eyes were bloodshot.
‘‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Crenshaw,’’ I said. ‘‘Please, have a seat.’’ I indicated a place on the sofa. Using the tissue, I had stuck the king of spades back in its hiding place when I heard him knock on the door.
‘‘You said something about Avery’s murder,’’ Crenshaw said. He blinked at me.
Sophie left the room, and I figured she was going to make some coffee. Crenshaw could definitely use it.
‘‘Yes,’’ I said. ‘‘This has to do with Avery’s murder.’’
‘‘What’s it to you?’’ Crenshaw said. He flapped a hand in the air. ‘‘Why are you ladies so interested? It’s got nothing to do with you.’’
‘‘In a way, it has,’’ I said. ‘‘I was the one who found him.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ That sobered him a bit. He turned his head away for a moment. When he faced me again, he appeared more alert. ‘‘Why do you want to talk to me? I didn’t kill him. And you’re not the police.’’
‘‘No, we’re not,’’ I said, smiling in an attempt to placate him. ‘‘But we’re involved, unfortunately. I think you can help get this solved. You want to find Avery’s killer, don’t you?’’
Crenshaw nodded, still wary.
‘‘You were Avery Trowbridge’s business manager,’’ I said.
He nodded again.
‘‘He fired you, though, didn’t he?’’
‘‘How do you know that?’’ Crenshaw asked, scowling at me.
I thought he would have denied it, and I was a bit surprised. Maybe his brain was still clouded by sleep, or alcohol, or both. ‘‘I overheard part of a conversation, ’’ I said. ‘‘Next door.’’
Crenshaw thought about that a moment. Then enlightenment dawned. ‘‘Yeah, Avery was like that. He fired me several times, but he always hired me back in a day or two. It never bothered me, because I always knew we’d patch things up. Avery needed me as much as I needed him.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I said. ‘‘So you were back in Avery’s good graces before he was killed?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Crenshaw said. ‘‘We made up that night.’’ He sighed. ‘‘God, I’m going to miss him.’’ He turned away for a moment. He pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.
I felt a pang of sympathy for Crenshaw. I had begun to think he really cared deeply about Avery, in more than a professional sense. He seemed to be the only person mourning the dead man, except for his son.
‘‘I know this is hard for you,’’ I said, ‘‘and I regret that. But I think you know something that could be really important in this case.’’
‘‘What?’’ Crenshaw said. He tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket.
‘‘We heard something interesting a little while ago,’’ I said. ‘‘Something involving Basil Dumont.’’
Crenshaw snorted. ‘‘That weenie! Avery hated him. And that god-awful wife of his. I don’t know why Avery got mixed up with Paula. She’s nuts.’’
‘‘Basil and Paula are going to remarry,’’ I said.
‘‘They deserve each other,’’ Crenshaw said.
Sophie came back and sat down. She held up five fingers, and I took that to mean that the coffee would be ready in about five minutes. I nodded before turning back to Crenshaw.
‘‘They had some other news to share,’’ I said. ‘‘Apparently Basil has been asked to take over a nationally syndicated bridge column.’’
‘‘The hell he has!’’ Crenshaw half rose from his spot on the sofa. He cursed briefly as he sat down again. ‘‘That was going to be Avery’s gig. The little creep must have called them the minute he knew Avery was dead.’’ Slowly, comprehension dawned on his face.
Sophie, Marylou, and I exchanged glances.
‘‘The bastard!’’ Crenshaw shouted, and then he startled us all by slamming a fist against the table beside the sofa so hard it fell over. ‘‘He killed Avery, the sonofabitch. I’ll rip his goddamn head off.’’
Chapter 26
For a moment I was afraid Haskell Crenshaw would run out of the room in search of Basil Dumont. He was a big, powerful man, and if he managed to get his hands on Dumont, there probably wouldn’t be too much left of the smaller man.
‘‘Calm down, and don’t you dare get up from that sofa.’’
Marylou rarely raised her voice or spoke in such a sharp, commanding tone, but when she did, the person to whom it was directed usually didn’t argue. The expression on Haskell Crenshaw’s face was almost comical. He subsided on the couch without a word, shocked into silence, for the moment at least.
‘‘That’s better,’’ Marylou said, her voice resuming its normal placid tone. ‘‘There’s no need for any of that. Whoever the killer is, I’m sure the sheriff’s department is