Atticus tapped his partner’s arm. “Now Mick, let’s hear what the lady has to say for herself before we jump to conclusions.”
“Thanks, Atticus. But I’m afraid Mick’s right. We’d like to talk to you about Marc Wagner.”
Mick sighed and lumbered over to the pair of desks. “All right, everyone might as well take a seat.”
“Thanks, Mick,” Ava said, moving around the wooden counter toward the reporters’ workstations. “I promise not to take up too much of your time. I know you guys are busy with the newspaper and all.”
“Nonsense,” Atticus told her. “There’s always time for you, Ava. You should know that by now.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ava and Patrick had told the two reporters everything that they knew up to this point. Which, after hearing themselves repeat it out loud, they both realized that it wasn’t very much. They relayed what Perry Halliday had told them back at the bookstore and then how they had discovered Detective MacKay at the crime scene. Ava had wisely chosen to leave out the part of the story where things got heated between Patrick and the detective.
“Tell me, Mr. Sullivan,” Atticus said. “Your interest in this dark business is all because of this new apartment of yours?”
“Well, when you put it like that.”
“It is rather strange,” Mick agreed, nodding.
“It’s not just because of that…”
“Well, what is it then, young man?” Atticus asked, frowning. “You’re a little young to be playing detective.”
Patrick smiled apprehensively. “I’m twenty-six since it matters so much to you.”
Atticus twisted his mouth. “Twenty-six? I was right. Much too young. Do you have a family, Mr. Sullivan?”
I’m trying to solve a murder here, not marry your daughter, old man. What’s with the third degree?
Patrick’s jaw clenched. “Of course I’ve got a family. Doesn’t everybody?”
He caught the two of them looking over at Ava.
“I’ve got both an older brother and sister,” Patrick went on begrudgingly. “My brother is an unreliable force of nature and a persistent gambler who I haven’t seen in years, and my sister works in real estate. She was the one that hooked me up with the apartment. Took care of the details because I had other things on the go and well… look how that turned out. She’s busy, always focused more on her career than her own family so we don’t talk very much either. I’ve also got a sick father who’s had one too many surgeries. Did you want me to list all the family pets I had growing up too?”
Atticus now looked at him with despondent eyes. “I’m only just trying to get to know you, Mr. Sullivan. We know everyone around here, but I don’t know you. You have to understand, given your recent plight in the city, I thought—”
Ava looked over at Patrick. “What’s he talking about, Sully?”
Patrick stood abruptly, pushing his chair out in a hurry. “You know what? I think maybe it was a mistake coming here, Ava. Maybe it’s better that we try to do this on our own, after all.” He made a move toward the exit.
“Sully, wait!”
“Sit down, Mr. Sullivan,” Mick called after him. “Let Atticus finish.”
Atticus swung his cane in front of Mick’s legs preventing him from getting up as well. “Ava here, is a good friend of ours, Mr. Sullivan. But we don’t know you from Adam. We like to think of her as the daughter we never had, and we want to make sure that she’s keeping good company. You can understand that, right?”
“That’s right,” Mick said.
Patrick remained standing, tight-lipped, the burning sensation in his chest intensifying. Finally, he took a deep breath and sat back down. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Sure, I get it. But then there’s something I want you to understand. I’m a private guy, gentlemen. My issues back in the city are not your concern. I’m only trying to help. If you don’t want my help, then fine. I can just as happily go back to my B&B, chow down on some more cookies, and wait for all this to blow over.
“But it’s not going to blow over, is it? Not with that detective calling the shots. What happens when this case goes unsolved and word starts getting out about the murder? What would that do to your charming town’s reputation? Your economy? Think about the money those tourists bring into your community. It’s no different from when that windmill company pulled out of Eyrie or any of the other major manufacturing companies in recent years. Can your town survive a hit like that? Do you think your Lord Mayor—that’s what he’s called, right?—would want that to happen?”
Mick folded his large arms across his chest, looking over at Atticus. “Well, Mr. Sullivan… Mahalo.”
Ava crossed one leg over the other and asked, “Are you two about finished? Guys, all we want to know is what you can tell us about Marc Wagner. I have every faith in Horace being able to solve the case, but now I’m curious.”
Atticus leaned up off the counter and began to plod around the room. The gentle thump of his cane repeated like an old grandfather clock. “It’s interesting that you brought up Jean Claude earlier. I suppose he would be the likeliest of suspects, but I wonder if he’s too easy of a target. No doubt he would have loved to take Wagner down a peg or two given their most recent altercation. But…”
Patrick followed the old man’s movements around the room. “But you don’t think he did it, do you?”
“No, Mr. Sullivan. Poison is typically a woman’s murder weapon.”
Patrick lifted his chin. “Poison? He was poisoned?”
Atticus stopped and turned to face him. “That’s what they suspect, yes. There were no signs of foul play and it’s unlikely he died of natural causes. I’m told he was found at his kitchen table, his face in a bowl of Capellini di Mare per Due.”
Patrick shrugged. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about there being a mess in my new apartment. That’s sort of reassuring, I guess, in a weird kind of way.”
The three of them stared at him.
“What? Can you blame me? I’ve still got my black light, you know. Don’t think I wouldn’t pull that thing out the first chance I got.”
“Jeez, Patrick,” Ava said, fighting a bad case of the giggles.
“I’ve heard of this black light,” Mick said. “It reveals things that the naked eye cannot see, correct?”
“That’s right,” Patrick said. “All right, going back to Wagner, though. Is there anything else that you can tell us? Any sign of forced entry?”
Atticus shook his head. “No.”
Patrick drew in a long breath. “He knew his killer then.”
“It would appear so, yes.”
“Have they established time of death?”
“It happened yesterday. Between the hours of six and eight p.m.”
Patrick nodded. “I guess that would make sense if he was sitting down for dinner.”
“Indeed,” Atticus said. He began to pace the room again. His movements slow and methodic, he appeared to be favouring the left knee. He then did an about face and asked Patrick, “What’s troubling you, Mr. Sullivan?”
Ava turned in her seat and toyed with a lock of her hair. “What is it?”
Small creases formed on his forehead as he thought it over. “Why is a guy like Wagner living in some tiny apartment? The impression I’ve gotten so far is that he did very well for himself. He should have been living it up in one of these mansions around the neighbourhood, not shacked up in a one or two-bedroom apartment.”
Atticus thought on it. “Yes, I do see your dilemma. What I can tell you is this. Marc Wagner was, as recently as six months ago, “living it up” as you say, in an ambitious three-story home on the west side of town. Now, what led to his expeditious move, I cannot say for certain.”
“Sounds like something worth considering.”
“I agree.”
Patrick glanced at Ava. “There’s something else… We’ve heard a rumor that Wagner might have been bisexual.”
Mick Tamatoa shared a look with his older partner.
“I’ll take that as you’ve heard the same then,” Patrick told them, picking up on changes in their body language. “Do you know if there’s any truth to that?”
Again, Mick and Atticus shared a look. This time, Mick shrugged at Atticus as if to say, the secret’s out, what difference does it make now.
“Yes,” Atticus said. “I can confirm that that is what we’ve heard, as well. Can I ask, Mr. Sullivan, how you came upon this information?”
“You can, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to reveal my source.”
“Of course. I should have known that someone like you would turn out to be very resourceful.”
“What I don’t have, though, is a name.” Patrick smiled. “Do you know who it is?”
“The name we heard was Hurst. Trevor Hurst.”
Patrick nodded and committed the name to memory.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yeah, one last thing,” Patrick said. “Any chance you two could collect some articles or clippings that you’ve done on Wagner? You’ve been a great help, but I don’t want to keep you from your work any longer. I’d like to try and get a feel for what type of person he was while he was still alive. See if it drudges up any other possible suspects.”
Mick nodded. “I can pull some things together.”
“You should probably talk to Olivia Brashear,” Atticus offered.
“Who’s she?”
“She’s the president of The Society of Arts & Culture. They would have interacted quite a bit with one another. Maybe she can shed some light on his relationship with Hurst.”
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