Malice In Wonderland (Book 6) Read online

  “You think Buck had a mistress?” Coil asked.

  “I don’t know about that,” Hank said to Agatha. “I got to talk to his second wife for quite a while before she realized I wasn’t assigned to the case. Her name is Lorraine. Seems like a nice lady deep down, and Buck really broke her heart. She said Buck had lured each of them there by being the same old charming man they’d fallen in love with, but Lorraine said Buck told her things were going to change for all of them because he’d found the love of his life in Candy.”

  Agatha’s mouth dropped open. “Buck told her that?”

  “That’s what she said,” Hank said.

  “Did he tell her anything else?”

  “I don’t know,” Hank said, mouth twitching slightly. “That’s when I got busted and she walked away in a huff. Rich women sure know how to make an exit.”

  “Well, that stinks,” Agatha said, her disappointment obvious. “Do you think Buck was that clueless or that spiteful?”

  “Hard to say at this point, but if Buck was murdered it seems like you’d have a pretty good reason to suspect all seven of them.”

  “Why Candy?” Agatha asked.

  “How would you feel if your husband invited all his exes into your home without your knowledge and made hints about changing a will?”

  “Oh,” Agatha said. “Good point.”

  “Or maybe the rumor is right, and he really did have a replacement ready to go for number seven.”

  “We need to tug the inheritance thread,” Hank said. “Heather is as much in the dark as we are about why she was there.”

  “Sex or money,” Coil said. “It’ll be one of the two.”

  “Maybe he’s been paying all of them in some way all this time,” Hank said. “Like an ongoing apology for being such a jerk.”

  “That could work,” Coil said. “He decides to cut them all off, so one of them decides to cut him off.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Agatha said, “But Heather was not receiving a dime from Buck. She got a very nice settlement and some property during the divorce, but she hasn’t gotten a cent after that.”

  “How are you so sure?” Hank asked.

  “Heather is as bad with money as she is with men,” Agatha said. “I’ve been her personal bookkeeper for the last ten years. I’d know if Buck was paying her.”

  Hank looked at Coil and they both grinned.

  “So…” Coil asked. “What’s she worth?”

  “Nunya beeswax,” Agatha said.

  Chapter Eight

  Agatha was in for the afternoon, and it would take an act of congress to get her to leave the house again. It was too dang hot.

  She’d felt bad for Hank as they’d left the café. He’d forgotten to cover his seat, and by the way he was scooting his booty over that padded saddle, she knew it had to be like sitting on lava. The bike was still new, and he’d eventually remember all the minute details that seemed to go along with being a motorcycle owner. She hoped.

  The air conditioner was set to a chilly sixty-six degrees, and her shades were drawn so there was no chance of the sun penetrating. She compensated for the cold interior by donning her favorite black stretchy pants and an old TCU t-shirt that she always expected to fall apart every time she washed it. Her fuzzy socks slipped quietly across the polished wood floors like a figure skater.

  She regretted not making her early morning run, but the late-night drive from Buck’s ranch, and then waiting up an extra hour in case Heather called, had her plum worn out. The only reason she’d left the house for lunch was because she hoped Hank and Coil had news, but they hadn’t had much.

  Agatha slid her way into the home office affectionately called the war room and stretched out on the plush chaise. The war room was one of her favorite places in the old house. She most enjoyed the times she and Hank plotted out crime solving scenarios and book ideas while pouring over old reports and witness statements.

  The computer on her desk beeped and she went to check the progress. She’d been downloading the video and pictures Hank had taken of the crime scene. And truth be told, after looking at the scene, she wasn’t sure it even was a crime scene. But she knew it had to be worked as a homicide first. Still…there was nothing to suggest it was anything but natural causes.

  Buck Hazard was a very powerful man, and it was Detectives Ritzo and Kraken’s chance to make themselves relevant. If it was murder, they’d have a huge case on their hands, it would be easy to pin it on Heather. If it was death by natural causes, they’d show that they were diligent in their investigation. Either way, Heather would come out the loser.

  She felt her anxiety creep in as she looked at the pictures. She was on a deadline, and she hadn’t scheduled Heather going to jail and being accused of murder into her daily writing schedule. This was going to put her way behind. But she’d do whatever she had to do for her friend.

  Her computer said she still had twelve minutes to go until everything was uploaded, so she went back to the chaise and dropped down. She could take a twelve-minute nap. It might do her wonders.

  She noticed the drawer of the end table was slightly ajar and she felt the hairs prickle on her scalp. Every once in a while, she’d have a panic attack at the thought of what had happened in that very room only a few months before. It only happened when she was very tired. She could usually control the memories and the panic that came with them.

  A breath hitched in her chest, and she sat up quickly and looked in the drawer to make sure her daddy’s revolver was still inside. The same revolver she’d used to fatally shoot her stalker, Dr. Ray Salt. Her skin was hot despite the coolness of the room, and she willed herself to lay back down and again and relax. But she remembered all too well how it had felt to fire the revolver, and the bloom of blood across his chest after she’d shot him.

  She hadn’t told Hank about the panic attacks; sure it was only a matter of time before they faded. But they hadn’t. She lay flat on her back on the chaise and held onto each side as the room swayed and she breathed in and out, slow and steady.

  She’d tucked her cell phone in the waistband of her stretchy pants, and when it vibrated against her stomach she yelped and rolled off the chaise onto the floor, her breaths coming in shallow pants.

  “Get,” pant. “A grip,” pant. She stuck her head between her knees and sucked in a couple of deep breaths grabbing the phone. It had stopped ringing, and she saw she’d missed a call from Hank.

  It vibrated again in her hand, and she only jumped a little this time.

  “Hank,” she said, breathing heavy in the phone.

  “Agatha?” he asked. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. “Just dozing. The phone scared me. What’s up?” She was soaked with sweat, and she put the phone on speaker so she could put her head back between her knees.

  “Not much, just wondering if you were able to take a look at the pictures and video from Buck’s bedroom,” he said.

  “You want to come by? I’ve got everything up on the wall screen.”

  “I’m actually pulling into your driveway right now,” he said. “It was too hot to walk. Of course, the drive is so short the air hasn’t even kicked in. Please tell me you have something cold to drink.”

  “Come on in,” she said, frantically trying to look at her appearance in anything that would give a reflection. She used her phone, and then scrubbed her hands over her face to bring some color back into her pale cheeks. Her hair was a mess and damp tendrils stuck to her temples and neck.

  She wiped her sweaty palms on her leggings and then skidded her way to the front door. She was a hot mess. Her hands shook as she undid the deadbolt and the chain, and she finally got the door open.

  Agatha must’ve looked worse than she thought because Hank’s eyes got big as saucers and his mouth pursed as though he was trying to hold back a yelp of surprise. Which really made her feel bad, considering all the horrific crime scenes he’d looked at over the yea
rs.

  “Don’t ask,” she said, and then pulled him inside.

  Her lips twitched at his chosen attire. Hank had embraced retirement with full abandon. He wore khaki shorts, and a multicolor Hawaiian shirt that made her eyes cross. He wore his tortoiseshell glasses, which she loved, and a pair of Birkenstocks with white socks. She also knew that he had a weapon strapped somewhere to his body.

  “You look…” He looked her up and down from head to toe. “Comfortable,” he finally said.

  She snorted out a laugh. “Nice save. I’ve been on the edge of a nap ever since we got home from lunch. My late-night partying days are over. I need a solid eight and my morning run to feel like a human, and I’ve had neither.”

  “I can come back later,” he said. “You should’ve told me you needed to rest.”

  “Nah, if I sleep now it’ll throw off my whole schedule,” she said. “Besides, I’d hate for you to have gotten dressed up for nothing.”

  “Hilarious,” he said dryly.

  She just grinned and headed into the kitchen to get them both an iced tea.

  “Lord, it feels good in here,” he said. “My windows face the wrong direction and I get all that afternoon sun. My AC is working overtime.”

  “You need to get the blackout shades like I have. It makes it nice and cozy.”

  “It mostly makes you a hermit. You have them closed pretty much year-round.”

  She shrugged, unable to dispute the point, and took the teas into the war room. He’d already made himself comfortable by connecting the computer to her big wall screen.

  “Thanks,” he said absently, taking the tea from her hand.

  “What do you see?” Agatha asked.

  “I’d rather not say,” he said,” I don’t want to color any observations you make with what I think.”

  “Right,” Agatha said, squaring her shoulders and looking at the images on screen. She took in every detail, absorbed it and filed it away. She chewed at her bottom lip as she studied, trying to figure out what was bothering her. But she was coming up blank.

  “Well, Sherlock?” he asked. “Tell me what you see.”

  “Well…” Agatha said, and then her phone rang. She looked down at the display and her heart thumped loudly in her chest. She looked up at Hank and said, “It’s Heather.”

  “Saved by the bell.”

  Chapter Nine

  Agatha fumbled with the phone and then said, “Hello? Heather?”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Is it her?” Hank asked.

  “It’s just silence,” Agatha said, her frustration obvious.

  “Agatha?” Heather said, her voice barely audible through the line.

  “Oh, Heather.” The relief in her voice couldn’t be disguised. “It’s me. How are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m sleepy,” she said. “And my twenty-four-hour makeup has run out. They don’t even have a hair stylist in this place. Can you believe that?”

  “Umm…” Agatha said, eyes wide. “Have you had any rest?”

  “No,” Heather said, yawning, “They said I could sleep in prison. But I met a real cute cop. He brought me something to eat and a Coke. He said they don’t have martinis, but you can’t convince me there’s not a cop in this place who doesn’t have a bottle of vodka in their desk drawer.”

  “Heather, this is serious business,” Agatha said. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Scared spitless,” she said. “But there’s nothing I can do as long as these yahoos have an agenda. The dummies are even trying to convince me I actually killed Buck. Which is ridiculous.”

  “I told you not to talk to those detectives anymore without an attorney present,” Agatha said. No one could make her crazy faster than Heather.

  “Oh, I know. I figure it’s time to call in the big guns. My patience is running thin, and I’m more mad than scared. They caught me off guard last night. I’ve never actually been arrested, believe it or not, so about halfway to the police station I started thinking this might be a fun little adventure. Like when you do research for your books. And my mugshot looks super cute. Can you call my attorney for me?”

  Agatha was speechless for a couple of seconds. “Sure.”

  “You remember Louise, don’t you Agatha?” Heather asked. “She’s been with me since my first marriage. I love that woman.”

  “I’ll call her,” Agatha said. There were voices in the background, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “Cutie Cop says I’ve gotta go,” she said. “He’s way nicer than those bozos who brought me in last night. They’ve been talking me to death, and the one has had a piece of spinach in his teeth since last night. That’s disgusting. Talk soon, Agatha. Kisses.”

  The phone disconnected, and Agatha stared at it like she was in an alternate universe.

  “Everything all right?” Hank said tentatively.

  “She said there’s no hair stylist at the jail and she met a cute cop.”

  “Sometimes God protects the stupid,” Hank said, shaking his head. “Call her attorney and let’s get back to work.”

  Agatha left the room to look up Louise’s number. A few minutes later, she felt much better. Louise was a terrifying woman. But they still had an uphill battle. Hank was just hanging up the phone when she came back in the war room.

  “Coil said he left another message with the police chief, but he doesn’t expect to hear anything back until tomorrow.”

  “When will the coroner examine Buck’s body?” she asked.

  “It’s doubtful it’s a high priority, so I don’t see the ME coming in today to do an autopsy. Probably first thing in the morning, and it shouldn’t take more than a few hours to get results.”

  “If it wasn’t murder, they’ll have to let her go,” Agatha said.

  “But what if it was?” Hank said, frowning. “I know these guys. They’ll charge her for murder before making Buck’s COD public just so they can notch an arrest. Once headlines are made, it’s easy for people to fall through the cracks.

  “What about Nick Dewey?” Agatha asked. “He’s got to know the mayor. We’re not helpless here. We know people who can help us.”

  “Good thinking.” Hank texted his millionaire friend. They hadn’t seen each other since the fire in Rio Chino had killed their police chief, but they stayed in contact by phone. “Done.”

  “I appreciate it,” Agatha said. “I know you don’t like having to ask others for help. It means a lot.”

  Hank brought her in for a hug. “You know you never have to hesitate to ask me anything. If I can give it to you, I will.”

  “Which means even more,” she said, smiling. ”Because you’re doing this for Heather, and I know how you feel about her.”

  “She’s an acquired taste,” Hank agreed. “But she’s growing on me.”

  Agatha leaned in and kissed him. “I don’t do this enough. You’re a good man, Hank. I should tell you that more often.”

  Agatha could see the pleasure in his eyes.

  “If you feel like getting out for a bit,” he said, “I’ll buy you some tea and something sweet from Taco and Waffles.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” she said. “I’ll even change clothes first and brush my hair.”

  “You always look beautiful to me. No need to change.”

  “That’s sweet,” she said, smiling. “But it’s hot as Hades outside and I’m going to put on shorts and a tank top and put my hair in a ponytail.”

  She hurried to her bedroom to change and run a brush through her hair, and she caught her reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Her face was still pale from her panic attack, but she’d gotten herself back under control.

  She was going to have to do something. There were too many memories in the house. The memories of her parents were sweet, but there were times when an unexpected pang in the heart came out of nowhere. And then there were the memories of Ray Salt, that weren’t so sweet.

 
Agatha jogged back to the front of the house and grabbed her keys from the entry table.

  “That was fast,” Hank said, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “You promised me something sweet,” she said. “No reason to dally.”

  He placed a hand on her arm before she could open the front door. “You okay?”

  It was a struggle not to pull away. She’d been alone for so long that she had to get used to trusting someone. And she wasn’t altogether comfortable that he could read her so easily.

  She let out a slow breath and told him what was on her mind. “I think I’m going to sell the house.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to sell.” Now that she’d said the words aloud, she knew she was going to do it. “It’s getting harder and harder to live here.”

  “Is this about, Salt?” Hank asked.

  “This house is a crutch,” she said. “I hide here because it’s what’s easiest for me, but I’m haunted by the memories in it. Ray Salt, my parents, that crazy Santa serial killer, and the daughter I never got a chance to know. I’ll never heal as long as I’m tied to this place.”

  Hank nodded thoughtfully. “Aggie, this is the house your parents built as their home. It wasn’t created as a cage for their daughter. Not then or now. If you want to sell it, then put it on the market. But don’t let some misplaced sense of obligation steal your joy.”

  “I’ve never known anything different,” she said. “It’s kind of scary.”

  “It’s a frame with paint and shutters. It’s rugs and wood floors and drywall. That’s all you’re selling. You’ll make a new home and new memories.”

  Agatha knew he was right. She’d been born and raised in Rusty Gun. Once her writing career had taken off, she could’ve easily lived anywhere in the world in any home of her choosing, but at heart, she was a Texan, and her roots were planted deep.

  “I’ll miss seeing this place. It does have a lot of good memories.”

  “Actually…” Hank said.

  “Actually what?” Agatha asked.

  He coughed and pinkened a little.