“No. I only perform the bullet catch on special occasions now. At one thirty in the morning I got a call at—from Michael saying we’d been robbed. He pretended to accuse me of being behind it all.”
Pretended?
Jason said, “So, your theory is your husband hired someone to come in and steal the collection after you left on Friday night?”
“Exactly. It’s not a theory. That is exactly what happened.”
“What do you think the plan for the collection is?”
She narrowed her eyes at some thought, studying the red tip of her cigarette. She shook her head.
“Do you believe your husband intended to sell the collection?”
“I don’t know. He definitely didn’t want to sell, but if it came down to selling or letting me have my half of it, yeah, he’d sell first.”
“He’d still have to split the insurance money with you.”
Her smile was tight. “He’d prefer that to me getting my hands on his precious floating light bulb.”
“I’m sorry?” Dreyfus said.
Minerva’s gaze dismissed her and returned to Jason. “It was personal with him. All the way.”
“Do you have any idea who this accomplice of your husband’s might be?”
Her gaze was approving. “Yes. I sure do. I’ll bet you money, Mike got Ian Boz to help him.”
Jason asked, “And Ian Boz is—”
She looked taken aback. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
Minerva looked from Jason to Dreyfus. “You really don’t know who Ian Boz is?”
Dreyfus looked at Jason, but Jason was drawing a blank on that one.
“Don’t tell me you don’t watch TV? Boz was on that show America’s Most Talented. He’s a magician. Was. Not bad either. He got all the way up to Judges’ Pick Round, but then some reporter found out he’d been in prison for identity theft—among other things—and that he was on the run after violating probation. Anyway, he was recaptured by the authorities and put back in prison. When he got out, Michael helped him open Boz’s Brew.”
Jason vaguely remembered something about the tabloid-dubbed Indictable Illusionist. “Which is what?”
“A magic shop. The biggest magic shop in Wyoming.”
“Why would your husband do that?” Jason asked. “Aid an ex-con like Boz. Were they previously acquainted? Were they friends? Had they worked together?”
“You must be joking. Michael didn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. No doubt he figured Boz would eventually make himself useful—which I believe he did Friday evening.”
“Again, do you have any actual evidence that your husband and Ian Boz conspired to commit theft and possible insurance fraud?”
“See, this is why I pay taxes,” Minerva said. “That’s your job.”
Chapter Twelve
The pale, slender youth behind the counter at Boz’s Brew was too young to be Ian Boz.
As Jason and Dreyfus pushed through the glass doors of the shop—to the accompaniment of pixie dust door chimes—the youth glanced up from a hardcover copy of Mandrake the Magician, smiled, and recited, “Hi! Welcome to the largest selection of supplies for sorcery, spells, and shticks in the Western United States. How can I help you?”
Dreyfus showed her badge. “Mr. Boz?”