The Case of the Sexy Shakespearean

by Tara Lain

  Llewellyn gasped. The guy looked familiar. Like creepy familiar. He resembled that weirdo who’d asked about Jack the Ripper at the club weeks ago. Whoa, that gave him a shiver.

  Quit it. I probably saw this person with the reporters hanging out around the house. Don’t be melodramatic. Jesus, Blaise was accused of a murder he just didn’t do—Llewellyn knew that for sure—and he was worrying about himself. How stupid.

  He let the curtain drop. Focus. He’d call Miranda first thing in the morning.

  LLEWELLYN DRAGGED himself up the sidewalk toward the history building. The number of TV vans had decreased, and only a few reporters yelled his name. So soon they forget. He pushed into the building lobby and stopped. God, I’m tired. He’d barely slept, a little bit uneasy about who’d been outside his window, but mostly worrying about Blaise and how to prove someone besides him murdered Anne. How do the police do this every day? Deal with the horror? The thought made him swallow hard. Of course, the police weren’t in love with their suspects.

  He slowly sank onto the bench by the front windows of the building lobby. Yes, he’d given up and admitted it to himself. The f-ing L word. Now he could brand two Ls on his forehead, and man, did they go together. The Loser in Love. Damn, Shakespeare should write a play. But just because he’d admitted it to himself didn’t mean he’d share the news with anyone else.

  Just prove Blaise didn’t do it and get on with your life. What exactly that life looked like was a question for another day. After he’d seen Paree and all that.

  Footsteps clattering down the steps made him look up. Maria stopped on the next-to-last step and stared at him. “There you are. Jeez, boss, you have a very odd woman in your office. I’m not entirely sure what to do with her.”

  He held up a hand. “No w-worries. I’m coming. J-just thinking for a minute.”

  “Man, you look beat.”

  “I’m good. L-lead on.” He pointed toward the steps, stood, and followed Marie up them.

  Maria looked back over her shoulder and whispered, “She looks just like Anne, which is creepy, but she’s so damned different.”

  “I know.”

  “Really weird. I put her in your office since they cleared the crime scene tape this morning. Sorry, but I wasn’t quite sure what you wanted me to do with her.”

  “Should have c-called you.”

  “No, no. It’s cool. I just figured it was important to make her comfortable.”

  “Th-thanks.”

  They walked into Maria’s outer office, and she hurried to the teapot and poured him his drug of choice. “Go on in and put your stuff down. I’ll bring this.”

  He hated entering his office when someone was waiting for him. It made his sanctuary feel invaded. But Maria had done the right thing. Of course, Miranda sat in his chair with her booted feet on his desk and a cup of coffee in her hands. This wasn’t an invasion; it was an attack. Get over yourself. You need this person.

  He tried to smile. “H-hello, Miranda.” He tucked his briefcase with his laptop in it to the side of one of the overflowing bookcases and hung up his sweater.

  “Man, Doc, this is one piece-of-shit office. I thought a big-name dude like you would have at least a view and a comfortable chair.”

  Since she sat in his seat, he had no choice but to take the rickety guest chair. Serves you right for not treating your visitors better. He perched tentatively. “I like the p-privacy.”

  She swung her legs off the desk, revealing a few inches of thigh in the process, and leaned forward. “Yeah, you would.” She didn’t, however, surrender his seat. “So what’s up? Why’d you call in such a sweat?” She sipped her coffee casually.

  Damn. Any normal person would have thought through how to ask these questions instead of mooning over Blaise all night. But occasionally being inarticulate cut him some slack. “Uh, I, uh—”

  “Spit it out, Doc.” She set down the cup, picked up his statue of J. Worthington Foulfellow, and rotated it in her hands, which made him want to grab it away, but he focused.

  “D-do you know where your sister and br-brother were when Anne was m-murdered?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Ooooh, you suspect the sneaky ones, huh? Nobody’s going to throw you off with mere fingerprints.” She laughed.

  “H-how do you know about the f-fingerprints?”

  “Hell, man, it’s in the papers and all over. They’ve got Arthur’s fingerprints dead to rights. But I’m with you. It’s hard to believe that cute dude killed Anne.”

  “It’s j-just that I d-don’t know what the”—he made air quotes—“airtight alibi of your s-siblings is. I’m s-sure it’s more than c-credible. I j-just wondered if you knew.”

  She cocked a grin and set down the statue. “Yeah, well, sad to tell you, man, but they were with me until really late, and then a woman who sometimes stays with Roscoe—you know, to relax him—came over.” She repeated his air quotes and flashed a snarky grin. “The woman was there all night, and I guess she swore to it.”

  “I s-see.”

  “Yeah, they’ve got such a bad attitude, I wouldn’t mind getting them tossed in jail for a while.” She laughed until she snorted. “But no such luck. Have you thought that maybe Blaise Arthur didn’t want anyone to know who he was? Maybe Anne found out and he killed her for it?”

  “I have thought of that.” But only in his nightmares.

  She rose. “That it? Was that what you wanted to know?”

  “Y-yes.” He stared at the desk, all his insides turning to a block of ice. Blaise didn’t do it. He couldn’t have. Everything in him rejected the idea.

  She took a heavy-booted step, then stopped and picked up the little statue again. “Man, I sure do love this thing. Any idea where I can get one?”

  “N-no. It’s very old.”

  “Shame.” She set it down and walked to the door, then turned back. “Sorry I couldn’t help more, Doc. I’ll be going back to San Francisco soon, so if I don’t see you, it’s been grand.”

  He looked up. “H-how soon are y-you leaving?”

  “Day after tomorrow. I have to help the sibs make some arrangements for transporting the body back to the city after the cops get done with it.”

  He stood, gripping his hands together. “W-will there be a f-funeral?”

  “Yeah, we’ll cremate her, but I’m sure the sibs will do a service of some kind. I’ll send you an invite.” She grinned. “They probably won’t do it since they’re so pissed about you continuing with the investigation.”

  He met her eyes for a moment. “Th-they say y-you’re also opposed to sp-spending the m-money on the Shakespeare proof.”

  “Oh yeah, well, they’re so pissed, I just go along with them. Otherwise they’d drive me bats trying to persuade me. So you are continuing, right?”

  “Yes, well, I h-haven’t decided yet for certain.”

  A frown flashed across her face but was quickly replaced by her cynical smile. “Oh, I know you, Doc. You won’t be able to stay away now that you see somebody doesn’t want the investigation to go forward. That’s red meat to you.”

  He forced a smile. “P-probably right.”

  “Well, thanks a million. Or should I say five million?” She laughed and walked out the door.

  Llewellyn stared after her, his knees shaking so hard he had to sit or he’d fall. He couldn’t take his gaze from the coffee cup littering his desk.

  Like from a long distance, he heard Maria say, “Boss, are you okay?”

  His head snapped up. “Yes. I need you to call Detective Holiday.”

  “Sure.” She took a step back, then looked over her shoulder. “Hey, you didn’t stutter once.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  BLAISE SAT with his arms wrapped around himself on the couch in his tiny apartment. He needed the arms to keep from flying apart. His mother had broken into pieces ages ago, and each piece had a mouth. She paced from one end of the living room to the other—admittedly, a very short trip. Her two very expe
nsive lawyers sat uncomfortably on his lumpy, overstuffed chairs he’d gotten at Goodwill with the idea they would tide him over until he could get out of this place and go home. Now, the whole “out of this place” part didn’t sound so good, because it took him farther from everything he was growing to care about.

  His mother returned to her litany as she paced. “It’s ridiculous for the police to think that Blaise killed anyone, especially that woman. And over the disclosure of his identity? Good God, why would he even care? He was just going to expose that phony and leave anyway. Lewis would have found out soon enough.” She paused in her feline pacing. “No, there are people with far better motives than Blaise.”

  One of the lawyers, Jared Hershey, a famous San Francisco litigator, crossed his legs to get more comfortable. No use, but he could try. “Yes, but sadly those other people don’t happen to have left perfect prints in Lewis’s office.” He glanced at Blaise with disdain for being so careless. God, defense attorneys really did always believe their clients were guilty.

  His mother folded her arms and nodded. “Yes, but have we explored the potential that the one person with complete opportunity might have actually killed her?”

  Blaise frowned. “You mean Maria, the assistant?”

  “Of course not, idiot. I mean Lewis, naturally.”

  Blaise’s guts spilled on the faded rug.

  She warmed to her subject. “I know they say he had the most to gain from her being alive, but what if she learned that he was Rondell?” She whirled on Blaise. “You spent time with her. What did you reveal?”

  “Nothing. For God’s sake, nothing. I told no one who I was or why I was here.”

  “But she might have divined it. Maybe she had her own suspicions? Maybe that’s why she told you that if Lewis didn’t take her case, she’d go to Rondell. She was testing him.” She paced to the windows. “Yes, she must have revealed her knowledge and he, knowing that he’d be the last suspect, got rid of her for it.” She pointed at the lawyers. “I want you to follow that line of inquiry. Llewellyn Lewis is our most likely suspect.”

  Blaise held up a hand and spoke very quietly. “If you follow this line of inquiry for one more minute, I’ll call Holiday and confess to the crime. Is that understood? No one, and I mean no one, threatens Llewellyn Lewis. He did not kill her, and I don’t want to hear a single murmur of doubt on that topic. Am I clear?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Blaise. He’s just the sort of freaky weirdo the police like to pin things on.”

  He jumped up from the couch and shouted, “Am I clear?”

  His mother stepped back, a hand to her chest.

  The other lawyer, a little younger and a little gayer, nodded. “It’s okay, Blaise. There’s no way we can prove Lewis murdered her. Don’t worry. We won’t go down that path.” He glanced at Blaise’s mother. “Correct, Octavia?”

  “Well, of course, if Blaise feels that strongly. It’s only your life, darling.”

  He sat back down and dropped his head in his hands. It was only his life no matter which way he looked at it.

  LLEWELLYN—ACCOMPANIED by Maria, who refused to be left behind—walked off the elevator at the police station, where Holiday met them.

  Llewellyn nodded, trying to control his smile. “You d-did it. Thank you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask Blaise to c-come?”

  “I did, although we’re not usually given to so much drama in the police department.”

  Maria said, “Hey, Holiday, I think you owe him.”

  Holiday half smiled. “I think I do too, but don’t tell anyone I said that. Come on.”

  They followed Holiday to the same room they’d been in before. Around the big table sat Jane and Roscoe de Vere, Miranda de Vere, Blaise, his mother, and two expensively dressed men in suits.

  Blaise half stood from his chair when Llewellyn walked in, but Llewellyn moved to an open seat across the table, with Maria beside him. Blaise dropped back and looked sad. Jane de Vere wrung her hands, Roscoe radiated pissed-off, and Miranda appeared to be ready to prop her feet on the table at any moment.

  Octavia Otto snapped, “What’s this about, Holiday?”

  Holiday took the chair at the head of the table. “Some new information has come to light, and I wanted to share it with all of you.” He folded his hands and glanced at Llewellyn. “We know that Mr. Arthur’s print was found on the desk beside where the body was discovered. He says that while he did go to the office when Ms. de Vere was there, the office was already unlocked and Ms. de Vere was already dead.”

  Octavia Otto snorted, and Jane de Vere wiped a tear from her cheek. Clearly Holiday was getting into the drama of the occasion.

  “We know that Mr. Arthur could have gotten keys to Dr. Lewis’s office from Dr. Rhule, his employer, who previously occupied the office. We also know, however, that there are a number of keys to that office extant, among them those in the top desk drawer of Dr. Van Pelt.”

  Miranda made a huffing sound. “Van Pelt? He’s the one who wanted the money so damned bad. Hell, he’d have had her stuffed before he’d admit she was dead.”

  “True,” Holiday agreed. “But his office is visited by many people, and we checked with him and discovered his set of keys is gone.”

  Octavia Otto pressed a palm to her throat. “But that’s wonderful news.”

  The others around the table didn’t look quite so enthused. Roscoe scowled. “So who have his visitors been?” He glanced around at his family. “None of us.”

  “In just a second.” Holiday held up a finger. He nodded toward Llewellyn.

  Maria pressed a hand to his arm in support. He said, “Miranda, c-can you tell me h-how you h-happened to recognize the statue of J. Worthington Foulfellow on my d-desk?”

  Roscoe scowled even darker. “Who?”

  Llewellyn kept staring at Miranda. Her expression went from casual to—cloudy. “I, uh, guess I remember it from when I was a kid.”

  “Oh, from where?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t remember.”

  “But y-you loved it so much, you wanted one of your own.”

  “Sure. It’s really cute.”

  Holiday leaned forward. “Are you aware that while identical twins have the same DNA, they have unique fingerprints?”

  “What?”

  Holiday sat back. “We checked your fingerprints against those of your sister. The ones they took when she was teaching first grade.”

  Llewellyn said, “The s-same place she first saw the statue of J. W-Worthington.”

  Miranda stared at Llewellyn like he was a spider.

  Llewellyn spoke softly. “Of course, the fingerprints of Anne w-were identical to the ones you left on the coffee cup in my office yesterday.”

  “No.”

  Holiday stood. “Anne de Vere, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder of your sister Miranda.”

  “No, you can’t prove it.”

  “We just did.”

  It seemed oddly fitting that he began to Mirandize her.

  Roscoe bellowed, “What’s going on here?”

  Two uniformed officers walked in and took Anne into custody. They left the room with her murmuring “no” over and over.

  Jane had turned white. “I don’t understand.”

  Roscoe yelled, “Good grief, don’t you see? That’s Anne, not Miranda. She killed Miranda!”

  Jane slapped a hand to her mouth and sobbed.

  Roscoe said, “Why the hell would she do that?”

  Holiday nodded at Llewellyn. “Dr. Lewis figured it out.”

  “S-she desperately w-wanted me to do the research. I was disinclined to d-do it since it seemed v-very unlikely I could prove it.”

  Blaise’s mouth opened. “And then she showed up with that manuscript copy.”

  “Y-yes.” He gazed at Blaise. Oh man, he knew what he’d like to do with that mouth. Focus. “I assume s-she had the d-document created for j-just such a purpose. B-but then M-Mi
randa started threatening me. Anne knew because Miranda told her. Anne thought I-I’d give up with too much p-pressure. I n-never got to tell her I was going to d-do the research. She k-killed Miranda and counted on no one checking the fingerprints before s-she could arrange a cremation. We had no reason to check them.”

  “But she’s small. How could she strangle Miranda?” Roscoe looked in shock.

  Holiday said, “Miranda may have disliked her sister, but she had no reason to think Anne would harm her. Taking her totally by surprise and using a handled wire, she was able to hold Miranda long enough to cut off her air completely. She was strong. Strong enough to knock out Dr. Lewis when she stole the copy of the manuscript.”

  “Why was Miranda in Dr. Lewis’s office?”

  “We found Miranda’s phone in Anne’s hotel room. There was a message from Anne, luring Miranda with promises of new evidence.”

  Octavia Otto scowled. “But why blame it on Blaise? What did he do to her?”

  “I d-don’t think she c-cared. I s-suspect she planned on one of her siblings being blamed, but when Blaise’s p-print showed up, it was timely and opportune.”

  Holiday leaned forward. “While the idea that Blaise killed her because she found out he was investigating Dr. Lewis was thin, I think she figured with the other evidence, we’d consider it enough to take Blaise to trial.”

  Llewellyn felt that statement like a kick in the gut on so many levels.

  Jane stared at Llewellyn. “How did you ever figure it out? We didn’t even realize it was Anne, although we did wonder why she gave up her hard line on the money being spent for the research.”

  Llewellyn nodded. “Yes, she d-did an amazing j-job of convincing us she w-wasn’t Anne. But she got v-very upset when I suggested I m-might not do the research, which Miranda would never have d-done. Then, of course, there was J. Worthington. Anne told me that one of h-her students had received the figurine from her grandmother. The p-person I thought was Miranda admired it lovingly and p-personally. It seemed unlikely, s-since they weren’t close, that Miranda w-would have shared Anne’s affection.”