CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Bill Lascelle sat on the wooden vanity chair in the old billiards room, head in his hands. Even with his face angled downward and covered in icing and cake, I could tell his cheek was already swollen. When he lifted his head, the beginnings of two black eyes were apparent.

"Mr. Lascelle is disinclined to press charges," Lieutenant Binder informed Tom and me as we approached. It felt strange to walk back into the room Mr. Clarkson had so recently vacated.

"I don't want to be involved in some bureaucratic mess here," Bill groaned. "I want to get off this godforsaken island on this godforsaken coast and go home."

"Not to mention avoiding the counterclaims," Tom said, "and possible charges of assaulting an officer." Tom held a dishtowel wrapped around a plastic bag of ice to his forehead. He didn't have the two black eyes, but other than that, he didn't look much better than Bill did.

I'd gathered the plastic bags and towels from the kitchen and fetched the ice from the new machine behind the bar. Running out of ice was a constant preoccupation on an island where you couldn't get more, though I'd never thought of stocking enough to treat injuries from a fight.

I'd also brought cloths soaked in warm water. I gave one to Bill so that he could begin to get the icing and cake off his face and neck and out of his hair. His suit would have to be dry-cleaned. Or burned.

Bill took the cloth from me and dabbed at his face, gingerly. "That little jerk started it."

"Did you provoke him?" Binder asked.

"No. Of course not. No amount of provocation justifies punching someone in the face. At the wedding of someone you profess to care about, no less. That's not how civilized people behave. Though Derek Quinn can barely be called civilized."

I thought he had a point, at least the "no amount of provocation" part.

"There's been bad blood between you two for years," Tom said. "You may not have started it, but when Quinn gave you the opportunity, you hit back."

"That man robbed me! From the moment I saw his insipid face yesterday afternoon, I wanted to smash it."

"Let's hope he feels the same way about pressing charges that you do," Tom said.

My guess was Derek wanted exactly what Bill wanted, to go home.

"You say he robbed you?" Binder's arms were crossed, his expression serious. Tom must have briefed him on our conversations of the night before, but as the newcomer, he could ask for information previously relayed without appearing to bully or even press.

"It's a long, old story." Lascelle sighed. "I told it to your sergeant last night."

"You told Julia and me it was a long time ago, didn't affect your finances, or your life, and you'd long since gotten past it," Tom reminded him.

"Yeah, well. That's what I tell people, including myself, most of the time. The truth is, it was a terrible time in my life. I was trying to gain a reputation in a completely different space than the one I occupied back then. Bridging two worlds meant I took my eye off the commercial work. My employees lacked supervision, and we'd taken a dive on the creative and the sales side."

"The money did matter," Tom said in a low voice.

"I desperately needed the money. I was elated when every piece in the show sold. I hadn't wanted to have my first serious show in Clarkson's gallery. I thought a more established and prestigious venue would come along. But Derek talked me into it. It was the right offer at the right time. That's the only reason I listened.

"Derek was young and full of himself. He was the worst name-dropper I've ever known. Letting you know he knew this one and that one. A ‘name' in every sentence. In my na?vety, even though it was grating, I persuaded myself it was good. Who better to connec t you to others than someone who knew everyone? I signed with him. His contacts turned out to be crummy. Kids his age offering ‘galleries' that were lofts three flights up with no signage in neighborhoods no sensible person would enter at night—or in the daytime, for that matter. Finally, Derek found Clarkson somewhere. Back then, I imagined it was as much work talking Clarkson into showing me as it was talking me into showing with Clarkson. Derek is a persistent son of a gun. I'll give him that.

"But the show got good notices, and then it was sold out. The theft of the art was never publicized, but the articles about the show, and about the pieces, live on. They're still out there on the internet, linked from my website. That show made my reputation. Though it was hard at the time—I almost lost my business—in the end it was possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me."

What Bill said made sense. Still, it was indisputable. He had hit Derek Quinn. Many times.

Binder was losing his patience. "If it was the best thing that ever happened to you, why the fight with Mr. Quinn?"

"Two reasons," Bill answered. "First, that isn't what started the fight."

That got our attention. "What started the fight?" Tom was mad, and I couldn't blame him. The knot on his forehead was the size of an egg.

"Derek wanted to tell Zoey about her father."

That surprised the three of us into silence.

"She knows about her father," I finally said.

"Not who he was," Bill responded. "What he was. I don't know the whole story. There were other people at our table. We were talking in low voices, and there were some things I didn't catch. But apparently, Kendall Clarkson did something bad to Derek's girlfriend, Amelia."

"He claimed to be her dad, leached off her, and then stole pretty much everything she had," I informed them.

That brought a raised eyebrow from Binder. "We'll discuss this later," he said to me.

"Constance, Amelia, and I told Derek that saying anything to Zoey was a terrible idea, not the right thing to do on her wedding day. Kendall Clarkson is dead. No further harm can be done. Plus, Amelia said you'd made her promise not to tell Zoey until after the wedding." Bill looked at me, his eyebrows still stuck together with white icing.

"I did," I admitted, which got me an exasperated look from Binder.

"Derek was walking across the dance floor to Zoey. I knew he was going to tell her. I tried to stop him," Bill said. "That's when he hit me."

We'd all seen the aftermath.

"You said there were two things," Tom reminded Bill.

"Ah." Bill put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. It looked like every movement hurt. "The second thing wasn't a direct cause, but it may explain why I was so angry that I responded like I did when Derek hit me. When I'd talked to Clarkson at the cocktail party, the last thing he said to me was that he gave my money to Derek. He insisted Derek was the one who never paid me."

"And you believed him?" I didn't believe it.

"I'm not a fan of either one of them, to tell the truth. Does it make a difference? Derek was my agent. He was supposed to vet the gallery owner. He was supposed to handle the contract and the money. I don't know which one took the money and which one took the art, but they're both guilty, as far as I'm concerned."

Binder dropped his arms to his sides and took a wider stance, as if digging in. "You slugged Mr. Quinn, demonstrating you aren't opposed to violence. Did you kill Mr. Clarkson?"

"No!"

"Do you think Mr. Quinn murdered Mr. Clarkson?" Binder's tone was grave, and his eyes drilled into Bill's face.

"I have no reason to know one way or another. Look, I love Zoey. I've never married or had children. I look at Zoey and a few others I've mentored over the years as my legacy, as important as my art. I have never seen her as happy as she was at the wedding rehearsal. No matter my personal feelings, I would never, ever jeopardize that. As it is, what's happened breaks my heart."

It broke my heart, too.

"You're free to go when the tour boat leaves, Mr. Lascelle," Binder said. "One of my detectives will escort you upstairs so you can get cleaned up and change. He'll take your contact information."

Bill rose laboriously to his feet. I wondered if a rib was broken. "You keep that jerk away from me."

"Don't worry," Binder said as Bill started toward the door, moving slowly. "We will."

"I understand why Derek hit you," I called to him. "And why you hit Derek. But why was Dan Dawes punching you?"

Bill's brows rose, cracking the dried icing still smeared across his forehead. "I have absolutely no idea."

* * *

One of the detectives waited for Bill in the doorway. Another would bring Derek into the billiards room, but after a delay, so there was no chance the men would cross paths. I used the time to fill Tom and Binder in on what Amelia had told me about Clarkson in the most condensed version I could manage.

"Definitely a scam," Tom said when I finished.

"Probably a scam. The DNA test was never analyzed. Amelia desperately wants Zoey to be her sister."

Binder grunted. "If wishes were horses . . ."

"Yeah," Tom agreed.

"There's something else." I told them about my encounter with Constance in the ladies' room. "Could the murder weapon have been insulin?"

"Could be." Tom took his phone from his pocket. He'd given up on the ice. The egg on his forehead had a purplish cast. He stepped through the French doors to the porch to look for a place to call the medical examiner.

Derek entered through the door from the main salon, escorted by the female detective. "Mr. Quinn, if you would have a seat." Binder indicated the wooden chair. He sounded polite, but there was nothing of a suggestion about it.

Like Bill, Derek looked the worse for wear. He'd wiped as much cake and icing off his face as he could, but most of the bottom tier of the cake seemed to have landed in his lap. His lower lip was split. The vertical line of oozing red looked nasty. I was relieved none of the injuries appeared to be truly serious. There was no medical care on the island. Even if one of the guests turned out to be a doctor, I could provide nothing beyond our first-aid kit.

"Tell me what that was all about." Binder pointed in the general direction of the foyer and dining room.

"Do I have to?"

"Let me see." Binder met attitude with attitude. "Your friend Mr. Lascelle isn't interested in pressing charges. I, however, have injured officers. I can approach the prosecutor about several serious allegations. Would you like me to do that?"

Derek was chastened. "No."

"Are you interested in bringing countercharges against Mr. Lascelle or anyone else involved?" Binder asked.

"No."

"Good. I return to my original request. Tell us what happened in there."

Derek took a deep breath. "Specifically, what happened is Bill got in my face."

Tom came back into the room. "ME's out. Will call back," he murmured.

"Please expand." Binder motioned with his hand for Derek to go on.

Derek inhaled again. "Bill and I had a difference of opinion. I wanted to tell Zoey something. He didn't want me to. When he saw me walking over to Zoey, he tried to stop me. I was only going to ask her to dance! I didn't like him telling me what to do. Or what not to do. I asked him to move aside. He declined. I popped him one."

"What was it you wanted to tell the bride?" Binder asked.

Derek told almost the same story Bill had, except in this version, Derek had decided against telling Zoey during the wedding about what had happened to Amelia.

"What changed your mind?" Tom seemed only mildly interested.

"They changed my mind. Bill, Constance, and Amelia. Amelia said you made her promise." Derek glared at me.

Had I caused this scene? In my zeal to protect Zoey, had I inadvertently set the fight between Bill and Derek in motion? Maybe if I had just let Amelia tell? I shook my head. No, that was wrong. It was Zoey's day.

"I think Zoey should know. But not today. I would never want to hurt her." Derek dropped his eyes and said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "I love her."

We were all silent for a moment, acknowledging that. Not that it was news to anyone in the room, but we had to give Derek his due.

Binder decided it was time to move on. "You and Mr. Lascelle have had a problem with each other for a long time, having to do with the ceramic show at Kendall Clarkson's gallery."

"Yes," Derek agreed, "having to do with that."

"Lascelle was never paid," Tom stated.

"Neither was I! We were both ripped off by that old man. It's old news," Derek insisted. "Past history. Water under the bridge. Or over the dam. Wherever water goes."

"Mr. Quinn, did you kill Mr. Clarkson?" Binder asked.

"No."

"Do you think Bill Lascelle killed Mr. Clarkson?"

Derek attempted a shrug that ended in a wince. "How would I know?"

Binder continued. "Before he died, did Mr. Clarkson say anything to you to renew your anger toward Mr. Lascelle?"

Derek appeared genuinely baffled. "When, yesterday? I never talked to him. I never went near the guy. The last thing I wanted was to talk to Kendall Clarkson, especially after I realized Bill was here."

Despite my dislike for the man, I was inclined to believe him.

Binder told Derek the same things he'd told Bill. He could leave on the boat, a detective would escort him to his room, and so on. And to stay far, far away from Bill Lascelle.

I wanted to tell him to stay away from Zoey and Amelia too, but I didn't have a badge.

Derek rose, slowly. He stuck his hand out to the lieutenant. The knuckles were puffy and red. Binder took it, very carefully, and shook. The female detective appeared, and Derek was gone.

"Where's Dawes?" Binder asked.

"I imagine he's with Zoey," I said.

"Not Jamie Dawes, Daniel Dawes. The one who was beating up Lascelle."

"He's sitting out on the porch," Tom said, "having a smoke."

"Bring him in, please."

* * *

Dan walked into the old billiards room, looking relaxed. His tuxedo jacket was still off. He was also barefoot. Of everyone involved in the fracas I had seen so far, he seemed to be hurting the least and had avoided all but a few splatters of cake.

"What's up?" he asked as Tom offered him the wooden chair. "No, thanks. I'll stand." He seemed more curious than alarmed.

"Why did you join in the fight?" Binder asked.

"Lots of people did. I thought I could help out."

"Help out?" Tom's voice was probably louder than he intended. He took a quick look around the otherwise empty room and lowered it. "I was in that pile. You weren't pulling people off. You were whaling on Bill Lascelle."

Dan's open features crinkled into a frown. "You saw that? I'm afraid I lost my temper." Dan looked from Tom to Binder and back. "Is Lascelle saying he'll press charges?"

"No," Binder answered without elaborating. "Was your temper provoked by your part in Kendall Clarkson's art swindle ten years ago? I understand you were the victim."

"One of the victims."

"You mean that Derek Quinn and Bill Lascelle were also victims?" I asked, interested.

"I mean the art at that show was sold several times over. There were at least three other buyers I was able to track down. None of the people I found actually got delivery. I assumed someone did, but I've never been able to find the pieces. As far as I know, they've never been seen again."

"Why did you seek out the others?" I was merely curious. I didn't think any of the other buyers would have randomly traveled to our little corner of the universe to murder Kendall Clarkson.

"At one point, I considered a lawsuit," Dawes answered. "But as I met with them, I realized it wasn't going to happen."

"Why not?" Binder asked.

"They were genuinely rich people. The money was a drop in the bucket for them. They were more angry because they'd been embarrassed than because they'd lost money. The last thing they wanted was to have it all out in public. After due consideration, publicity was the last thing I wanted, too."

"But you're a genuinely rich person," Tom pointed out.

"I wasn't then. When you start a company that gets significant investment, you aren't instantly rich. You have a lot of money on paper as the value of the company goes up with each round of financing, but you don't have cash. In fact, you're urged to take as little cash out of the company as possible. The money is meant to grow the business."

From my work in venture capital, I knew exactly what he was talking about. Dan seemed to sense that and addressed the rest of his answer to me. "I told you I bought the art to decorate our new headquarters—"

"You bought the art with company money," I guessed.

He blushed, embarrassed even after all this time, even after his early investors had made back their money many times over. "It was such a rookie mistake. Not only had I spent money meant for office furniture, equipment, and the like on art, I didn't have the art to show for it. If I'd had the ceramics, believe me, I would have sold them to one of those other interested parties as soon as I came to my senses. As it was, I stopped taking a salary until the money was made up. I had to move back in with my folks, but it was worth it."

Being swindled by Clarkson wasn't the little deal Dan had made it out to be. His board would have looked negatively on the expenditure, even if it had gone as expected. It might not have been enough to get him fired or defunded, especially if the investors still had hopes he'd make them a pile of money, but if they'd begun to doubt that outcome, it would have been a quick excuse to get rid of him. And he hadn't said how he'd accounted for the money he'd returned. Perhaps he'd confessed to his board and worked it off. If he'd done it any other way, like sneaking salary money back into the equipment account, it would be an even bigger deal, possibly a crime.

"Did that make you want to kill Kendall Clarkson?" Binder asked.

Dan looked startled, almost as if, with the wedding and the fight, he'd forgotten what this was all about. "Maybe at the time. Not for revenge, but out of fear. And anger at myself for my own stupidity. But it's been over for some time. At least I thought it was."

"Then why beat Bill Lascelle and not Derek Quinn?" Tom asked.

Dan blinked. "Who is Derek Quinn?"

"The guy on the bottom of the pile." Tom pointed to the floor of the billiards room. It was original to the house, the same oak as in the foyer and dining room.

"That guy. I saw him around yesterday and today, mostly eyeing my uncle's bride like she was a Delmonico steak. We were never introduced. I didn't know his name."

"But you recognized Lascelle," Binder said.

"We were introduced today before the ceremony." Dan stopped talking for a moment. His bare toes dug into the floorboards. "But he'd been pointed out to me last night . . . by Kendall Clarkson."

"You told my colleague," Binder nodded toward Tom, "that you and Clarkson talked about sports."

"Yes, well. Not entirely. As the meal went on and he was eating his chowder and talking to my dad as if nothing had ever happened between him and me, I got madder and madder. I couldn't stop myself. I got his attention away from my dad and confronted him as quietly as I could manage. The story poured out of me. I told him he had come close to ruining my life.

"Clarkson wasn't ruffled. He claimed we were both victims. He said Bill Lascelle had come to the gallery, collected the money, and promised to deliver the artwork. Lascelle had said that, given the fragility of the pieces, he was the only one who could pack them, move them, and install them. Clarkson told me he never saw Lascelle, the money, or the ceramics again."

"Did you believe him?" I asked.

Dan shook his head. "Of course not. For one thing, there were the other buyers. I wanted to push that back in his face, but then the waiter showed up with his drink, and the next thing I knew, Clarkson was on the floor gasping for air."

"But when the fight started today . . ." Binder prompted.

"When I saw that other guy hitting Lascelle, I swear my brain left my body. I saw red, and I jumped into the fray." He turned to me. "I'm sorry."

Of the people in the room, I supposed I was the one most owed an apology. But if any of his blows had landed on Tom, he might have the greater claim. Beyond us, I thought there were people who deserved an apology much more.

"Mr. Dawes," Binder said, "did you murder Kendall Clarkson?"

Dan's brows shot up. "What? I've never murdered anyone, and I never would."