As she inspected the other three paintings she thought about each Diva. None of them could tell her anything about Jess Duval. Although Clarissa had said that Jess and her roommate Adolphe Pasqual hadn’t been getting along. She had seen Duval with bruises on both arms and around her neck.
Cabot walked into the room. Without a word, he started with Candita’s painting, spending a long time in front of it, then he walked to the next, and then the next. Finally, he turned to Tabitha. “These are wonderful. Do you consider them finished?”
“I do.” She reached in her tote and pulled out a receipt. I am officially delivering them to you. I’d like you to sign this receipt stating that you accept them as they are.”
Cabot took the receipt, reading it carefully. “It looks like your friend Peter Dawes wrote this for you.”
“He did. Once you take possession, I don’t have to worry about them any longer.”
He signed the receipt, took the copy that was attached, then pulled out his phone. He pushed an icon, spoke a few brief words, then dropped the phone back in his pocket. “An armored car will be here in fifteen minutes. I have rented a fireproof room at their facility. The paintings will stay there until they are hung the day the theatre opens.”
While they waited, Cabot pulled his phone out of his pocket. He made a call, frowned, then dropped the phone back in his pocket. “That ass Parker still won’t release Duval’s painting. I’m consulting a solicitor tomorrow.”
Tabitha shook her head. “I don’t think you stand a chance of getting your painting back until after they find the murderer even though Superintendent Hinckley said he would.”
“I’ll need to pay you for another picture then, because I don’t think Parker has the ability to find who strangled Jess.”
Chapter 18—London
Tabitha walked into her flat, dropped her tote on the floor, then headed for the kitchen. Before she could open the freezer door, her phone buzzed. It was the ring she used for someone she didn’t know.
“Hello?” She kept her voice neutral in case it was a telemarketer.
“Is this Tabitha Black.” The accent was so heavy, she could barely understand her name.
“It is.”
“This is Adolphe Pasqual. I was Jessica Duval’s roommate. I want to talk to you. It is very important for both of us.”
It took Tabitha a moment to figure out what he’d said. “I’d like to talk to you, too.” She kept her answers short, not knowing how well he understood English.
“Can I come to your flat. I am just a few minutes away.”
Not in this lifetime. As they say in that old Texas song: I ain’t stupid.
“I was just going out to the deli around the corner. We could meet there.”
His chuckle sounded a little evil to Tabitha. “I understand. You do not want to be alone with me.”
Deciding that the truth was the best policy with this man, she said, “I don’t know you. I make it a rule not to be alone with anyone I don’t know.”
“That is smart, but I am not a threat to you. If you will give me the address, I will meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
Tabitha pulled the address up on her phone. Once he had hung up, she grabbed her coat, tote and ran for the elevator. The deli was just around the corner from her complex, but it was a long block from her building to the corner.
As she hurried down the steps, she realized that it was snowing again. The Christmas lights made the swirling snow glow in different colors, Christmas red, bright yellow, grass green, cobalt blue, deep amethyst. It also made the sidewalk a slick sheet of ice swirling with all the colors of Christmas.
Tabitha took one step and struggled to keep her balance.
This is never going to work. Not only will he beat me there, I’ll end up with a broken bum.
Slinging her tote over her shoulder to free her hands, she took two steps and began to slide, the way she’d done in Texas when she’d spent Christmas at her grandmother’s ranch in the mountains near San Antonio. As a kid when she’d fallen, she’d bounced. Now she hoped that she could stay on her feet. Bouncing didn’t seem to be an option.
The slight downward slope of the sidewalk aided her speed. When she got to the bottom, she had to grab the light pole to change direction otherwise, she’d have sailed out into the street.
Her feet hit the sanded walk in front of the deli, her arms swinging wildly. She nearly went down but managed to catch the railing of the stairs leading up to the deli’s front door.
She was seated at the back of the deli with a sandwich and a mug of hot chocolate when Pasqual walked in. He was about 5’9” tall, slim with a scraggly blond beard and mustache. He was wearing a bright blue parka and a blue ski hat, heavy black boots.
She waved at him.
He nodded to her, stopped at the deli to place his order, then joined her at the table.
“Miss Black, n’est-ce plas?”
“I’m Tabitha Black. You are Adolphe Pasqual?”
“But yes, Mademoiselle.”
She motioned for him to sit down. He looked back at his order which the waitress was placing on the counter. He held up his index finger then turned back to the counter.
When he had gotten his meal he returned to the table. Setting his meal on the table, he seemed to collapse into his chair as if all the air had gone out of a beach ball. Tears ran down his face into what passed for a beard.
“Je suis vraiment desole.”
“Please Monsieur Pasqual. I don’t speak French very well. Please speak English.”
He pulled a bright silk square from his pocket. He used it to dab his eyes and wipe his face. “I am sorry. In my agonie, my English, it slips away.” He took a deep breath.
Trying to ease his embarrassment, Tabitha leaned forward and took a bit of her sandwich. He smiled a little sadly, then took a bite of his. After he had taken a drink of his tea, he said, “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Tabitha leaned forward. “Why do you want to meet with me. I am the chief suspect.”
“Non.” He said. “Pardon, not with me. I know who killed her. I have, how do you say it, the proof, but I can’t get that imbecile of a policeman to listen to me. He just keeps asking me if you had threatened Jess.”
He took a drink of his tea. “When I tell him no, that she didn’t say anything about you except that she thought Cabot should have paid her more to pose, he gets angry. Then he asks me the same question in a different way with a louder voice.”
He looked at her. “Perhaps he thinks I am deaf. I am not deaf. I can understand the English even if I can’t speak it well.”
Tabitha could feel joy blossom in her heart. Finally, she would be cleared. “Who did kill her?”
Pasqual wiped his eyes again while Tabitha checked to make sure that her voice activated digital recorder was working. “Her lover.” His voice broke, his sobs echoing around the room.
Even though the deli was nearly empty two couples sitting near the window turned to look at them.
Jamie Wallace, the owner, turned to look at them, a frown on his face.
Tabitha gave him a weak smile and a shrug. Even though she wanted to crawl under the table, she swallowed. “Monsieur Pasqual, please control yourself. People are looking.”
He jumped to his feet. “Do I care? Non! The love of my life is dead, dead and you worry about people looking.”
Tabitha’s face blossomed a bright red. She didn’t blush easily, but she would have cheerfully jumped into a hole if one had opened up beside her.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice broke.
He dropped back in his chair.
He took a great breath. “No. No. It is I who should apologize. The English don’t understand a Frenchman’s grief. No, not one.”
Tabitha wanted to argue but she knew it would just make him worse. She swallowed down her own sorrow. “Please tell me who was her lover.”
He sat with his bent for several minutes, while Tabitha debated whether or
not it would seem crass if she kept eating. But I’m starving. Liu didn’t offer me any lunch and I didn’t have time to go get lunch.
Finally, she picked up her sandwich, watching Pasqual while she took a bite. He looked like he had shrunk, like his grief was sucking the animation out of him like a plastic Grinch deflating, oozing slowly to the ground.
He closed his eyes. “I am sorry. I am missing her more every second. Yet to her, I was just a nothing. A roommate. A friend.” He shook his head. “But was I a friend? At the end, I was not. At the end I nearly hated her while I loved her more and more.”
He shuddered, then took a sip of his tea. “At the end, she was a nightmare, a grouch, a-a-a witch with a b if you’ll forgive my French. She only wanted him.”
When Tabitha had finished her sandwich she looked at Pasqual. “Who was her lover. What was his name? I need to know his name.”
He looked at her. His voice was simple. “I do not know his name. I know he had money and a expensive—no—a how you say—a high powered job. His name was well known. According to her he was legendary.”
“Without a name, the police can’t arrest him.” Tabitha tried to keep the despair out of her voice.
“I will know him. I saw him once. He was a long way away, but I remember. I remember like it was yesterday.”
“If you saw him, we can get a police sketch officer to draw him. We’ll get him arrested.”
“But no. That will not work. I was too far away besides it was more than the face. I saw it in profile, but his walk, his mannerisms, his persona.”
Tabitha slumped in her chair. She felt all the life drain out of her. She had been running on adrenaline for weeks and with his words, she hit the wall. It was a labor to move. There was nothing left. Fighting the tears that insisted on coming, she got to her feet. Fighting to put one foot in front of the other, she walked out of the deli and turned toward home.
Pasqual surged to his feet. He ran to the door. “But wait. I have more. I have proof. I will bring you the proof and you can give it to that stupeed Parker.”
Limply, Tabitha waved a hand. She didn’t even bother to turn back. She couldn’t take anymore.
Chapter 19—Tabitha’s flat
The next morning, the phone rang before Tabitha got out of bed. She groaned as she reached over to pick it up.
“Not Bob.” She groaned. “I can’t stand this. I just want to go back to bed.”
Struggling to wake up, she pushed the icon. “Hi, Bob.” Her voice sounded as tired as she felt. Even though she had slept for ten hours, it felt like she hadn’t slept ten minutes.
“Tabitha, are you okay? You sound like you died, but no one buried you.”
Tabitha’s groan came from the bottom of the bed, beyond her feet. “Bob, I hit the wall last night. I can’t take anymore.”
“It sounds like I’d better grab the next flight.”
“No, don’t do that. You can’t help. No one can help me right now.”
“Tell me what happened to make you feel this way. Or I’m on my way to the airport.”
“I’m okay, really.” She told him about her interviewing the dancers, then her meeting with Duval’s roommate.”
“You mean he hollered that he had proof of who it was and that he’d get it to you? Is the guy nuts?” Bob’s voice sounded like he’d swallowed one of his favorite habanero peppers and it had gotten stuck halfway down.
Tabitha’s frown sounded through the phone. “What do you mean is he nuts? He’s French. That automatically makes him nuts.”
Tabitha could picture him closing his eyes at her response. “I know the French are excitable, but he’s not nuts. He gave you a lot of information.”
“So? Bob, I’m sorry but I’m not getting what you are getting at.”
“Tab, wake up. He shouted out that he had the proof, that he could get the proof.Out loud to the whole world.”
Suddenly her brain kicked into gear. “Oh, Bob. No. I was so tired last night that I didn’t even think of that. I’d better call Ed Tolliver and let him know. Pasqual could have just signed his death warrant.” Tabitha pushed back the covers, fumbling for her slippers.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re too late. If the murderer had any suspicions that Pasqual knew about him, he’s probably following him. I suspect he’ll be dead before Ed can get a warrant to search his flat.
Chapter 20—Jess Duval’s apartment--that same morning
Chief Detective Inspector Parker stood with his back-up forensics team in front of Jess Duval’s apartment. His hand shook a little as he put the key into the lock, a shiver of apprehension ran down his spine.
What would he find here? Would it help his in his case against Tabitha Black? The woman who not only made him look bad but laughed at him at the same time. How could she prefer London to himself? He was better looking, had more money and more status.
He pushed the door open carelessly, sending it back banging against the wall. The room was painted a stark white. One wall was floor to ceiling windows framed in black curtains. The furniture was black with tubular silver fittings. There was only one painting on the walls. It was over the gas fireplace mantle.
Parker went to stand in front of it while his team fanned out through the apartment. The painting was of a dancer in a beautiful en point pose. He was startled when he realized that the picture was of Duval.
“Chief,” Detective Inspector Zufelt called. “You’d better come see this.”
Parker walked through the white dining room into the kitchen. He could see the top of Zufelt’s head over the large, marble topped island. “What is it?”
He walked around the island. Lying on the white linoleum was a big pool of deep red blood. Zufelt pulled out a tube with a swab sealed inside. Making sure his latex gloves were secure, in unscrewed the top, removed the swab and rolled it in the blood. He frowned.
“What is it?” Parker snapped.
“This can’t be the primary crime scene to Duval’s murder. The blood is still damp. If this was Duval’s blood it would be dry.”
“Duval was strangled.” Parker squatted to look at the blood.
“What’s this?” He reached behind the waste basket and pulled out a small knife-like painters use to put paint on a canvas. He turned it so Zufelt could see that the name Tabitha Black was engraved on the handle.
Zufelt pulled a clear evidence bag from his kit, opened it and held it so Parker could drop the knife in.
Parker watched as Zufelt searched for more evidence, hairs, even eye lashes contained DNA that could be used to identify who might have been in the flat.
Finally, Parker got to his feet. “I’m going to check on the rest of the team.”
Georgette Walsh, London’s forensic specialist, tiptoed back to searching Duval’s bedroom. When Parker walked in, she was going through Duval’s clothing.
“Find anything?” Parker snarled at her.
She shook her head. “I wish I knew how much a lead ballerina makes. She has very costly clothes from the most expensive shops in London. Some of these things are from Paris.”
“What about jewelry? Maybe she had a sugar daddy.” Parker’s voice expressed the disdain he felt for men who, he said, lavished their mistresses with expensive bibelots that could be traced.
“No jewelry.” Georgette said. “It could be in a safety deposit box although I haven’t found a key yet.”
Parker pulled out his notebook. “I’ll make a note to have someone find out which bank she used.”
Georgette pointed toward a table that sat in front of a window. “She used that for her desk. I haven’t had time to really examine it yet.
He pulled open the small center drawer. It only had a small note pad, a pen, a matching mechanical pencil and a checkbook. He flipped through it. Only three checks had been used.”
He pulled out his cell phone and pushed the icons. “Superintendent Hinckley, please.” His voice sounded like it was painful to use the word please.
Georgette began to go through each outfit looking for pockets or for anything hidden in hems or seams. She took pictures on anything that seemed vaguely interesting.
When she had finished examining everything in the room, she walked into the bathroom. She picked up a bottle of face cream, looked at the label then set it back down. Frowning, she stared at it. Something wasn’t right, but she sure didn’t know what it was.
She wondered what London would do if he had the same funny feeling. She picked up the bottle again. It seemed to be heavier than she expected. She slowly unscrewed the lid. The cream was old, so old that it had cracked around the edges and it only seemed to be half full. That didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be that heavy.
After checking several other bottles of cream, she noticed that there was an identical bottle of cream closer to the center of the counter. She unscrewed the lid, noticing that it was nearly full. Frowning, she picked up the first bottle and hefted it in her hand. Then she picked up the second bottle.
The second bottle was fuller than the first bottle, but it was much lighter than the first bottle. Very curious, Georgette pulled out a thin plastic stick and stuck it in the emptier jar. There was something in the jar. Something hard. Something lumpy.
She scraped the cream away from the thing. After a few minutes struggle, she pulled out a small plastic bag that contained an emerald tennis bracelet. “Wow. That’s gorgeous and expensive.” She dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.
Using the plastic rod from the evidence locker, she stirred every bottle of cream, lotion, sunscreen or makeup. She found five more bags of jewelry—two sets of earrings, one ring, another tennis bracelet and a 24-carat gold chain with a small locket on it.
After examining them carefully, she took the evidence bags into the kitchen where she showed the team what she’d found. Zufelt logged them into the evidence book, then he locked them in the big evidence locker.
The Ghost Dances the Nutcracker Page 11