Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

a loner who doesn’t like to ask people for help. But he’s bound to have at least one friend—someone he could have gotten to call Rob when he was in your office. Or Art could have gotten someone to do it.”
    “Neither of them seems to have the guile for it.”
    “If Pigball’s the Trapper…”
    “Lou.”
    “…that’s the least guileful stunt he’s pulled—if you can call multiple murder a stunt.”
    “I just don’t think he did it.”
    “A good thing, too. You’re his lawyer.”
    “But do you really think he’s guilty?”
    “One thing—if the Trapper struck again, I’d think twice about it.”
    I shuddered. “Look. Suppose Lou isn’t the Trapper and yet the Trapper doesn’t strike again. Doesn’t it seem strange that he hasn’t already? After all, the three incidents came within a few days of each other. It’s been a week now and not a peep out of the Trapper. Which, of course, argues that Lou’s the bad guy. But suppose he isn’t. What would you think is going on? The Trapper seemed so proud of himself: Why wouldn’t he at least let Rob know he’s still out there?”
    “I have a hard time stretching that far. After all, Lou has good reason to have a grudge against the city—at least I think a twisted mind could see it that way. Lou knows enough about cable cars to have caused the crash—and what could be better poetic justice for that same twisted mind? And it was Lou’s restaurant where the poisonings took place.”
    “Yes, but how does the man on the cross fit in?”
    She drained her glass and shrugged. “The D.A.’s not asking that question.”
    “Right. But that’s because he doesn’t have to, to satisfy a jury. Nonetheless, the logical mind must ask it.”
    “Okay. I’ll ask it. How?”
    “I’ve asked myself again and again, and I can’t come up with anything—that is, if Lou’s the Trapper. I’ve even put the question to Lou and he doesn’t get it.”
    “Of course he’d say that.”
    “The point is, I can’t get anywhere. But if the Trapper were someone else, it might fit in.”
    “But who?”
    She just wouldn’t bite—I’d thought the wine would loosen her mind up, but it hadn’t. Chris being a Virginian, I would have been better off with bourbon, but it was too late to switch now. I hit her with my theory: “The person who’s trying to frame Lou.”
    She put her wineglass down and rubbed the side of her long nose with one of her long fingers, a gesture that seems to help her think. “A frame-up. The only possible alternate solution. Yes, I see it. The only tricky part would be getting the mussels into the restaurant without Lou seeing him—but it’s not that tricky. He could have come before Lou’s shift started.’’
    “Right.”
    “Why would anyone want to frame Lou?”
    “Think about it.”
    But she didn’t need to. Her mind was now sufficiently loose to work without prodding. She answered her own question: “For beating his head in.”
    “Right again. Les Mathison.”
    “The Perry Mason solution! Partner, you’re flat out colorful.”
    “But it does make sense, doesn’t it?”
    “Let’s put it this way—I don’t see what other defense you’ve got. You can put Rob and Alan and yourself on the stand to testify about the phone call—”
    “And make laughingstocks of all of us.”
    “And you can have whachadoogy…”
    “Lou.”
    …testify that he was watching TV that night—or maybe he was in a bar he can’t remember the name of—”
    “And make a laughingstock out of my client.”
    “Or you could try something else—and frankly, I can’t think of a single other possibility.”
    “Except finding the real Trapper.”
    She sighed. “Okay, I’m game. Where do we start?”
    “Let’s call Terry Yannarelli.”
    But Terry wasn’t in the phone book. This time I sighed. “I guess I’ll have to go see him. Want to join me?”
    “Can’t. Bob and I are going out to dinner.”
    It was a bit unusual interviewing a potential witness without a witness of my own (in case he later changed his story), but I’d be taking only a preliminary statement, certainly not a formal one. He might be more relaxed if I went alone.
    Terry wasn’t at home, so there was nothing for it but to try the Yellow Parrot. He was there, talking to a kid who looked rather like a blond version of Art Zimbardo. Not Terry’s type, I should have thought, but maybe there weren’t any older married types in the place at the time.
    He remembered me,