“Keep looking for your cell phone,” the chief said. “You’ll be needing that lawyer.”
Chapter 34
After the discovery of the two key rings, Genette decided maybe she’d rather wait for her lawyer after all and Vern hauled her off to the jail. The chief thanked me for my cooperation and announced that he was heading over to the chicken tent to talk to the Bonnevilles before following Vern.
“This is going to help Molly, isn’t it?” I asked the chief. “The fact that someone with a real reason to dislike her had access to the van where the murder weapon was found.”
He frowned, and I realized I’d probably stuck my nose in too far. Then the frown vanished.
“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” he said. “Now get some sleep.”
Easier said than done. I didn’t feel one bit sleepy. Exhausted, yes, but too wired to sleep. If I went back to the barn, I’d toss and turn and keep everyone up. Even Seth Early’s sheep, who needed their beauty sleep for tomorrow’s competition.
I flipped off the harsh overhead fluorescent light, which was almost as glaring as a bare lightbulb would have been. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust, then walked back to my desk and turned on the table lamp there. The warm circle of light was strangely comforting.
I sat down in the swivel chair and leaned back. Maybe if I stayed here for a little while and did my yoga deep breathing, I would start to feel sleepy.
I gave up after a few breaths. I was too wired. I kept wondering if the chief was interrogating Genette. More likely he was standing by until Genette’s attorney arrived. No doubt some highly paid defense attorney was even now being roused from slumber, or perhaps already speeding toward Caerphilly. I couldn’t see the chief waking one of the local judges at this hour to preside over a bail hearing, so Genette was probably spending the night in a cell. She was lucky Caerphilly had finally regained possession of its police station and jail. Last year this time, the police had been temporarily quartered in Dad’s barn, and Genette would have spent her night in a padlocked box stall. We’d actually had one upscale prisoner who found the experience quaint and charming, but I didn’t think Genette would feel that way.
To my surprise, I found I felt just a little bit sorry for Genette. Not because she’d probably have to spend a few hours in jail. She deserved that. But she’d probably be spending most of the day being interrogated by the chief, and odds were he’d spend a whole lot more time trying to find information to prove that she’d murdered Brett than talking about chickens.
And I had the sinking feeling he was wasting his time. I didn’t really think Genette had murdered Brett.
Which made no sense. I didn’t like the woman. I didn’t trust her an inch. She was a home wrecker, a bully, and a chicken thief. She had reason to know what Molly’s van looked like, and access to it to plant the gun. And I didn’t have any trouble imagining her as a killer.
I just had a hard time imagining her killing Brett. He was too useful to her. And from what I could see, her surprise and dismay at learning he’d fathered a child with another woman seemed too genuine. Maybe I was deluding myself, but I had a hard time believing Genette was that good an actor.
“She didn’t kill him,” I muttered.
Of course, my believing in her innocence wouldn’t count for much if I couldn’t prove it. And I couldn’t do that any more than I could prove Molly’s innocence. As things stood, both women were still under suspicion, and even if the chief could gather enough untainted evidence to take one of them to trial, either woman could probably get off on reasonable doubt as long as the other hadn’t been definitively proven innocent. Of course, getting off didn’t mean that either of them would have her reputation restored. They’d both live under a cloud of suspicion for the rest of their lives.
Unless someone found out who had really killed Brett.
I tried to tell myself that that was the chief’s job. That mine was to help run the fair, and that I’d probably handle that job a heck of a lot better if I got at least a little sleep. That maybe if I dozed off while thinking about the murder my brain would keep working while I slept and I’d wake up with important new insights about the case.
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate.
It wasn’t working.
I gave up and turned on my laptop. For want of anything else useful to do, I opened up my database of exhibitors and reread everything I had on file about Genette. And then my record on Molly. Nothing jumped out at me as useful. I didn’t have a record on Paul Morot, but I did an Internet search for the Fickle Wind Winery and found where it had been located.