My first impulse was to step back. Instead, I held my ground. It wouldn’t look good for Michael’s PI to weasel away. “Yes. Of course.” I crossed my arms then remembered this gesture could be viewed as a sign of self-protection, and uncrossed them. No need to let Corrigan think he intimidated me, even if he did. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He rapped the paper against the palm of his hand. “It happens to be a list of initials Constance Adler wrote down before she died. The funny thing is, we might never have seen it, if this break-in hadn’t occurred.”
“I’ve never seen that piece of paper before.” It might have helped if Corrigan had let me read the list, but it was plain to see, cooperation wasn’t on his mind. Maybe Michael could tell me the list’s meaning after the police were gone. If he knew.
I made it a point to turn my back on Corrigan. After all, Michael’s welfare was my job, not arguing with a detective carrying an attitude along with his badge.
Speaking of Michael, the poor guy sat in a chair in his torn-apart living room. His clothes were so wrinkled it was like he’d been knocked down and walked on. Angry shaving nicks covered his face. Only a fool would believe Michael was coping with his sister’s murder. Everything about him shouted his misery. I fought the wild urge to cradle him like a little kid who’s skinned his knee. I crouched down and kept my voice soft. “Michael, did you see anyone lurking around the house?”
He shook his head, his jaw clenched. But the look in his eyes surprised me. I expected fear, maybe shock, but his stony glare shouted angry-as-hell to me.
Corrigan tapped his foot. “We’ve already been through that.”
I took a deep breath and waited. “Michael?”
Michael’s legs bounced up and down and his hands clutched the armrests so tight his knuckles were white. “Didn’t see anyone, but this had everything to do with Constance’s murder.”
Almost in unison, Detective Corrigan and I said, “We’ll get whoever did this.” For a second I thought we could continue working with that same cohesion and maybe even goodwill. But he destroyed that notion with his next words. “Of course, it would help if Ms. DeNardo kept us informed.”
Trying my best to ignore Corrigan and his unhelpful comments, I asked Michael, “Do you want to spend the night here or go to a hotel? A hotel may be best, at least for tonight.” Most people wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping in a house right after someone had broken into it. A shiver ran through me at the thought of someone breaking into my home, maybe even going through my underwear drawer. I resolved to do laundry tomorrow.
“I’m staying.”
Corrigan shook his head firmly. “Not a good idea. Whoever did this might return.”
Michael’s voice was controlled fury. “I’ll be ready.”
Whatever he had in mind couldn’t be good. “You’re angry and that’s understandable. But sometimes it makes people do the wrong thing, make bad decisions.”
Corrigan joined in. “She’s right. Don’t do anything stupid.” With a sideways glance at me, he added, “And you, Ms. DeNardo, let me do my job.”
I wanted to dig my heel into Corrigan’s foot, but that’d just get me arrested for assault. “Come on, Michael, I’ll take you to the Marriott. You’ll be safe there.” I gave him a look I hoped he’d interpret as, “Just agree, so we can talk alone.”
He turned toward the hallway. “I’ll go grab a toothbrush.”
After checking in at the hotel, Michael still looked jittery but telling him to relax would’ve sounded so callous. Instead, I allowed my mouth to operate before my brain knew and broke Gino’s Rule Number Two: “Never drink with a client.” This was different though. No hidden motives. I plastered on a smile as fake as my old neighbor’s pink, plastic flamingos. “Let’s get you a drink.” Without waiting for an answer, I steered him toward the hotel’s lounge.
The alcohol might have gotten him talking about Constance and that list Corrigan called me on. Of course, he would have needed to drink at least some of it. Instead, he stared down at his finger and ran it around the rim of his glass. On the other hand, I was so dry it felt like a cactus had taken root in my mouth. But it wouldn’t look good for me to down a drink in a single gulp. Besides, I needed all my senses about me. Just one glass of wine on a practically empty stomach, and I’m doing karaoke even without a karaoke machine.
I pushed my hand against my stomach as it growled. It was now about breakfast time and we hated going hungry. “Sorry you’re going through this, Michael, but there are some questions that need answering.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The dark circles around them confirmed he hadn’t slept much. He quickly slipped the glasses back on. “Don’t be sorry. Anything to help.” He took a sip.
It seemed so cold to forge ahead when he was in so much pain, but what had transpired between Corrigan and him before I arrived was important. I downed a bit of my drink for courage. “What did the police ask you?”
Michael swallowed hard. “They wanted to know if she had kept any letters from…” He sighed deeply and his shoulders slumped. “Her lovers.”
“Did she?” If so, the police or the killer surely had them by now.
“No.” He hesitated. “She didn’t keep any letters. A few days before she was killed, though, she made up a list with a bunch of initials.”
“That’s what Corrigan was waving around?”
He sighed. “I was going to show it to you, but then someone broke in.” He spit the last words out. “Luckily I had it with me or whoever did it would’ve gotten the list for sure.”
“Do you know what the initials stood for?”
“No, but some had checkmarks after them.” He folded and unfolded his hands. “The letters ‘BE’ were on the first line.”
I sat up straight. They had to stand for Brody Eagleton. “Do you remember any of the others?”
He rubbed his face hard. “The second initials were ‘JL,’ but that’s all I remember.” He dropped his hand away. I’ve seen mannequins looking more energized.
I wanted to throw my arms around him and comfort him. But hugs convey a number of things. They can mean, “It’ll be all right,” or “I understand” or even “You’re not alone.” I’d already broken two of Gino’s rules so settled for a keeping-my-distance pat on his forearm. This relationship had to stay professional all the way to find out the truth about Constance and her death.
I skipped any sort of segue into the subject. “Michael, it’s pretty clear your sister wasn’t exactly a nun.”
The vein in his temple kept rhythm to a silent beat, and he frowned. “No, she wasn’t. She was ambitious and did whatever it took to get ahead.”
“She didn’t just get on the bad side of one disgruntled employee did she? From what I heard she made a lot of enemies.”
“Warned her someone would get hurt. Didn’t know it’d be her.”
“Did she talk about anyone in particular? Like Brody Eagleton?” I hated how hard this was on him, but he’d hired me to find Constance’s killer. “Michael?”
“She planned to end it with him.”
“When?”
He stared past me, toward the wall, looking like he wished he was anywhere but here. “She didn’t say.”
His dog-in-the-pound look stopped me. I couldn’t drill him anymore tonight. “Come on, Michael. We’ll talk more in the morning. Time for you to try and get some sleep.”
He shook his head. “Not yet. It’s my turn to apologize.”
Difficult as it was, I didn’t allow any emotion to show on my face. “For what?” What did he do and how bad was it?
“For not being totally honest.”
My heart boomeranged in my chest. “Is it something else about Constance’s list?”
He looked into his glass and shook his head. Seconds ticked by, but he didn’t move. I’m not good at waiting games, but feared he’d spook if rushed.
At long last, he picked up
his glass, drained it, and coughed. I perched on the edge of my seat, afraid I’d have to do CPR.
He hung his head and templed his fingers. “Worse.”
I’d only had a small bit of wine, but even that sloshed around in increasing waves. “Tell me.”
Chapter Four
His cheeks flushed and he kept his eyes on the table. “Constance was hurting herself and other people.” He paused again.
I sat motionless, like a priest waiting for a sinner to confess. “And?”
His shoulders hunched a bit. “I wrote those threatening letters.” His next words gushed out. “I thought it’d make her do the right thing.”
My head jerked. “What?” He had to be kidding. “You lied to me from the beginning? But why did you take one of the letters to the cops? What if they had investigated?” I slapped my hands down flat on the table. What else wasn’t true?
He looked away from me, his face red. “She didn’t take them seriously. Thought they were a prank. All three of them. I thought the police could convince her…” He put his head in his hands. “It was stupid. Guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”
I cupped my hands over my mouth and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm down. When that didn’t work I dropped my hands into my lap and spoke sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me that when you hired me?”
“I couldn’t. You might not have taken the case. Then when Constance was killed…” He placed both his hands over mine and pleaded. “Don’t think badly of me. I was only trying to keep my sister safe.”
I slipped my hand from his and sat back, feeling slightly queasy. What if the cops discovered the truth about the letters? Michael might be arrested. Corrigan already believed I was withholding information. I pushed my hair back from my face and realized the necessity of my staying on the case just to have some control. “Okay, Michael, but tell me something. You showed me the first two letters. What happened to the third?”
He dropped his chin and mumbled into his chest. “She told me she’d ripped it up and tossed it out.”
I could only hope she’d told him the truth and he wasn’t lying to me. I gathered my things to leave. “Okay, we’ll figure out what to tell the police tomorrow. It’s late. Try to get some sleep.” My chest felt heavy, sort of like when I learned Santa Claus wasn’t real. I should have known Michael, the good guy, wasn’t totally real either.
***
It never fails. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and fall into bed, only to lie awake. My thoughts about Michael falsifying evidence ran wild. Would they arrest him? I worried that scenario to death. Next on the agenda, a good case of regret. Why had I gotten myself involved in this mess? To top it all off, I really didn’t look forward to finding Ed again. He made me uneasy. Like the boys in high school who were constantly in detention, or suspended so many times, they didn’t graduate until they turned twenty.
My mantra, I can handle it. I am woman, hear me roar, didn’t help since to my mind, it sounded more like mewing, I had to repeat the phrase about twenty times before falling asleep.
The next morning, I grabbed three chocolate-covered caramel-and-nut squares and threw them in a plastic bag. They’d be my reward for getting through the day.
First up, a call to Michael while I sat in traffic. I was hoping he hadn’t done something dumb like talk to Detective Corrigan. According to Gino, too much honesty is never a good thing. His code was “truth in moderation.” In this case, Michael needed to heed that bit of wisdom.
He didn’t answer, so I left a message for him to call me back as soon as possible.
Ed was next on my list. I pulled into Triton’s parking lot and scanned the area without luck. Once inside, Triton’s receptionist informed me Ed came on at two in the afternoon. Rather than return to my office to catch up on another client, I decided to visit Michael at the hotel, only to discover he’d checked out.
My fingers tapped a worried beat on my steering wheel as I debated going to the police station. But if Michael had gone there to confess he’d written those letters, he’d need a lawyer, not a private investigator. I could have kicked myself for not telling him that last night, but I had been too rattled. The thought of him in handcuffs stole my breath. He might be in big trouble, all because I hadn’t thought fast enough.
The sunny side of my brain offered a better scenario. Maybe, just maybe, he went back home. I gunned the motor, whispering, “Please, please, please be there.” As if my after-the-fact pleading would make a difference.
I rapped on Michael’s door, my heart pounding. When he cracked it open, the scent of pumpkin mixed with cinnamon danced into my nostrils. My stomach immediately yearned to be close to the smell’s origin.
Michael opened the door wider. “Sorry I didn’t return your call. Just needed time to think.” His voice was Prozac calm. Maybe he’d come up with a plan.
“I was worried sick.” Oh, God. That sounded more like my aunt than like a PI. “I thought you might’ve gone to the police.”
He took his glasses off and cleaned them on his shirttail. “I wouldn’t do that without talking to you.”
“That’s good.” I waited to see what he’d say next, but he didn’t respond. “What’re you going to do?”
He cleared his throat. “Right now, have breakfast. If you’re hungry, why don’t you join me?”
My stomach growled a mating call to whatever he was cooking. “I am, a little.” Gino probably had a rule about never eating something a client made. In case Gino did, I added, “I’d like to watch you cook. Then we can discuss how to handle that letter issue while we eat.”
He ushered me into his kitchen, past the still-tumbled rooms. “Too late. Breakfast is ready. Pumpkin pancakes with cinnamon whipped cream sound good?”
I nodded my head and smiled. “Very good.”
Michael plated two pancakes, doused them with real whipped cream and placed them before me with a dazzling flourish. He watched as I cut into the fluffy masterpieces. My tastebuds purred. “These are delicious.”
He puffed out his chest and grinned. He looked younger and appealing, in that kid- with-a-great-science-project sort of way.
To mask my staring at him, I shoveled in a piece of pancake too big for my mouth and probably resembled a dog carrying a chew toy. As delicately as possible, I used my pinkie to guide the ends into my mouth, swallowing hard and praying the food would go down without a fight. Tears sprang to my eyes with the effort. He rushed to get me some water, which I gulped anxiously. “Thanks” came out as a croak.
My near-fatal pancake episode brought me back to reality. No more checking Michael out as if we’d met through an online dating service. This was business and I needed to treat it that way.
As tempting as it was to finish eating every last creamy bite, I pushed the plate away and reclaimed my PI voice. “Have you decided what you’ll do with those letters?” Not that I really wanted to know. In fact, forgetting his confession overwhelmingly appealed to me, but my brain would have none of that.
“Already called my lawyer and left a message. She helped me before, when my business sold.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “You have to believe me. Dragging you into my troubles wasn’t part of the plan. Nor was getting you arrested along with me.” He popped out of his chair and began to clear the table.
“It’ll be okay.” For his sake, I hoped my words sounded convincing. For my own sake, too. Having seen those mid-century women-in-prison movies, I sure didn’t want to star in one.
His phone rang. It was his lawyer. Sitting at the edge of my chair, I listened to his end of the conversation which, after he explained the situation to her, consisted mostly of “uh huh.”
When the call ended, I sat back, still tense. “Well?”
“She wants to see me at 1:00 this afternoon. Doesn’t want me to talk to anyone about the issue until I get together with her.”
“Is she aware I know about it?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
Although silence enveloped us, my mind was anything but quiet. Would his attorney advise him to turn himself in?
I pulled my focus back to what I knew for certain. “In the meantime, a murderer is still out there.” Needing to go yet not wanting to appear rude I asked, “Do you need help cleaning up in here or in the other rooms?” My mother would’ve been so proud. At the same time, Gino would be cringing.
“No. It’s okay.”
He walked me to the door. “You’re a great cook, Michael.”
“Thanks. It relaxes me.”
In spite of Gino’s rules, I liked this man. My stomach told me it wanted to be invited the next time he relaxed.
As soon as I left his home, my determination to discover the owner of the initials, JL, came back strong. My mission took a detour, though, upon my return to my office. Maria Waldini, who suspected her husband, Dominic, of cheating on her, had left five messages. They’ve been married 65 years, but she still wanted me to tail him. It was a relief for me to find he went to the park, played bocce ball, and met a few war buddies for a drink. Afterwards he returned home.
I called Maria back and gave her the report. Pitiful though my finances were, I informed her she’d get a full refund. She blessed me in enthusiastic but broken English, and Italian.
Warmed by her appreciation, I began my research on Brody Eagleton, Constance’s final lover.
My findings included Brody’s status as an only child born into an influential and wealthy family. The woman I’d met was the second Mrs. Eagleton, and they’d been married five years. His first wife left him, claiming spousal abuse. No arrests, but if he really had used his fists on his first wife, who was to say he didn’t on Constance? His temper could have gotten out of hand and he could have pushed her hard enough. Then when he realized she was dead, he tossed her office to confuse the cops.
There was a bit more on the internet about Eagleton’s family, but nothing worth noting. I shut my computer down, knowing some pavement pounding came next, but it was only 1:15. Michael would still be with his attorney. Maybe it’d be possible to see Ed at Triton before his shift began. Heading out the door, I then turned around and grabbed the chocolates I’d brought earlier. I needed psychological fortification to deal with Ed and, to me, nothing says happy time like chocolate oozing with caramel and nuts.
Plateful of Murder Page 3