“I found it.” Rich evaded to buy himself time. He was fairly sure she’d march him straight to the police station if he told her the truth.
“Found it where?” she asked, and her eyes narrowed.
Rich swiftly fabricated a story, tying the fiction together with scraps of truth. “In Chester Kane’s trash. I rode my bike over around midnight, okay? I wanted to talk to him, but nobody opened the door. I was going to leave, but then I saw the trashcan at the curb and went through it. I thought I might find something incriminating, but this was the only thing worth taking, and up till now, I had no idea who these people were.”
She eyed him warily. “Did you tell the police?”
“Are you nuts? I’m already their chief suspect. They probably would’ve locked me up, and then who’d finish your nice hardwood floors?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t like it.”
“Don’t worry, sis. I’m sure the cops know their job and will find the killer. It won’t matter if I went through the guy’s trash or not. And this photo couldn’t have anything to do with the murder. You said what’s-his-face, the news guy, died recently, right? I bet Chester had been blackmailing him too, but couldn’t anymore. Dead men don’t pay. Chester must’ve been cleaning house.”
“What if they find your fingerprints?” she asked.
“I wore my riding gloves.” Rich had another argument in his arsenal. “If I went to the cops, I’d have to tell them about your friend Willard, wouldn’t I? And the dead guy would be dragged into it too. The press would have a field day.”
She didn’t seem too happy, but her resolve was clearly crumbling. “All right. For now. But I retain the right to strangle you.” She turned and pointed a finger at Olly. “And you. If the cops ask, you tell them the truth. Don’t cover for my imbecile brother.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Olly replied.
“Good. I need to get ready.” She rushed off in the direction of the bathroom window.
Rich wandered back to the porch, his mind spinning. He wasn’t sure why he lied, but a good part of it was still trying to protect his sister. Having a brother arrested for murder surely couldn’t be good publicity even here. And, well, he didn’t want to get arrested for murder. It would be bound to get back to certain people in Chicago, and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Spotting Sandy’s phone gave him an idea. It was unlocked, and, as he expected, he found Willard Keats’s number in seconds.
“You’re up to something,” Olly said. He’d followed him, quiet as a shadow.
Rich was going to lie first, but he changed his mind. He’d been lying enough already. “I bet there’s a website for reverse phone look-up.”
Chapter Ten
Olly sensed in his guts there was something off about Rich’s story, but he couldn’t figure out what. Briefly, he considered Rich being behind the murder, but the idea seemed ludicrous. Rich wasn’t the murdering kind, but plainly someone in need of looking after, in Olly’s estimation. “I’m going with you,” he announced, seeing Rich pick up his motorcycle helmet.
“Like hell you are.” Rich pulled his gloves on.
“If you don’t take me, I’ll tell Sandy what you’re up to.”
It stopped Rich right there. He stared at Olly through the open visor in disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
Olly crossed his arms and arched his brows. “Try me.”
“Fine.” Rich unbuckled his helmet. “We’ll have to take your toy car, though. I’ve been forbidden to give you a ride on my two-wheeled death trap, as my sister put it.”
“Toy car?” Olly puffed his chest out, ready to defend his vehicle tooth and nail.
But Rich backed down. “I meant to say Batmobile. Unless, you mind driving me back.”
The concession took the wind out of Olly’s sails. “No, not at all,” he fibbed and headed out to the street. The beginnings of a nefarious plan were forming in his head.
Unaware of Olly’s designs on him, Rich folded himself onto the passenger seat. “Do you have pen and paper in this thing somewhere?”
“Ah…I’m pretty sure there’s a pen in the glove compartment. I don’t know about paper.”
Rich opened the compartment and, with a baffled expression, pulled out something red—Olly’s briefs from the other day. He held the item up as if it were an intriguing piece of art. “Is this some fruity thing I don’t know about?”
“Yeah, Fruit of the Loom.” Olly grinned. Technically, they were Andrew Christians, but the pun was too good to miss. “From Sunday, when I stayed over. I’ve totally forgotten. Just stuff them back in there,” he said, pulling off the curb.