A Justified Murder (Medlar Mystery #2)(83)

“So Janet had no right to...?” Kate began.

“I mean that whoever killed Janet shouldn’t have done it.”

“But we do need a motive,” Jack said.

Sara picked up a notebook off the kitchen desk. MOTIVE, she wrote at the top. “Tayla may be protecting her niece.”

“Gil didn’t want Janet helping his son’s mother.”

They looked at Kate. “It’s possible that Janet did something to the teen girls.”

“And maybe to Kyle Nesbitt,” Jack said.

“That’s four motives for murder,” Sara said. “Not sure who would have done it for the girls.”

“Britney’s dad,” Jack said. “I would have if it was my kid.”

“That would mean that her parents knew,” Kate said.

Sara was looking at the paper. “Did just one person know—if any of this is true, that is? Or did all of them know?”

“Maybe three of them killed her,” Kate whispered. “Like in Murder on the Orient Express.”

“So Tayla is taking the blame for a lot of people?” Jack asked.

“I wonder...” Sara said.

“What?”

“If there are others.”

“Four motives and multiple suspects aren’t enough for you?” Jack asked.

“Remember the woman with the crochet story?” Sara asked. “She came after we’d called the guards. They said she was really upset and wanted to tell us how good Janet had been to her.”

“At the memorial service several people sang her praises,” Kate said. “Janet the good.”

Jack pushed his empty plate away. “Too bad we can’t talk to them and see if they would tell the real truth. If there is an alternate truth to all this, that is.”

They were silent as they thought about this. If they went around town asking questions, whoever had killed Chet—and probably Janet—would know.

Sara sighed. “There was a problem with a hairdresser. Maybe Kate and I could get our hair done and ask about Janet. We’ll make it sound like gossip and nothing else.”

Jack snorted. “I’m sure you’ll be told, ‘I hated her enough to kill her. Please put me on your list of suspects.’”

“So how do we get them to tell what they know?” Sara asked.

“Numbers!” Kate said loudly. “In the sexual harassment cases, no woman wanted to stand up by herself and say, ‘He did that to me.’”

“Because she wouldn’t be believed,” Sara said. “For all our ‘enlightened’ age, if a woman says a man assaulted her, people will say it was her fault. She wore a tank top in 1986 so of course the man went after her. Not his fault. Hers!”

Jack and Kate waited for her soapbox tirade to finish.

“Sorry, just my opinion. You were saying?”

Kate continued. “That there’s strength in numbers. If we could get them together, and one said a bit, then another—”

“Would say more,” Sara said.

“So how do you get a passel of women together without setting off alarms?” Jack asked. “Advertise a murder evening? Put on a grand ball?”

Kate gave a little smile. “If only we knew someone who had something everyone wanted.”

Jack seemed to understand and they looked at Sara.

She backed away. “Oh no, you don’t. There will not be another open house! The town has seen every inch of where I live. There are photos of my bathroom online. The caption says—”

Kate grabbed one of Sara’s novels from the bookcase and waved it around.

“Oh,” Sara said. “You mean a book club, don’t you? One of those things where they ask me questions. What computer do I use? I say that I write by hand. Then a woman will start telling me that I could use a computer if I’d just have confidence in myself. Then another one says she’ll help me...” She looked defeated. “Couldn’t I just slice open a vein and bleed a quart or two?”

“You’d be given crackers afterward and they’re not keto,” Jack said.

Sara sighed. “Please not a book club.”

Kate’s face didn’t soften. “We’ll have an invitation-only book club and a reading of—”

Sara gasped. “Read from my own book?! I can’t—”

Frowning, Kate got louder. “We will promise whatever we have to to get them here, then we’ll drill them about Janet Beeson. No reading, no questions.”

Sara’s face lost twenty years of accelerated age. “Yeah? We talk about murder? I don’t have to read a scene I wrote thirty years ago, then explain why I wrote it, and by the way, what do I do about writer’s block—which they assume I have often?”

“Nope. None of that.”

Sara stood up. “I’m going to make a pitcher of strawberry iced tea. Anybody want some?”

“I’ll take a beer,” Jack said. “And some of the leftover junk from the kids.”

“It’s too early in the morning for beer,” Kate said. “And besides, it’s bad for the boys to see.”

“You dressed up for them, but I can’t—” He broke off because Sara and Kate were staring at each other. “What?”