Chapter 13

"So, Bridget McBain was the one who rammed your truck and hurt the two of you?" Emily asked.

They were sitting around the dining room table. Zoe had made coffee, and Lily was asleep upstairs in her crib. Now Zoe was pacing, obviously furious on their behalf, and Emily was digging to find out more information. "And you just let her go?"

"We didn't. She's going to turn herself in," Grace explained.

"So she says. What if she doesn't?"

Grace held up a hand. "Then I'll go to Sheriff Maverick. Listen, because of Jeremy Prada's lies, she's ruined her life. Leaving the scene of an accident, especially after causing bodily injury, is a felony. I didn't tell her that, but she's probably facing jail time or, at the very least, probation. Her life will never be the same after this."

"Well, she deserves it. She could've killed you both!" Emily exclaimed.

"Shh… You'll wake the baby," Zoe chided. She kissed her wife on the cheek to soften the admonishment. Then she turned to Grace. "Emily is right, though. You got a concussion and assorted bruises, and poor Molly broke her arm."

"We know. But knowing who hit us and why takes a load off my mind," Molly said. "Now I don't need to be afraid that somebody's going to ram my truck while I'm driving around town."

"Do you think she did it? Bridget? Do you think she killed Jeremy?" Emily asked.

"No," Grace said. "She was deeply in love with him. I think his death pushed her over the edge. She blamed Molly for it."

"She also may think Anna Bonnet Sanders did it. She was having an affair with Jeremy," Molly put in.

"Anna does have a temper," Zoe said. "Remember how she stormed out of this house the other day? Yelling and slamming doors?"

"Maybe, but I don't know if she would be capable of cold-blooded murder. She loved Jeremy. That's why she got so angry." Grace sat back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. "We still have to talk to Albert Herves. He's the last one on our list."

"I wonder if he owns a gun?" Molly asked.

"Why? Just because he's a man? Lots of women own them and are proficient with them, too," Emily countered.

"That's true," Molly said. "I just want this to be over. I want to find out who did it so we can get on with our lives."

Just then, Grace's cell phone rang. She answered it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Ms. Conroy. This is Sheriff Maverick.:

"Oh, hello, Sheriff."

"I just wanted to let you know Bridget came in and confessed. Know anything about it?"

"She did? Yes, I knew about it. I'm just surprised Bridget came in so quickly. I know I promised not to interfere, but we went in for a haircut. Sondra, the manager, mentioned that Bridget had an accident and totaled her truck – her black truck -- and needed to take public transportation to work, which was why she was late. When Bridget saw Molly and asked me about her, it came out about how much Bridget hated Molly and believed Molly was still having an affair with Jeremy before he died. I put two and two together, and when I asked, she confessed everything. I told her the best thing she could do for herself was to turn herself in."

"I ought to haul your ass in for interfering with my investigation."

"But I helped!"

"Stop helping. That's the only reason I'm letting you off the hook this time."

"Sheriff, have you gotten any information on Jeremy's death yet? I mean, anything you can share?"

"I can tell you Jeremy was shot to death, one bullet in the stomach, from an old revolver. I'll be holding a press conference in an hour about it, so I'd appreciate you keeping your yap shut about it."

"Really? That's interesting. Thanks, Sheriff. Of course, I won't say a word. For what it's worth, I know you're doing your best. Bye now."

"What did she say?" Molly asked, eagerly scooting to the edge of her chair. "Is there news?"

"Yes. She said she was going to hold a press conference this afternoon, so she might as well tell me, providing I swore not to speak to the press beforehand, which, of course, I promised." She paused to fix the cup of coffee Emily had just poured her.

"Well? What did she say?" Molly pressed.

"Jeremy was shot to death, one bullet in the stomach."

"Winston Haversham said he was shot!" Molly cried. "Did he die right away?"

"I don't know. Maverick didn't say, but I would think a gut shot might not kill you instantly," Grace said. "I'm no doctor, though, so I couldn't say for sure."

"What do you mean, an old revolver?" Zoe asked. She took a sip of coffee, made a face, then added more cream.

"It was a Smith and Wesson, she said, but it was made in the fifties," Grace said.

"That means it's probably worth some money," Zoe said. "Those collectible guns aren't cheap."

"I wonder if Albert Herves owns a gun?" Molly asked again. This time her question made the others pause. A man with Albert's money could afford to collect antique weapons.

Grace nodded. "We need to go have ourselves a chat with Albert."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Grace. I think you should just tell Sheriff Maverick about what Winston Haversham said, and what your suspicions are," Emily said. "Herves may be dangerous."

Grace disagreed. "He won't try anything stupid in his own office during broad daylight, with all his workers around. Not that I think for one minute they would rat out the guy who signs their paychecks."

"I think it's a bad idea, Grace," Zoe said. "I worry."

"Don't. We'll be fine." Grace stood up and smiled at Molly. "Ready to go solve this thing?"

Molly nodded. "We'll be okay, Zoe, Emily. We're just going to talk to him, not accuse him of murder."

"If he makes one wrong move, says one wrong thing, I swear we'll leave, and I will whip out my cell phone and call Sheriff Maverick," Grace promised.

Grace and Molly left under Zoe and Emily's protests, confident they could care for themselves and keep themselves safe.

***

Albert Herves Investments took up a two-story building several streets over from downtown Summit Springs. Like the rest of the town, the exterior was themed,quaint, and pleasantly nostalgic. The interior was ultra-modern, with dark gray marble floors, white furniture, and stainless-steel accents. It had an open floor plan. On one end of the room, a cluster of sofas and chairs faced a receptionist's abstract-shaped desk.

The other end of the room contained a long double row of a half dozen computer workstations, each with a person diligently tapping at a keyboard. Most wore headphones, and a couple were talking as if on the phone.

The receptionist looked up when Grace and Molly walked in. "Good afternoon. May I help you?"

"Yes. We don't have an appointment, but I would like to speak to Albert Herves, please," Grace said, smiling at the receptionist.My name is Grace Conroy, of Grace Conroy Designs."

The name must've struck a bell with the receptionist. "I know Mr. Herves is very busy, but let me see if he can fit you in. Please have a seat. Could I offer you a water or a coffee?"

"No, thank you, we're fine," Grace replied. She and Molly sat on the sofa facing the receptionist's desk.

"She knew who you were." Molly whispered in excitement. "That's so cool!"

"Not so much. It's just because of the company, not me, personally," Grace said with a smirk. "He probably wouldn't go out of his way not to trip over me if he saw me on the street."

A few minutes later, the receptionist was followed by a large, balding man with a wide grin full of teeth that were too white and too straight to be anything but capped or implanted.

It was a warm grin, but there was something fake about it, and rote, as if he spent time looking in the mirror and practicing until he got it right.

Grace mistrusted him on sight. He reminded her of an eel — slippery, with sharp teeth, and not something she'd want to stick her hand in the water and play with.

"Ms. Conroy! What a pleasure to meet you. I'm Albert Herves." He reached out to shake her hand, completely ignoring Molly.

"Hello, Mr. Herves. This is Molly Sunshine."

He turned his false-fish grin at Molly. He briefly shook her hand, as if he couldn't wait to let go of her. "Of course. I believe Jeremy Prada mentioned you once or twice." He was dismissive, and Grace's sense of his worth instantly dropped. Even if he was on the level, she wouldn't invest a penny with this man.

"So," Herves said, clapping his hands together, "are you thinking of investing with us?"

"I've heard a lot about you since I've been in town," Grace said. It didn't answer his question, but it was true.

"Good! Good! Come with me. We can talk in my office," Herves said. "Ms. Sunshine can wait here."

"Molly goes where I go," Grace said pointedly. "She's my assistant, and I rely on her help and her opinion."

"Oh, well, certainly. Please join us, Ms. Sunshine," Herves said. It was obvious he was trying to be cordial but was forcing it. He led Grace and Molly into a private elevator, and up to the second floor.

His office took up the entire second floor. It was also ultramodern. His desk was a huge slap of granite with rough-cut edges that was nearly the size of a conference table. Its base was silver and gold, and Grace would eat her hat if it wasn't at least gold-plated.

Two chairs faced it; his own massive executive chair was white with brushed silver accents and waited behind the desk.

Hanging on one wall was a monumental television set, easily one hundred inches diagonally. Underneath it was a pool table; the flawless green felt startling against the brushed steel frame.

In another corner of the room was another desk, a smaller version of Herves' but not by much. It held several full-size monitors and a computer keyboard.

He slid behind his desk and lowered himself into his chair. "Please, have a seat. Tell me what I can do for you, Grace."

It irritated Grace to be called by her first name without invitation, but she shrugged it off. "I'm interested in investments, Albert. Personal investments, not involving my company," She watched a small tic above his left eye at her familiar use of his first name. This was a man used to being called Mister, or Sir. It annoyed her even more.

"Wonderful. We can safely invest your money in a diverse portfolio…"

Her mind wandered as he blathered on. She looked around the room. Everything in it was new, expensive, shiny. Nothing old or antique anywhere. She looked back at Herves. This was not a man who treasured the past. This was a man who worshiped the future. If he owned a gun, it would be Glock or a Girsan. Something new and shiny.

He wasn't their man.

Just as he was winding down, Grace stood up. "Well, you've given me plenty to think about, Albert. I'll call you in a day or two to let you know what I've decided." She motioned to Molly. "Let's go, Molly. We have other appointments to get to."

"Let me give you one more thing to think about, Ms. Conroy. Summit Springs is a small town. If you're going to run around asking questions about the murder of a certain former colleague of mine, I would suggest you do it much more discreetly." There was steel in his voice and in his eyes.

Grace knew for sure it was time to get out of there. "Molly, let's go."

Molly didn't argue. She just stood up, nodded to Herves, and followed Grace to the elevator. They stepped inside, and Grace pushed the button to the lobby. The doors slid shut on Herves' face. He looked like he didn't know what had hit him.

They nodded to the receptionist on their way out. Once outside, Molly seemed to exhale in a solid stream of questions.

"What just happened? Why didn't you ask him any questions? I thought you were going to ask him about the revolver!"

"You heard him. He wasn't happy about us asking questions about Jeremy. Besides, did you see the reception area? His office? He worships at the altar of the new, of the futuristic. There wasn't a single antique or collectible in sight. There was only new stuff, expensive, shiny furniture, and wall coverings. Steel and silver, gold, and gray marble. He wouldn't own an old gun, and if he did, he wouldn't use it. He'd use something new. He's not our guy.

She took a deep breath, then threw an arm around Molly's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. "But I think I know who is. I need to go see Sheriff Maverick."