Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  Another brief flash of rage in her eyes, then she shook her head at him, like a disappointed schoolteacher. “A gang? I do not have a gang. Sure, some of the prisoners tend to stick together, and there are some natural leaders. I steer clear of them, and when I can’t, I am always courteous and attentive. I’ll only have to be here until I’m acquitted at my trial in a few months, after all. If I go to trial, that is.”

  “How long did it take you to decide Angela Zanetti was the one to not only keep you safe but solve your biggest problem? And so you seduced her, just as you seduced Veronica.”

  “I seduced her? You’re not being very clever today. Actually, Angela—Angie—is very nice, if you show her respect. All Angie and I do is talk, play some basketball, watch TV, since there’s little else to do in this place. Angie really likes Wheel of Fortune. We watch the show together sometimes.”

  “So does Angela believe in your undying love, just as Veronica did? Aren’t you afraid of how she’ll react when she’s charged with murder and finds out you’ve only used her, just as you did Veronica?”

  Savich saw her stiffen all over, then it fell away, and she eased and gave a little laugh. “That’s a fascinating tale you’re creating.”

  “I’m curious, however did you manage to sleep with Angela? You don’t share a cell.”

  She cocked her head at him, tap, tap, tapped her fingers on the table.

  Savich said, “All eight women who surrounded Veronica will be tried for conspiracy unless they come forward. They were all part of it. Their wall of silence will collapse sooner or later. Do you think Angela will be willing to go down alone for Veronica’s murder? Or, like Veronica, will she turn on you?”

  Marsia said in a low, flat voice, “How dramatic of you. It’s really straightforward. Prisoners hate snitches almost as much as they hate betrayal. It’s how many of them got here. Veronica’s deal to lie about me made her a target. That had nothing to do with me. Ask the guards. There was lots of talk.” She shrugged. “Prisoners are unforgiving, I’ve found. Don’t you agree?”

  Savich sat back in his chair. “You’re dreaming if you think Veronica’s death will get you off at trial.”

  “There you go again, wishful thinking. My lawyer tells me my case might not even get to trial now that Veronica’s dead. The prosecutor has only circumstantial evidence, hearsay, and your own speculation to tie me to anything. Otherwise I’m nowhere in the picture. I know it was you who convinced the prosecutor I was the mastermind behind Veronica, that I manipulated her, even slept with her to buy her loyalty. I admit you’re an excellent salesman. Talk about manipulation, you’re the expert.”

  He talked right over her. “You acted fast when you found out Veronica was being moved today. But you’ve been planning her death, probably ever since you heard she and the prosecutor were talking. Actually, I’ll bet you’ve been thinking about how to kill Veronica ever since you were both arrested. Congratulations. The whole production was impressive.” He sat back and clapped, slowly, once, twice, three times. “The reason you’ll fail, Marsia? You believe you’re smarter than everyone else, but you’re not. You had to manipulate only Veronica the first time, and look what happened. You didn’t learn from that mistake. This time you involved eight people. Very stupid.”

  She jerked up, yelled, “I am not stupid! We’ll see who’s stupid before this is over!” She stopped when the guard started toward her, looking worried, and eased back down in her seat. She drew a deep breath. “I saw on the news this morning there was a fire at your house in Georgetown last night. I hope Agent Sherlock and your little boy are all right. Such a pity you weren’t there.”

  It all slid into place. “And that fire at my house happened on the same day you had Veronica stabbed. Hard to miss that, Marsia. It took you long enough to bring it up, but you couldn’t help yourself.” He leaned forward. “Are you finally taking credit for something you’ve done?”

  An arched dark eyebrow went up. “Come, Agent Savich, you’re being dramatic again. One never knows when a fire can start. Faulty wiring, leaving the oven on, who knows? You can never be sure. Anyone can die at any time, can’t they? Even in a cafeteria surrounded by a hundred people.”

  He half rose and leaned toward her, his voice hard. “That was your biggest mistake, Marsia. You tried to kill my family, and you failed. I’m going to find the man you hired, and that crime will keep you in prison for the rest of your life, this time in maximum security.”

  She leaped to the bait. “You’re going to what? Find a nonexistent man I supposedly hired? You, a no-talent cop? Look at your boorish little excuse for art—whittling! I’ll be back in my studio soon, sculpting the female form as only a true artist can envision it. What you do is laughable, pitiful.” She paused, got control, and gave him a full-bodied sneer. “Actually, it’s too bad I’m not content to whittle like you do, lots of wood here, you know?”

  “You’d have to chew the wood, Marsia, no knives for prisoners. I doubt a shiv would do the job.”

  Fury and hatred pumped off her in waves. Savich sat back, gave her his own sneer. “Your sculptures are grotesque, random pieces of metal unrecognizable as anything meaningful or inspiring. You said you admired my grandmother’s paintings. Sarah Elliott’s art is in museums. And what you call your art, Marsia? Nothing you’ve ever done will gain you that kind of recognition. You’re the one who’s pitiful. You’ll be in an institution for the rest of your natural life, with nothing to do but seduce other prisoners in return for less and less, until you’re too old, and they turn on you.”

  She was panting, hitting her tied fists against the tabletop. “You bastard! You’ll never prove a thing. Fact is, Dillon, Veronica Lake was a loser in life, but in death, she’ll be my salvation. And you? We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  Savich looked at the woman who wanted not only him to die, but also Sherlock and Sean. But now he knew. She’d taunted him with it.

  His voice was dismissive. “You’ll find prison slowly leaches the life out of you, Marsia, hollows you out until you have no real substance. Life becomes a matter of enduring, nothing more. You really think you can get away with murdering Veronica? Get away with setting my house on fire, endangering Sherlock and my son? Are you that stupid?”

  She screamed at him, “Just try to screw with me! You’re the one who’ll regret it! I always win!”

  Savich said to the guard, who seemed frozen in place, “I’m done with her. Take her back to her cell.”

  39

  ST. LUMIS

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Mrs. Filly was no longer a gypsy. She was all businesswoman: black slacks, a slouchy black linen jacket over a white sweater, a string of pearls around her neck. She was explaining to a couple of parents why she didn’t carry Winnie the Pooh puzzles while trying to keep an eye on their four children roaming around the store, yelling and pointing, praying they wouldn’t try to pull any of the puzzles apart.

  Pippa’s cell buzzed with a text from Dillon. She read it and looked up at Chief Wilde. “Dillon says he’s sure Marsia Gay is behind the fire at his house, says it makes sense Black Hoodie could have struck me down to lure him away from his house, then driven to D.C. and set the fire while he was away. He wants us to find out how Black Hoodie’s connected to Marsia Gay here in St. Lumis.”

  “Marsia Gay? Who’s she?”

  “All I remember is she was arrested for attempted murder some months ago. I’ll read up on her on my tablet when we get back to Mrs. Trumbo’s. It was Dillon who arrested her. She’d be in the D.C. Jail awaiting trial.”

  Wilde said, “But why lure him away? Wouldn’t she want him in the house? See him in the flames like Major Trumbo? Wasn’t that the point?”

  “I don’t know, but whoever set the fire knew Sherlock and their little boy were there.”

  “It’s about revenge, then, and she went after family first. It would have been possible for Gay to communicate through a visitor, her lawyer, or maybe through another prisoner.
I had one prisoner in Philadelphia who asked his priest to mail a letter for him. Did Savich tell you how he connected the fire specifically to Gay?”

  Pippa said, “He’ll tell us when we see him again. Did the priest mail the letter?”

  “You bet. The priest felt sorry for him, believed he was falsely accused, which he wasn’t. And yes, he’s in jail now for fifteen to life. The prisoner, not the priest.”

  She reached into her pocket but came up empty. “I keep forgetting Black Hoodie took my cell. Call up the photo of the red-box puzzle Dillon sent to you. Let’s compare it to the original.” She pointed toward Mrs. Filly’s Major Trumbo puzzle on a shelf next to them. Wilde stared from it to Dillon’s puzzle. He said, “Aside from Major Trumbo getting burned alive and the dead birds on the pier and human bones on the sidewalk, the main difference is it looks homemade.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Cinelli, Chief Wilde. A bit on the nippy side this morning, isn’t it?”

  Pippa looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Filly. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Special Agent Pippa Cinelli, FBI. I can’t show you my credentials—they were stolen yesterday—so Chief Wilde has to vouch for me.”

  Maude gaped at her. “What? You’re an FBI agent? But—I don’t understand, Ms. Cinelli.” She looked at Wilde, who nodded. “But you’re here visiting, aren’t you?”

  Pippa said, “I was here in St. Lumis undercover, Mrs. Filly. I couldn’t tell anyone.”

  “But you’re not undercover today? Why? What is going on? Why are you here to see me?”

  “The people I’m here to investigate already know I’m here. Let me explain.” Pippa told her about being struck on the head in the abandoned grocery store and left there, unconscious and tied up, and how she’d escaped. “I ran to Chief Wilde’s house last night. My boss, Agent Dillon Savich, drove here from Washington.”

  Maude blinked at her, slowly nodded. “That’s horrible, but I don’t understand. Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

  “My head aches a bit, and my wrists are still raw, but nothing debilitating.”

  Mrs. Filly was shaking her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing, not in St. Lumis. What about your boss, Agent Cinelli? Is he still here?”

  “No, Agent Savich had to go back to Washington.”

  “Why on earth are you talking to me? What is this all about?”

  Pippa pointed to Major Trumbo’s puzzle. “It all started with this puzzle, Mrs. Filly.”

  “That silly puzzle of Major Trumbo? I remember you were very interested in that puzzle when you were here on Sunday morning, asked me all sorts of questions, but what does it have to do with the FBI? Why you were hit on the head?”

  “The man who struck me also took my cell phone, so Chief Wilde will have to show you.” Wilde held his cell phone out to Mrs. Filly. She pulled a pair of glasses out of her jacket pocket and leaned close.

  “Oh dear, is that a copy of my puzzle? But wait—” She gulped. “Major Trumbo is burning. And all those birds and bones are scattered on the pier and sidewalk.” She took off her glasses and looked from Pippa to Chief Wilde. “What is this all about?”

  Pippa told her about the three red boxes and how the third had arrived only yesterday, the same day Pippa was attacked. “Agent Savich drove here when I called to tell him what happened. While he was at Chief Wilde’s house, his own house was set on fire in Washington with his wife and son inside, asleep. Yes, they’re all right, but Agent Savich drove back immediately. Mrs. Filly, we need to know the names of everyone who bought this puzzle.”

  Mrs. Filly fiddled with her pearls. “Well, I’ve sold maybe half a dozen, mostly to locals who knew Major Trumbo and got a kick out of seeing a puzzle of the town with the major in it. I remember I sold one to Joyce Sleeman for her husband’s birthday. Mr. Sleeman and Major Trumbo had what you’d call a complicated relationship. She thought he’d get a kick out of seeing the major all paunchy and sneering, wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt.”

  Pippa said, “Anyone else local you can remember?”

  “There was Harber Fossen, an old drinking buddy of the major’s. I remember joking with him about the T-shirt. And there was Jamie Frost, who lived next door to us when we were married, but he’s a nerd, always fixing computers, harmless. Those are the only locals I remember off the top of my head.”

  Pippa said, “Do you have records you could check?”

  “I have some credit card records, going back, but I doubt I could remember who bought what. A lot of people in town have bought my puzzles over the years.”

  Wilde said, “Have you ever had a customer copy the puzzle, maybe someone you gave instructions to?”

  She shook her head. “Never. Most everyone wants to copy Indiana Jones in the pit with all the snakes, or the kraken.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone take a picture of this puzzle?”

  “No, never did, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t. Of course, when I finished it, Lill snapped countess shots with her iPad, while laughing her head off.”

  Pippa said, “Could you tell us how someone would make a puzzle like that, Mrs. Filly?”

  “All you would need is a drawing or a photo to copy and enlarge, an X-Acto knife, acid-free glue, and cardboard. You find whatever puzzle template you like online, outline the puzzle pieces on the back of the cardboard, and cut. Here I apply acrylic to finish them off, you know, make them look professional, but a seal isn’t necessary if you’re using a photograph. Of course, whoever made that puzzle on your phone altered the picture digitally first, easy enough with Photoshop. Agent, Chief, what strikes me is he didn’t even bother to make it look good. See here, the shapes of the pieces match the original, but some of the edges are ragged, some bent. I doubt he used an X-Acto knife, probably a pair of scissors.”

  Pippa said, “The puzzle wasn’t the point, it was the subject.”

  Wilde said, “I never met Major Trumbo, Mrs. Filly, but it seems to me you took some artistic license. The big belly? The yellow snake kissing his cheek? He doesn’t look like he has much of a mouth.”

  “Oh, Major Trumbo had a mouth all right, but he could seam it into a thin line when he wanted to put you down. He could still sneer, blight you, with that thin line. I guess you could say the puzzle was my payback to that philanderer.”

  “Philanderer?”

  Mrs. Filly’s eyes showed some heat, not much, but enough for Pippa to see it. So there was a little anger left. “He was always going on out-of-town trips, never told me why, said it was none of my business. I knew he was cheating on me—lipstick on his clothes, bits of paper left on the dresser with phone numbers, names, you get the gist. I think he did it on purpose. He was proud of his cheating. One day he told me he wanted a divorce. I asked him her name. He smiled from ear to ear, told me her name was Lillian Pomfrey. She had a son by a previous marriage, and she managed a hotel in Baltimore, where he’d met her. He said she understood him, she’d do anything for him, things I wouldn’t. Can you believe he actually used that tired old cliché? I told him good luck with her and let me know what she’d be doing for him six months from now. He didn’t hit me, but I knew he wanted to. I filed for divorce myself. Of course, I should have done it long before. My only demand was he pay off the mortgage on my puzzle store, which he did. After fifteen years of dealing with the major, believe me, I was glad to have another poor woman take him on. I celebrated with a bottle of champagne.”

  She beamed at them and laughed.

  40

  Mrs. Filly hiccupped and shook her head. “Forgive me. Now, I will admit I was surprised a couple of years later when Major Trumbo and Lill moved back to St. Lumis to retire here.”

  Wilde said, “I know the major died five years ago, right? How did he die?”

  “All I know is he and Lill went to visit her son at his vacation cabin somewhere in the Poconos. Her son is a textile artist, creates beautiful pictures with thread on his loom. When Lill came back to St. Lumis two weeks later, she was carry
ing the major in an urn, said he’d fallen over with a heart attack, died instantly.”

  Pippa said, “And over the years you and Mrs. Trumbo have become friends?”

  “That’s right. It didn’t take long. We had coffee and talked about marriage to the major, about how he could be mean and nasty as all get-out. There wasn’t much left for us to do but laugh about him and thank the powers that be we didn’t have to deal with him ever again. Now I think about it, having him in common is what made us friends. I made the puzzle to remind us we were free of the old lecher.” She smiled.

  Pippa said, “When did you make the puzzle, Mrs. Filly?”

  “Ah, I made it shortly after he ended up in that urn on Lill’s mantel, not in the basement, where he belonged. She did it as a joke, I think, although she said it was a fitting place for him. She told me one of the visitors at the B&B asked her about the urn and she told a fine tale about how Major Trumbo was a big game hunter in Africa and he was gored by a rhinoceros.” She gave them a big smile, only to have it fall off her face. “Oh dear, she’s spotted you, Chief.”

  Pippa looked up when the shop door opened and Freddie Sleeman burst in like she’d been shot from a cannon. She did not look happy.

  Pippa had more questions for Mrs. Filly, and now this. Freddie Sleeman was all she needed. She forced a smile. “Hello, Ms. Sleeman. How are you this chilly morning?”

  Freddie ignored her. “Wilde! What a surprise to see you here of all places.”

  “Good morning, Freddie,” Wilde said.

  Freddie turned to Pippa, sent her chin up. “What are you doing here? And with Chief Wilde? I thought you’d have left town by now.”

  “Nope, still here and we’re puzzle shopping.”

  “Puzzle shopping? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Good morning, Freddie,” Mrs. Filly said. “How is your mother?”