closet in the spare bedroom at Clayton McNamara’s house. Clayton had no idea where it had come from but he guessed it was likely something that had belonged to his brother, who was even more of a pack rat than Clayton was. When Gram had seen the shade she’d decided it was perfect for the ceiling fixture in the living room. Clayton wanted to, as he put it, “just give the danged thing to her,” but Gram would have none of that. After some give-and-take on both sides I’d come up with an amount both of them could live with. John had arrived to pick up the shade and give Nick and Liam a hand taking out the run of windows in the sunporch that faced the parking lot.

“Hello, Liz,” John said. Something about her expression made him frown. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Liz said, mostly, I think, out of reflex. Then she sighed. “No, John, it isn’t. Do you remember Marie Heard from your time on the board?”

“I do,” he said. “She was Wilson’s assistant. She took the notes at the meetings.” His brown eyes narrowed. “Why? Did something happen to her?”

“She died,” I said.

“Six months ago,” Liz added.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said. “She knew when I first joined the board that I didn’t have a clue about how that sort of thing worked. She always made sure I had what I needed to do the job—reports, spreadsheets, notes from previous meetings.”