“Not really,” I said. “If I were looking for Genette, I’d start with the Caerphilly Inn. It might be up to her standards.”
The chief blinked slightly. The Caerphilly Inn was a five-star hotel, with prices to match.
Just then my cell phone rang.
“Do you realize what time it is?” Horace said, when I answered. Evidently he hadn’t really listened to my message.
“Yes, it’s one thirty-seven a.m.,” I said. “The murder took place sometime between one fourteen and one nineteen.”
“Oh,” he said. “Where?”
“In the gate between the Midway and the rest of the fair.”
“On my way.”
I hung up.
“You’re sure of that time window?” Evidently the chief had been eavesdropping.
I explained about looking at my watch when we’d heard the fox—if it was a fox—and then Michael announcing the time after we’d found the body. And then the chief took me through an account of the entire evening, which didn’t take long, since the sum total of what we’d done was to walk up and down the fence for several hours until we’d heard the shriek.
By the time he’d finished with me, Dad and Horace had arrived and were doing forensic things to Brett’s body and the surrounding area. Plunkett returned, presumably from setting up his perimeter guards, and leaned against the fence to watch. The chief turned back to me.
“We need to talk to Mrs. Riordan,” the chief said.
“Yeah, you don’t have to look far for the culprit on this one,” Plunkett said.
“I can’t imagine Molly killing anyone,” I said.
“Not even her no-good, womanizing, hound dog of a husband?” Plunkett asked.
I winced. Molly would hate it that her marital problems had become such common knowledge.
“If you ask me she has good reason to get rid of him,” Plunkett went on.
“And she was getting rid of him, the only sane way,” I said. “They’re separated and were getting a divorce.”
I wanted to keep going and say that she had nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing him, but I had no idea if it was true. Would Brett’s death help or hurt Molly’s efforts to save her farm? That would depend on who inherited Brett’s share.
If he hadn’t made a will—and he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who thought about messy things like dying—wouldn’t Molly inherit his half of the farm? In which case her financial problems would be solved. As long as she could prove she hadn’t killed him.
Then again, they hadn’t been getting along well for some time. What if Brett, since the separation or even earlier, when things began going wrong, had made a will with someone other than Molly as his beneficiary? Like his mother, who had never approved of Molly. Or the Brett pack, as Molly called her husband’s four brothers, whose ongoing skirmishes with the law and an ever increasing number of debt collectors made it obvious that Brett was, God help us, the responsible one in his family.
Or maybe even the new girlfriend? Genette would probably define herself as Brett’s fiancée, but I found myself agreeing with Mother’s refusal to apply that term to someone who was dating a married man. But Mother’s disapproval wouldn’t prevent Genette from causing trouble if she was in Brett’s will.
I looked up and saw the chief looking at me with a sympathetic expression, as if he’d read my thoughts and understood how painful they were.
“Right now, we just need to talk to Ms. Riordan.” The chief’s voice was gentle. “And for that matter, if they’re still legally married, we need to notify her of his death. Do you know where she is?”
“Probably in the exhibitors’ campground,” I said. “I doubt if she has the money to spend on a hotel room, even if there were plenty available.” The chief nodded. Caerphilly had only two hotels—the expensive five-star Caerphilly Inn, and the Whispering Pines Cabins, which was still trying to overcome its lurid past as a hot-sheets motel. Both of them, plus every B and B and boardinghouse and spare bedroom in the county, had been booked for this week for months. That was why we’d set up the campgrounds. “But I have no idea if she has an RV or a tent or if she’s just sleeping in her car,” I added.
“I’ve got the info from the DMV.” Vern pulled out his radio and spoke into it. “Fred? Aida? I want you to check the parking lot for a vehicle. A 1997 Dodge Caravan. Maroon.” He rattled off a license number, listened for a moment, then looked up. “Chief? What should they do when they find it?”
“I want to interview her myself,” the chief said.