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“The problem being,” Theodosia replied, “we don’t know who that is.”
***
Or maybe we do, Theodosia thought as she drove home through the dark, almost deserted streets.
What if Booker had murdered Claxton on account of his arts grant being pulled? And then Mignon killed Booker? Could it have played out that way?
Theodosia considered this. What if Mignon knew that her husband had pulled Booker’s grant? And what if Mignon still had a few shreds of love left for her husband and figured that Booker had to be his killer? So she decided to take matters into her own hands? That would mean that Mignon had been the one shooting at them tonight. Would she do that? Did Mignon own a boat? Or a gun? Had Mignon trashed her own shop to make it look as if Booker did it? Then tried to stage Booker’s death as a suicide? Was she that crazy?
Maybe, just maybe, she was.
Oh man, did I just stumble into an even bigger, twistier mess?
26
Theodosia and Drayton were not exactly in tip-top shape this Friday morning.
“I’m black-and-blue from jouncing around in that boat,” Drayton complained, rubbing a shoulder.
“From the trip over to Little Clam or afterward?” Theodosia asked.
“Both.”
“On the plus side, we did eliminate one of our suspects.”
Drayton gave a thoughtful look. “In the clear, cold light of day, I’m not sure that can be counted as a plus.”
Theodosia set a tray stacked with teacups down on one of the tables and walked over to the counter. “Really? Have you changed your mind? What are you thinking?”
Drayton poured a stream of fresh-brewed Assam silver needle into a teacup and pushed it across the counter to Theodosia. “And then there were none,” he said in an ominous tone.
“You’re referring to Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians?”
“Where all the suspects get bumped off, one by one. Yes. That’s exactly what I meant.”
“You think all our suspects are going to be killed?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton gave a weary look. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
Theodosia took a sip of tea. It was delicious. Delicate with a buttery silk texture. Normally it would perk her up, but today she had too many other things on her mind.
“Drayton, what would you say if I told you Mignon could have killed Booker?”
“I’d say you’re thinking way outside the box.” Then Drayton leaned forward and said, in a hushed tone, “Do you really think Mignon could kill her own husband as well as Booker?”
“Hear me out. What if it was Booker who killed Mignon’s husband? Over the arts grant that got pulled. What if Mignon knew the details of the grant and immediately suspected Booker, and then, after some consideration, decided to kill him?”
“In retaliation for killing her husband. But I thought she hated her husband.”
“Maybe Mignon didn’t hate-hate him in the way we think she did, maybe she just wanted to exit their marriage. She could have still had a few shreds of respect left for Claxton.”
Drayton considered this. “Or love?”
“Maybe.” Theodosia took another sip of tea. “If not Mignon, then who’s left?” she said quietly. Then answered her own question. “Lamar Lucket, though he doesn’t feel exactly right. And Ginny Bell.”
Drayton raised an index finger. “My vote is on her.”
“How so?”
