“Kirsten was probably asleep in her bed,” said Gran, not giving up so easily. “And so if you slipped out in the middle of the night—let’s say between two and three—she probably wouldn’t have heard you leave. Especially if you parked your car down the road, where she wouldn’t hear you start it.”
The two women faced off for a moment, but then Annette emitted a nervous laugh.“You think of everything, don’t you, Mrs. Muffin? Got all your bases covered. Well, what can I say? I’m not a killer. I didn’t murder Henry. But if you think I did, I guess there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.”
“No, I guess there isn’t,” said Gran, as she studied the woman closely. “Well, anyway, maybe he wasn’t murdered. Maybe his heart stopped. And so maybe you just got lucky.”
“Or maybe I was wrong about the man,” said Annette quietly as she glanced to her daughter, who walked out of a room now, smiling over her shoulder to its resident. “Maybe he wasn’t the monster I thought he was, and I misread the whole situation. Kirsten is a smart girl, you know. And if shesays Henry was a good person…” She shrugged. “Oh, heck. I really don’t know anymore. It’s all very confusing.”
“But you’re still happy he’s dead, aren’t you?”
Annette turned a fiery gaze on Gran.“You’re a very annoying person, has anyone ever told you that?”
“All the time,” said Gran with a happy grin.
29
The task of following around the rest of Murder Club had fallen on Harriet and Brutus. And since they took their assignments seriously, they stuck to Liz, Olivia and Bill like glue. The first person the trio decided to interview was Bob Sankiewicz, and since Bill and Bob were good friends, he had taken it upon himself to do the honors. Unfortunately before Harriet noticed, Liz and Olivia had drifted off, presumably to interview other suspects. But since they didn’t feel like splitting up the team, they decided to stick to Bill for the time being.
“Okay, so I don’t know if you’ve heard, Bob, but Henry died last night,” said Bill, opening proceedings. They were seated in that cozy nook at the end of the corridor, which was one of the favorite places in the building, where a lot of the residents liked to flock for a pleasant chat with the other residents. The other most popular place was the cafeteria, of course, but that was only during meal times, and at four o’clock, when coffee and cake was being served.
“Yeah, I heard about it,” said Bob. “I saw the hullabaloo, of course, but just figured someone was suffering some medical issues. Little did I know that it was actually Henry, and that he had died.”
“Okay, so you know how Liz and Olivia and I have formed this murder club, right?”
A slight smile played about Bob’s lips. “Sure I know. You’ve asked me to join you guys plenty of times, remember?”
“That’s true,” said Bill. “I forgot about that. Okay, now since we’re not entirely sure if what happened to Henry was natural causes, or, you know, foul play, we’ve decided to assist the police with their inquires—if there are going to be inquiries, of course.”
“Oh, I’ll bet there will be inquiries,” said Bob, his faint smile having turned into a grin now. “At least if it’s up to you and your wife.”
“Well, that may or may not be true,” said Bill, who had opened his little notebook and was licking at his little pencil. “Okay, so now if I were to ask you where you were last night, let’s say between two and three, what would you say, Bob?”
“I would say that I was either asleep in bed dreaming of going to the bathroom, or actually going to the bathroom, since the old bladder isn’t what it used to be, and it has me up at least five times a night lately.”
“Okay, so…” Bill frowned. “Um…”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I killed Henry?”
“I was working my way up to that, but now that you mention it… Did you kill Henry, Bob?”
“No, I did not. And now I have a question for you, Bill.”
“You have?”
“Sure. Now why would you think I killed Henry?
“Oh, that’s easy. Because he kept pestering you about that damn book he wanted you to write.”
“Now when did anyone ever kill another person because they wanted them to write a book, Bill?”
Now it was Bill’s turn to smile. It was an indulgent smile, the kind of smile an expert would give a layperson who clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “People kill other people for all kinds of reasons, Bob,” he said. “And the weirdest ones first. So refusing to write a book isn’t so bad as motives go, you know. Henry kept bugging you, you kept saying no, and at the end of the day you figured you might as well get rid of the guy, since he never seemed to be going to stop.”
“Now that is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Kill a man over such a trifle?”
“It happens,” said Bill, nodding seriously.
“It does?”
“Oh, you bet it does. All the time.”
“So people are being murdered by their would-be biographers all the time?”
“All. The. Time.”
“You’re full of crap, Bill.”
Bill grinned.“Be that as it may, how likely is it that you’re the killer, Bob? On a scale of one to ten?”