One Fool At Least (The Madeline Mann Mysteries) Page 10

  I stared at Jack, wordless; he was massaging the knuckles that had met with bone and glaring at Wilde. Wilde himself looked something between angry and regretful around the eyes, but a little smile appeared on his lips. “I understand by that introduction that you are Jack Shea,” he said.

  He held out a hand to me. I shifted my crutches and shook it, automatically.

  “I’m Damian, Madam, and I’m very sorry to hear of your misfortune. The police were just, uh—discussing it with me.”

  “Then why aren’t you in jail?” Jack asked. His anger was cooling now, but not gone.

  Wilde looked at Jack for a moment, then nodded. “In your place, Shea, I’d do just what you did. Maybe worse.”

  We all stood there for a moment; Wilde contemplated his weeds.

  “Don’t you have a gardener?” I asked.

  His eyes flicked back to me. “My gardener was fired. For missing things like this.” He held out an innocuous looking plant. “Canada thistle. I’m a fool to yank it, because now the damn thing will grow even more. Goddam root goes ten feet down. I’ll have to get the lawn people out here, and even they won’t be able to kill it.” He glared at the plant. “Agent Orange wouldn’t kill it.” His face reddened. He looked at me suddenly with bright green eyes. “I understand you fell off a plane.”

  I laughed out loud at the unexpected transition, and we all stood contemplating each other, uncertain what to do next. Why wasn’t this in the etiquette books?

  Finally Wilde flung down the despised plant and said, “Come on inside. You can bring Officer Paralos if you’re afraid I’m a criminal, but I assure you I am not.”

  Jack looked at the police officer and said, “We’ll go in alone, thanks.”

  Officer Paralos did not look pleased. “I assume there will be no more assaults, Mr. Shea,” he said stiffly. Jack nodded, but said nothing. We turned to follow Wilde.

  He led us through an immense black door and a big foyer to a room where everything seemed sized for Henry VIII. A stone hearth in which one could easily roast a buffalo; square, cushioned chairs, any one of which we could all have sat in together; and a giant table, the polished oak surface of which held only a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Two floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the grandeur of Wilde’s own property and a glimpse of curving forestland that covered the Cat’s Teeth.

  Before we settled in I peeked down a long hallway and saw a woman walk past—tall, attractive, dark-haired. At first I thought that perhaps she was Ardmore’s girlfriend or maybe a sister I hadn’t heard about, but then she turned and I saw that she was at least fifty, and was most probably Mrs. Damian Wilde. She smiled at me, not knowing who I was, and then she disappeared into another room.

  We entered a huge room with a large wooden table at its center on a rug that probably cost as much as my rent for a year. Jack sat me at the table, not waiting for our host. I wasn’t sure this was the man I married, but he was interesting. Jack plopped down next to me, and Wilde, almost reluctantly, sat across from us.

  “Why did you have Madeline kidnapped?” Jack said.

  Wilde shrugged. “I deny any knowledge of that, as I told the police. It’s a misunderstanding. Yes, I do want to talk to the Cardini boy. No, I did not tell Jim and Randy to steal a girl so we could flush him out. This isn’t the Wild West.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I said.

  Wilde nodded, wearing a sympathetic expression. “Please tell me if there’s anything I can do to help make up for this unfortunate introduction to Montana. I feel terrible about what they did. But you met Jim and Randy. They’re old fools. They go off half-cocked sometimes.”

  Jack and I exchanged a glance. Neither of us believed him, and he didn’t seem to care.

  Jack fired again. “Did you kill Finn Flanagan?”

  Wilde’s eyes widened; he had been rubbing his injured jaw, but his hand froze in place. “How do you know about—”

  “It was in the papers,” Jack interrupted.

  “Why would I have any motive to—”

  “Because you two were in business together. You were hatching some plan, something your son disapproved of. Sometimes partners turn on each other,” I said.

  Wilde paled considerably and his features seemed to sag in on themselves. It made him look old. He rubbed his face, then contemplated us. He seemed to be carefully choosing words.

  “No one knew anything about Finn and me. It was—we were—” he stopped, and his green eyes seemed to brighten with a new intelligence. “You’ve talked to the boy. The Cardini boy.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair. “I deny any knowledge of that,” he mimicked.

  Wilde grunted. Jack’s words were more effective than the punch had been.

  “Listen,” he finally managed. “I just want to talk to the boy, before the police do—”

  “Why? Did you kill Finn?” I asked.

  “You know I didn’t, if you have the boy!” Wilde snapped.

  “Then what’s to talk about?” Jack asked.

  I stared at Wilde. If he thought we’d talked to Slider, he believed that Slider had corroborated his innocence. But if he hadn’t killed Finn, what was he worried about?

  A door slammed somewhere in the house. A minute later Ardmore walked in, regarded all of us, and summoned up a flirtatious smile for me. He seemed, as ever, uninhibited by the presence of a husband. “Well, well,” he said. “Here to confront my old man? You’re a real spitfire, Miz Madeline.”

  “Shut up, Ardmore,” his father said.

  “Don’t think so, Dad,” he said cheerfully, bending his frame into a chair next to Jack’s. He was holding a big paperback book under his arm: I caught only the words “Bar Preparation.” As in bar exam? I wondered. Ardmore didn’t strike me as the lawyerly type. And if he’d been to law school, why was he delivering pizza? Was Molly right about him putting off his law career just to anger his father?

  “So, what’s up?” Ardmore asked.

  “These good people are concerned about Mrs. Shea’s kidnapping, obviously.”

  “Obviously.” Ardmore nodded theatrically. I sensed that he was baiting his father, rather than us. He flung one jean clad leg over the other and tossed his book onto the big table, then folded his arms. His hair was unkempt, as though he’d been sleeping, or at least reclining.

  “And they may know something about the whereabouts of the—of Slider Cardini.”

  Wilde watched his son as he said this, his miserable expression returning. He looked sick. His eyes didn’t leave Ardmore. I wondered if perhaps they had been arguing before we arrived.

  “Huh,” said Ardmore, scratching his nose.

  “You don’t really need to be here, Son,” Wilde said with a smile that seemed forced.

  “Nothing much to do,” Ardmore responded. “And Madeline and I are friends. I rescued her from the Bruders, did I tell you that? Not that those old farts posed any threat to her, and they sure as hell weren’t going to hurt me, were they, Dad? Especially after I showed them my gun.”

  Wilde’s eyes darted to us and I saw panic in them. Perhaps he thought Ardmore’s comment would somehow link him, Damian, to the crime. But that didn’t make sense… why was he so nervous? Was it because Ardmore had mentioned a gun? A gun… and of course Finn Flanagan had been shot; the murder weapon had not been found.

  I studied Wilde again as he contemplated his son and I knew the problem. Ardmore. He thought Ardmore had killed Flanagan. That would explain his willingness to kidnap me (or Molly) to get information; he’d be desperate to keep his son out of trouble. If he found that Slider had seen Ardmore pull the trigger, he would—what? Pay Slider off? Rush Ardmore out of the country? Whatever he did, he wanted to be a step ahead of the authorities. It made sense. It explained his reactions better than if he’d killed Finn himself.

  Ardmore, however, didn’t strike me as a man with a sin on his conscience. He slouched easily in his chair, smiling at us all. He seemed to thrive on the discomfort of others. He’d
enjoyed my whole scene at the bar, and now he was relishing this. “So, how’s the foot?” he asked me.

  “Broken,” I said. “As I told you last night.”

  He shook his head, laughing slightly. “You don’t forgive, do you?”

  “No,” I said. I shifted my glance to Wilde, who looked away.

  “I understand Jim and Randy are getting out,” Ardmore said to his father, obviously trying to cause trouble.

  Wilde’s eyes slid toward Jack. “I paid their bail, yes.”

  Jack hands clenched. “Why? So they can go after my wife again?”

  Wilde shook his head. “They’re very remorseful about the misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding, my ass,” Jack said, his jaw thrust out. Jack never swore. Jack was an English teacher. Jack was gentle and loving. Jack played the guitar. I watched him with the fascination that one might watch a tornado. “You keep your henchmen away from my wife and my family, Wilde, or I swear I’ll be back here with my brothers, and you’ll be forced to face us all.”

  He paused, his body tense with anger, and I could sense that he was summoning up something else, anything else, to fling in Wilde’s face. “In the meantime, if those policemen out there don’t do it first, I intend to prove that you were responsible for the death of Finn Flanagan. I’m going to find out what you were up to, and why you’re so worried, and I’m going to share my findings with the proper authorities.”

  Not a good idea, Jack, I thought as he stood up and almost stormed out, then remembered that he had to help me out of my chair.

  I was blushing; despite the fact that Jack was probably right, I felt the burden of his rudeness. I looked uncomfortably at Wilde and his son, who was smiling at me.

  “Listen, Madeline, you take care now, okay? Let me walk you to your car.”

  Ardmore loped after us, asking about our plans. Did we plan to sightsee? Did we plan to shop?

  Jack stopped at the car and regarded him with disbelief, pointing theatrically to the police car in front of ours. “Maybe you didn’t notice that we needed a police escort to come here. We plan to nail your old man. If I were you, I’d make sure my dad had a good lawyer.”

  Ardmore scratched his head. “My dad has ten good lawyers, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.” His smile, for once, had disappeared.

  “He had Madeline kidnapped. Jim and Randy as much as told her so.”

  “That may or may not be true,” he began, with a glance back at the house. “But you can’t think he killed a man.”

  Ardmore thought it, though, I sensed it. We had confronted a father who feared for his son, and a son who feared for his father, despite their differences.

  “I think it, and I’m going to prove it, so that I can look my wife in the eye and say I earned her some justice,” Jack practically spat at him, opening my door.

  I climbed meekly in. Ardmore winked at me when I looked out the window. God, was this guy for real? There was nothing amusing about the scene we were living.

  Jack said something else to him in a low tone, something I didn’t catch. Ardmore nodded, his eyes squinted against the sun. He took one last look at me and waved, then spun around and loped back toward the house.

  “What did you say to him?” I asked, after Jack slammed into his side of the car.

  His face was grim as he buckled in. “I said stay the hell away from my wife.”

  That one silenced me for a while. “I’ve never seen you like this,” I said finally.

  “I’ve never felt like this.” Jack turned the car around and then glared at the winding driveway, concentrating on its twists and turns.

  “You kept calling me your wife. It was very sexy.”

  He looked at me briefly, then looked back at the road. Unlike Ardmore, Jack wasn’t smiling at all today. “Why are you angry with me?” I asked.

  His face softened. “I’m not. I’m not.”

  “Hey, Jack? When you think someone’s a murderer, it’s best not to tell him you think that. Or to say that you plan to prove it and such.”

  Jack sighed noisily. “I know. That was stupid. This whole thing, it just makes me feel so damn frustrated. I’ve never wanted to kill so many people. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone.”

  “Make love, not war,” I said lightly.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “I want to make love and war.”

  He turned out of Wilde’s gate and back onto the main road. We drove for a time in silence, brooding over our separate thoughts. I tried out my theory on Jack, that the father and son each suspected the other.

  Jack nodded. “It could be. Wilde was acting strange, but not exactly guilty. More worried. Maybe you’re right, Maddy.”

  “But if it’s true, they may well cancel each other out. If Ardmore’s worried about dad, that means Ardmore didn’t do it. And vice versa.”

  Jack didn’t like that. Jack was looking forward to damning Damian Wilde, and I saw it on his face. I needed to distract him, to draw out the Jack I knew in Webley. Back home Jack. “I want a kiss,” I said.

  He turned toward me with a wry smile. “Right now?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  We had reached the main road and a solitary stoplight at a four way intersection. Jack put the car in park. “You look very pretty today,” he said, sliding his hands behind my neck.

  “It’s the crutches,” I said, and his mouth pressed against mine. When I pulled away to take a breath, his face had almost returned to normal. I hugged him, and over his shoulder I saw a car speed by in the wrong lane. The driver looked intent, urgent.

  “Jack,” I said. “That’s Ardmore.”

  Jack’s head whipped left to look out the dashboard window. “Damn it,” he said.

  His eyes were beseeching me, and his jaw was back out.

  “Go ahead and follow him,” I said.

  He dove back into his seat, threw the gear shift into drive, and the chase began.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ardmore wasn’t hard to catch, not with this new Jack at the wheel. I was starting to fear for all the other fragile bones in my body as Jack stomped on the accelerator, but we spied Ardmore soon enough at a red light closer to downtown Grand Blue. He had to slow down there, and he didn’t seem to realize that we were following him. He drove straight to Flanagan’s, which had a sign in the window reading, “We’re back open!” That seemed rather tactless to me, but I supposed business was business.

  Ardmore parked his car and hustled in; Jack parked ours and turned to me. “Ready for some lunch?” he asked.

  We were seated in the restaurant section, after Jack determined that Ardmore was nowhere in the bar. We assumed he must be in the “back room” that Slider had spoken of. Jack kept his eyes on the door of the bar, torn between his devotion to me and his desire to get revenge, to somehow make things right. I knew exactly how he felt, because despite my trauma, I couldn’t exorcise my curiosity about the whole matter, and I, too, wanted to see it resolved while we were here. Besides, for once Jack and I were on the same page; he wasn’t constantly begging me to stop investigating, because it was he who smelled blood now, he who had the eye of the hunter.

  That eye perused the menu briefly, then handed it to the waiter, a young man who wore a black T-shirt and jeans, with a white apron tied around his waist. “What would you all like today?” he asked pleasantly.

  “I’d like a grilled cheese,” I said. “And I’d like to express my condolences about the late Mr. Flanagan. Did you know him?”

  The young man nodded grimly. “Finn was my brother.” It was the exact wording Slider had used the night before. I wondered if this young man knew about Slider. “This is a family business. It is now, that is. It was Finn’s, but he left it to the family, which is me. I’m Aidan. Our sister Colleen works here now, too.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said again.

  He nodded, looking past me out the window. “It was a shock. A great shock. Finn was the oldest, and we looke
d up to him.” He smiled at me. His eyes were brown and warm. A woman brushed past with an order of drinks on a tray. She was dark-haired and pretty in a very thin way. “That’s Colleen,” he said. “She’s the one who looks the most like Finn.”

  “But I thought—” Jack said.

  I gave him a look, and he stopped. Could it be possible that Finn’s siblings didn’t know he was adopted?

  “What was that?” asked Aidan Flanagan.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said for Jack. “My husband is just hungry. We’re sorry to keep you; I know you must be busy.”

  Aidan nodded, jotted down Jack’s order of a hamburger and a beer, and disappeared, looking not at all put out by my personal questions. He probably got a lot of them.

  “Sorry,” Jack said. “That was the second dumb thing I did. I guess this detective stuff is not as easy as it looks.”

  I brought my attention back to the table and observed Jack with affection. He hadn’t shaved, and the shadow on his cheeks added to his new persona, the tough character. It was attractive, I had to admit. You never want to see violence, of course, but it’s flattering to know that someone will punch someone else right in the face for you.

  Aidan brought our drinks; Jack had ordered wine, and I a Diet Coke. I clinked my glass against his and said, “Happy Honeymoon.” He took a sip, smiling wryly.

  “This isn’t what I wanted for you, Madeline.”

  “I got what I wanted.”

  The look that passed between us could have melted the snow off the tips of those ubiquitous mountains, now once again visible on the horizon. I finally broke eye contact, almost embarrassed and more than excited. “Wow,” I said. “That was better than chocolate.”

  “Yeah.” Jack smiled rather smugly.

  We sat for a moment, listening to the chatter of other diners, the clinking of knives and forks.

  “The brother doesn’t know,” Jack said.

  “Right.”