Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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it or not, and she needed to fall in behind him. There were no I’s in TEAM, a platitude flourishing for good reason. So far she felt merely TAME, but she needed to toe the same line everyone did. Even her father had jumped through many hoops getting tenure. Suck it back or set up your own private-eye business like Boone had.
Introductions made, Whitehouse sifted a few papers and levelled his icy grey eyes at Lindsey. She presumed he’d read the statements, including Chipper’s short interview. He wasted no time. “Where were you the night that Angie went missing?”
Lindsey turned another comic page. Whitehouse repeated himself. “Lindsey. Are you hard of hearing, girl?”
Her swollen feet crossed in cruel sandals, Mrs. B shifted in her chair, waves of a cloying vanilla perfume wafting across the room. She nudged her daughter. “Put that down.”
“Where was I?” She sipped from the soda and wrinkled her nose at the bubbles.
”The whole night. Don’t play coy. You’re wasting our time.”
Whitehouse raised his voice another notch. Holly could read the anger in his eyes as a gauge neared the red zone.
“I don’t see why I have to talk to anyone again. Been there, done that.”
“We’re not designing T-shirts here. Something new has come up. You’ll find out on a need-to-know basis.”
Holly approved the joke but not the jargon. This vacuous girl seemed a perfect match for Jeff. Babe and the Ox.
His face purpling and his breathing speeding up, Whitehouse added an ominous touch to his timbre, nailing each word. “So get to the point. A girl is dead. We’re no longer sure it was an accident.”
Lindsey sat up straight, the cogs of her brain finally turning. “So like you think she was...murdered? Get out.”
A black storm cloud crossed his features. Whitehouse remained rigid, but Mrs. B flapped a placating hand and assumed an apologetic tone. “She says that all the time. It’s just silly slang. No offense. Sometimes she says ‘shut up’, if you can imagine. Same thing. Kids. Go figure.”
Whitehouse gave the mother a withering stare. She folded her chubby arms defensively and watched her daughter. Was Whitehouse married? He wore no ring, and he did not seem able to handle women except to bully them.
Cornered, Lindsey explained that she had sat around the campfire with the gang. Then she’d gone to bed around eleven. Jeff came to her tent...at this point she had the wisdom to look a bit flustered in front of her mother...and spent the night.
Her mother tried to cross a leg and failed, so she sat up, mustering her dignity. “Lindsey’s old enough to know the facts of life. She’s on the pill and always insists on con...oh I hate that word...I mean protection. What can a mother do these days? Mine always said, ‘Forewarned is forearmed’.”
“Did Jeff tell you about us?” Lindsey’s beady eyes narrowed, and she stuck out her pointed chin.
“You’re a bright girl. What do you think?”
“Well, he was there. I’m not saying he was himself, though.” She tugged on an earlobe. A tell, Holly thought. But what was the message?
“Explain that,” Whitehouse asked.
She gave an annoying, tittering kind of laugh. “He was wasted. He passed out before...anything happened.”
Her mother placed one hand on her ample chest and took a deep breath. “Lindsey, you told me he was a nice young man. When he came to dinner, he even volunteered to wash—”
“Mother, please. They don’t care about that.” Lindsey swung her flat face back to Whitehouse. “Jeff didn’t go anywhere. Had a super headache the next morning, too.”
Her mother assumed a hurt tone. “Were you drinking, too, Lindsey? You promised after the last—”
Lindsey lifted one finger. Like its fellows, it was long and pointed, a gel job in fluorescent green. Holly had had her nails done once. The next day, three broke off when she had to change a tire in the bush. “One beer. I swear. It’s no big deal. How many margaritas do you pack away before Dad gets home?”
The mother swallowed with difficulty and looked out the streaky window, twisting a large diamond wedding ring ensemble. Within the short sleeves of her dress, bat-winged arms threatened to flap free.
The dynamics weren’t working. Holly caught Whitehouse’s attention, seeking an opportunity to ask a question. He gave a curt nod. “What did you think of Angie? We need all the information that we can get from her friends,” she said.
“Huh. I wasn’t her friend. Used to be before she got snobby. Big friggin’ swim star and all.”
Mrs. B frowned. “Lindsey, watch your language.”
“Were the other girls jealous of her success?” Holly asked.
“No way. Unless they were jocks. Who cares about that stupid stuff? No girl wants to look like a weightlifter.”
“Was she dating anyone?”
“Jeff. Last year. He got sick of her, too. Stuck-up bitch.
Somebody should have...” She blinked at their expressions and looked at her hands. “I didn’t mean nothing. He just stopped dating her.”
“Whose idea was that?”
“His, for sure. He tells me everything. We’re close.”
“Was Angie close with anyone else?”
A mischievous smile creased her face as if she had found a secret jewel. She batted her furry lashes. “There were rumours.”
“Rumours?” Whitehouse came to attention.
She lowered her voice and looked around. “Ms Bass. The English teacher.”
“Go on.”
Lindsey crossed her legs theatrically and gave her gum a workout. “The L word’s no big deal now. Ms Bass is okay. Angie never really said anything. But she was always in there after class with her English themes. Brown noser.”
“Your cooperation is appreciated. One last question.” Whitehouse shifted in his seat, tensing his muscles like a cougar preparing to spring. “Where would Angie get crystal meth?”
The girl’s hand moved to her face, then she brushed back her long brown hair in a classic avoidance technique. Whitehouse twitched. “We don’t mess with that sh—” she said.
“Lindsey, really. Your father will hear about this.” Mrs. B settled into a pout.
Whitehouse stood, cracking his knuckles. He seemed to look down on them like a colossus. “Come on, Lindsey. Blade. Black beauty. Crypto. Pink. Tick tick. Do I have to run down the alphabet?”
Holly stifled a grin as she remembered those bizarre names from a Victoria meth website. Whitehouse had been fishing in the same pond.
Lindsey’s eyes glittered, but the idea seemed more humorous than threatening. She began giggling, putting her hand over her bee-stung mouth. “Excuse me? Is that New York language from TV? Shard’s more common out here. Maybe jib.” She dropped her eyes. “I mean the kids that hang out in Victoria down around Cormorant and Blanshard call it that. Older people call it meth, same as the other stuff.”
Whitehouse tapped a pencil and broke the point, startling Mrs. B. Picking up a small cube sharpener, he began grinding, testing the point until he was satisfied. “How do you know so much about the terminology?”
Lindsey folded her arms. “TV, movies. Plus we learned about it in Contemporary Problems class.”
“So as far as you’re concerned, there’s no meth out here in sweet, innocent Sooke.” Whitehouse tried a smirk. It didn’t look good on him.
Lindsey