Reservations for Murder - Tim Myers [14]
“You know full well what I’m talking about.” Armstrong glared silently at him, and for a moment, Alex almost started to bring the postcard from behind his back when the sheriff continued, “I can’t believe you put that she-dog on my tail, Alex. I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” Alex said.
“Well, you have a strange way of showing it,” Armstrong said. “Sandra Beckett is the toughest bulldog in the pen.”
“Bill Yadkin had to have somebody watching out for him, Sheriff. You know that as well as I do.”
Armstrong replied, “Does it have to be Sandra? That woman is one purely vile thorn in my tail.” He turned to Elise and said, “Pardon me for my language, Elise.”
She smiled broadly at him. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
Alex said, “If you two will excuse me, I’ve got an inn to run.” Now what was he going to do with that blasted postcard?
Elise saw that Alex was in a dilemma about the evidence he was concealing. She moved to the window and said, “Sheriff, what’s going on out there?”
Armstrong joined her there, and Alex made his move. In less than two seconds, he had the postcard back into the drawer and had joined them at the window.
Armstrong blustered, “I don’t see anything,” as he looked out at the mass of people milling around the fair.
“I must have been mistaken. I thought I saw somebody fighting in the crowd. I guess I’m a little jumpy, with the murder and all.”
The sheriff patted her shoulder. “Elise, it’s perfectly understandable.” He turned back to the desk and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Where’s Irene? Shouldn’t she be dusting for prints?” Alex asked.
“She’s up to her hips in some woman’s perm. Who knows how long that can take. Irene promised me she’d be out directly. In the meantime, I’m having a look around on my own.”
Armstrong took out his handkerchief and opened the desk drawer. “What have we here?” he asked as he studied the card Alex had just replaced, holding it carefully by its edges.
Alex looked over his shoulder. “It looks like a note to Jefferson Lee,” he said.
“Now, Alex, there you go jumping to conclusions again. How do you know Jefferson didn’t write this himself? He could have been planning a little late-night rendezvous and never got a chance to deliver it.”
Elise said, “But if that’s true, how did whoever he was meeting know to show up?”
Armstrong said, “There’s all kinds of ways. Jefferson could have changed his mind about doing it in writing and told the killer face-to-face. Heck, he could have called him up on the phone.”
“But you agree it’s an important clue,” Elise said.
Armstrong nodded. “You bet I do. I’ll have Irene check it for fingerprints as soon as she gets here. You know, it could still help, even if it’s been wiped clean. When I catch whoever killed Jefferson Lee, this could prove it was premeditated.” Armstrong added, “I thought you two had an inn to run. I need to finish this in peace.”
Alex left reluctantly, with Elise close behind. Once they were out in the hallway, Elise said, “I still can’t believe Jefferson wrote that note himself.”
“Fingerprints should prove it one way or another,” Alex said.
“And if there aren’t any?”
Alex said, “Then we’re no worse off than we were before.”
Alex was relieved to find Evans Graile downstairs, nursing a tall glass of iced tea. He had to admit that a part of him had been afraid to go in search of the man, nervous about what he might find.
One thing was certain: Evans was positively addicted to his own personal brew of tea. Before he’d been willing to relocate to the inn during his home’s renovation, he’d insisted on two things: around-the-clock access to the stove and a portable refrigerator to store his tea in for nighttime. Evans was of the old school when it came to making iced tea. He wasn’t interested in microwaves, solar energy, or any other process used to heat the water besides an old-fashioned copper kettle purring away on the range top.
“Alex, care for a glass of tea? It’s going to be a brutal day out later.”
Alex wondered why the man cared. He had barely moved one foot