To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork Page 0,48

let me leave, I had to bring the video up on screen for Max.”

Cory unwrapped his sub and took a bite, mayonnaise dribbling on his chin. “Who do you think killed Wayne Engle?”

“I have no idea.” I reviewed the people we’d met in my head. “I doubt it was Elizabeth Potter’s parents. They’re too old, and the mother seemed to like Brennan. I don’t think she’d want to frame him.”

“Mr. Potter might want to. He seemed miserable—and so did his dog.”

I laughed, trying not to spew tuna.

Cory picked up a tomato slice that had fallen out of his sub and popped it in his mouth, swallowing it in one gulp. “But they were pretty old. What about Matthew Gleason? He was young and strong. We know he was at the race.”

“Why would he kill his godfather? He seemed to like him.”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet his mother.”

“Me, too. She’s my number one suspect. James Gleason was a hothead. They fought all the time. He could have been giving her a hard time about the divorce. Maybe she was having an affair with Wayne, who saw her at the Glen and realized she was the killer after we talked to him.”

“Or maybe Matthew killed his father to protect his mother. We’ve read about cases like that in the paper before.” Cory hesitated. “Do you think the guys at the sheriff’s department are coming up with theories like this?”

“I have no doubt. They probably have even more fertile imaginations than we do.” I chewed my sub. “Matthew admitted he wouldn’t miss his dad. Maybe he didn’t want Wayne as a replacement dad.”

Cory pointed his index finger at me. “Another good theory. Keep going.”

“Elizabeth Potter might want revenge on Brennan for the car crash years ago, but I don’t know why she’d want to kill Wayne Engle, unless he knew she was blackmailing Brennan and threatened to expose her.”

“Why expose her now? The blackmail payments stopped more than a year ago.” Cory swigged his soda.

“If they even were blackmail payments.” I crumpled the sub wrapper and made a basket. “We’re going to drive ourselves crazy trying to piece this all together. Let’s leave it to the professionals for now.”

“I’ll bet you one thing for sure.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t Evie.”

I burst into laughter as my cell phone rang. I fumbled for it in my purse and answered, still grinning.

“Jolene, it’s Isabelle. Are you busy right now?”

“Not really.”

“Can you come give me a lift? Please?”

An odd request, considering Isabelle lived an hour away. I thought I detected a note of desperation in her voice, too. “What’s going on?”

“Can you just come? I’ll tell you when you get here.”

I checked the digital readout on my office wall clock. A little less than two more hours to closing time. Danny was at football practice right now, and he had a birthday sleepover party immediately following. I’d dropped the gift and his things off at his friend’s house this morning, promising to pick him up at nine a.m. tomorrow. Ray could be at work for hours.

Cory was slumped in his chair again, his brow furrowed, eyes clouded. He could use a trip to the gym to release some stress.

“We just decided to close up early today. I’ll leave now. Where are you?”

“Sitting outside the jail.”

EIGHTEEN

TWO VISITS TO JAIL in one day—an all-time high for me. I pressed the gas pedal of my Lexus to the floor and made it to Isabelle’s town within forty-five minutes, worried and fearful after her call.

I found Isabelle sitting in the lobby of the police department on a scarred wooden bench. She did not look herself. On most work days, she wore form-fitting suits with fashionable shoes and elegant jewelry from her husband’s jewelry store, attracting attention everywhere she went with the fine gems and her brilliant smile, two excellent assets. Isabelle’s flat face and mousy brown hair tended toward homely, but those assets gave her the illusion of radiance.

Today, however, her flowered skirt had a tear in it, revealing the red slip she wore beneath. Her lightweight white sweater had a three-inch pull culminated by a hangman’s loop, and her hair held leaves. Scratches on her skin were visible at her wrists. Pink pumps in her hand matched the flowers on her skirt. In her other hand, she clutched her open purse. Gold jewelry gleamed inside it.

Isabelle threw her arms around me and choked back tears. She and I had roomed together for six years at college while we