Page 92 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

Trina glanced across the spacious room, cut up by cubicles, to the wall where several computers were stretched along an expansive counter. “Everyone’s been asking about you, of course, once the word got out, but with her”—she glanced over toward Effie’s empty work station and Nikki’s eyes followed; Trina didn’t say Effie’s name aloud—“it’s different.”

“What specifically did she ask?”

“Oh, you know. ‘Where did it happen?’ ‘What was she doing at the cabin?’ ‘Does this have anything to do with the Blondell O’Henry story she’s writing?’ ‘Was she alone?’ ‘Was she hurt?’ ‘Did the snake strike?’ ‘Was she meeting anyone there?’ ‘Did Detective Reed know what she was doing?’ Maybe it’s nothing, but she seemed a little too eager for details and then she asked about your family, not just your father, but about your siblings and even your cousins, y’know, what were their names?”

“Hollis and Elton McBaine?”

“Lots about them and about their mother.”

“You mean their father. He was Blondell’s attorney.”

“Nope. She asked me if I’d met Penelope McBaine, and I had to tell her I’d never had the pleasure.”

Nikki’s gaze met Trina’s. “What?”

“I caught her a couple of times here, at your desk. Never really sitting in your chair, but just kind of hanging, y’know. A little too interested in what you’re doing.”

“She wants us to work together on the Blondell O’Henry stories, even worked it out with Fink,” Nikki said slowly.

“Hmmm. Good luck with that. Did you get the text I sent you with the snake guy’s sister’s name and number?” she asked; then, as her phone rang, she glanced down at her desk. “Oops. Gotta take this. Big benefit auction tonight, and somehow all the questions are routed to my desk. Guess it comes with the territory.”

Nikki wasted no time. She couldn’t worry about Effie and her seeming fascination with her, at least not today. Daylight was fading, and she had a lot to do before Blondell O’Henry was released.

She listened to her messages and learned none of the legitimate reptile dealers she’d contacted earlier had sold any copperheads, but they all were very interested in selling her another kind of snake or turtle or even alligator. “No thanks,” she said to herself. Her close encounter with the pit viper was enough.

She then tried the number Trina had texted her for Alfred Necarney’s sister and was shot right to voice mail. Drumming her fingers on her desk, she tried to remember something that was nagging at the back of her brain, a bit of conversation she’d had recently that she thought she should remember, but couldn’t. She shook her head and jotted down notes from her meeting with Lawrence Thompson, then added a few more questions to ask Holt Beauregard. Still online, she attempted to check out the Reverend Ezekiel Byrd and his congregation, but that group was pretty much under the radar, which wasn’t a surprise. No website or social media presence.

She was reviewing footage of Blondell’s trial, clips that had been posted on the Internet, when she was struck again by how much Amity looked like her mother. And Flint Beauregard, when he took the stand, was a handsome man, and steady in his testimony. He didn’t appear angry or rattled, just gave out the facts as he’d recorded them. During the entire time, Blondell O’Henry sat unruffled, staring at the cop who was trying to send her to prison for life as if she didn’t care, her expression nearly blank.

“Odd,” Nikki thought as the phone rang and she saw Reed’s number.

“Hey, handsome,” she said. “I was just about to call you, to see if there was any update on Blondell’s release. Our connection earlier was almost nonexistent.”

“Nothing yet. As I understand it, there are some details to be worked out, but it still looks like a go for tomorrow.”

“I want to be there.”

“I think Jada Hill will probably discourage the press.”

“I could call her a nasty word, but I have too much respect for her, grudging though it may be,” Nikki said, rolling her chair away from her desk.

“I thought you’d like to know we caught our personal stalker.”

“What?” She sat up straighter in her chair. “Who?”

“Turns out it was kind of a mistake. Sorry to disappoint, but you, darlin’, weren’t the target, after all. Our man was none other than Charles Arbuckle, who thinks his wife might be cheating on him.”

He explained about Arbuckle’s fears and how he was trying to spy on his wife but had left the details of the electronic hookup to Leon Donnigan, who, apparently, had messed up big-time and ended up focusing on Nikki’s apartment. He finished with, “I called Donnigan and he confirmed, so I think another big mystery is solved, except that it doesn’t explain the feeling that you’ve had of being followed.”

“No . . .”

“And it’s not tied nicely in to the case we’re investigating.”

“Just a coincidence,” she said aloud, troubled.

“I don’t like coincidences,” Reed said.

“And I don’t like tenants who run around like they think they’re CIA operatives and spy on me. Once we get married, maybe we should kick them all out, remodel the whole damned house, and forget about renters.”

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