Death and Relaxation (Ordinary Magic #1)(46)

“It’s not loaded.”

“Good, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Well then, I don’t know what you want from me. I’m doing everyone a favor coming here to demand justice. Demand we get what we deserve. A panel of fair judges. A fair contest.”

“I didn’t come to talk about the contest either, Mr. Perkin. I want to talk to you about Heim.”

He pressed his thin lips together. He was sweating a little too heavily for this cool weather. But then, he was always sweating, always worked up. So that was normal too.

“I don’t have anything to say about him.” His gaze jittered.

That would be a first.

“I’m just wondering where you were last night.”

“Why? Do you think I have something to do with… You think I killed him?”

“I’m just wondering where you were last night,” I repeated calmly.

“I won’t sit here while you prosecute me. I have rights, you know. I don’t have to tell you anything without a lawyer present.”

“Dan,” I said. “Settle down. Of course you have rights. And if you want your lawyer present, I’ll give him a call and have him meet us down at the station so we can do this all formally and on the record. But we can do this friendly too. All I’m asking—all I’m asking—is where you spent your evening. That shouldn’t be a hard thing to remember.”

“Of course I remember,” he said. “I was…I was at Jump Off Jack’s. I went in to talk to Chris, but he wasn’t there. If you ask me, he’s the one you should be talking to. He had plenty of reasons to kill Heim. There was the fish Heim kept shorting him. That’s hard on a place as busy as Chris’s, though why people think his rundown shack is any better than the other bars in town is beyond me. Tourists are half idiot, half stupid.”

“Tourists are the seasonal lifeblood of our town, Dan,” I said. “And it’s those tourists who are going to be trying out all the food and drink at the rally. It’s the tourists who are going to buy the souvenirs and whatnots, fill the hotels, buy the gas. When did you go to Jump Off’s? When did you leave?”

“I don’t have to tell you that. I already answered your question.”

“This is still friendly,” I said. “Answer a few more details and we can keep it friendly. Push me hard, and I will take you on in, lawyer and all.”

He fiddled with the bill of his hat again. I checked his knuckles for signs of a struggle. No blood. No scratches.

But he was more aggravated than usual. Could be the fact that he’d recently had his garden explode on him. Could be he wasn’t coming clean with me.

“You went to talk to Chris around what time?”

“Five,” he said shortly.

“And left?”

“I don’t know. Five thirty.”

“Did you drive?”

“Of course I drove.”

“Did you talk with anyone else when you were there?”

“That do-nothing waitress of his.”

Molly. No love lost there. Ryder had certainly played that card right.

“Where did you go after that?”

“Home.”

“Did anyone see you there?

“Probably all my neighbors. They spy on me, you know. Grace is the worst. Pearl’s always stopping in to visit. They’re jealous of my property—I have the largest lot on the block, and they never let me forget I’ve got more than them. Well, I say damn them all. And damn Chris Lagon while He’s at it. You are talking to the wrong man, officer. It’s Chris that’s behind all this.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He wanted me out of the picture, so he blows up my rhubarb. He wanted Heim out of the picture because Heim was a judge. Chris cozied up to him, treated him like a friend. And all the while, it was just to buy off Heim. To make him give that piss-poor beer of his the prize. Have you even tasted that swill?”

“No.”

“Terrible! Worst thing you’ll ever taste in your life. He thinks he’s so above us. High and mighty. Entitled hipster is what he is. Smug bastard, thinks his beer is something special. Well, I’m telling you it’s not.”

“You think Chris wants the prize enough to have Heim killed?”

“I think he went out there—got on Heim’s boat all friendly. You know how he is, always on the water. Gets on his boat. Maybe they drink some beer. Maybe they talk, maybe it’s all nice and chummy. Then Chris tells him he doesn’t like the good catch going to Mom’s, doesn’t like competition. No, no. He can’t stand someone competing with him. It’s why he blew up my rhubarb. Afraid my rhutbeer would win the blue ribbon. So he sweet-talks Heim into giving his piss-poor beer a high score. Maybe tries to bribe him. But Heim—we all know he was a reasonable man, decent reputation, even though he slept with that Frenchwoman and drinks too much—Heim won’t take the sweet talk. Heim won’t take the money. Chris gets fed up, and…”

He paused, looked at me, his eyes a little wide. “How did he die? Did Chris shoot him? Slit his throat? Stab him in the chest?”

His heart was beating so hard, I could see the throb of his pulse at his neck.