“Why did you?”
“My Uncle Monty,” I said, almost perversely enjoying the momentary confused look on his face.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Being the journalist you are, I’m sure you heard about the murder at the convenience store out on Snowy Road? Feeney’s Fuel and Gruel?”
Then he nodded, pretending he had any sympathy. “I did. Shame. The kid was around my age. Left behind a wife and a baby. What about it?”
“There was someone else involved in the shooting last night. It was my uncle. He had to have major surgery as a result of his involvement.”
Now I had his attention. He leaned forward with obvious interest. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t know how I can help.”
“Have you heard about the police finding Kerry Carver’s lipstick at the scene of the crime?”
He blinked and then he swallowed, his throat working. “Holy Cow! I had no idea. How did you find that out?”
“It was all over Facebook, and apparently on this afternoon’s news,” Hobbs explained.
What kind of investigative journalist didn’t keep alerts on Google about the subjects of their stories?
Drumming his long fingers on the table, he asked, “I still don’t know how you think I can help?”
I’m not sure what it was about Westcott, but the longer I talked to him, the more I felt like he was no better than Abraham Weller—he just didn’t have a law degree. He was an ambulance chaser just like Weller.
Hobbs spoke then, I think sensing my discomfort. “We were hoping you knew something about Kerry Carver’s disappearance that you didn’t disclose to the public. We realize we’re asking you to reveal something you might not yet be ready to reveal, but there’s a killer on the loose who needs to be identified. If you have any information that can help us, we’d appreciate it. You never know what might trigger something the police can look into.”
“Doesn’t your uncle have the answer to that?” he asked, his eyes intense.
He was looking for another story. I felt it. So I clammed up. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my uncle’s condition.”
Westcott looked at Hobbs for a long moment before he shrugged and said, “Well, everything I put in the article is all I have. I have no idea how Kerry Carver’s lipstick is connected to the murder last night, or your uncle’s injury. I wish I could help you.”
I can’t say exactly what it was about him that made my skin itch, but I felt as though someone had unleashed a thousand ants in my pants and I was ready to go.
Westcott Morgan had been a complete waste of time.
Putting my gloves on, I briefly smiled at him as I rose. “Well, thanks for your help. I hope your ploy to climb the ladder of journalistic success doesn’t backfire. Take care.”
And with that, I didn’t even wait for Hobbs. I sauntered through the coffeehouse, the tinkle of Christmas music in my ears as I headed for the door to keep from turning Westcott into a cockroach.
Hobbs caught up with me outside the door, latching onto my arm with a light grip. “Hey, you okay?”
I’m sure my face was red with anger, but I didn’t care. “He’s no different than that jerk Abraham Weller. He’s not interested in the safety of these girls, he’s as much an ambulance chaser as Weller is or he would have known about the lipstick leak on the news. He enjoyed the trouble he stirred up. He didn’t do it because it was the right thing to do. Whatever happened to journalistic integrity, anyway?”
“I’ll give you, he’s definitely in it for the salacious side of things.”
“Well, it made me want to punch him. I figured I’d better leave before I did and you got the wrong impression about me.”
“The impression you’re a feisty woman with a big heart?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “No. That mentally I’m a fifth grader with a grudge.”
Hobbs tipped his head back and laughed. “How about we go see how Uncle Darling is doing? You know, so we can keep your hands busy?”
I laughed. “You know what they say about idle hands and the devil.”
“Then we’d better get your hands elsewhere. STAT,” he teased.
As we were turning to leave, I saw Westcott Morgan leave the coffee shop, swallowed up by the crowds of people wandering the sidewalk, looking at the beauty of the decorations, and I had to remind myself it was Christmas.
And in the spirit of the holiday season, I shouldn’t turn him into a cockroach.
Chapter