Hell no. I slid my card through the slot and jerked the door open. I’d been through so much in the past couple of years, made a whole new life. Damned if I was going to be too scared to enter a building that had been cleared by the police.
I did wish, as I walked toward my unit, that there were others around. Often there were, but, like the day I found Richard’s body, no one else was there fetching things or putting things away. The manager wasn’t there putting an extra lock on the unit of someone’s unit as they did when payment was late. Nope. Just me and…well, no body lying on the concrete floor. I’d have to be grateful for small favors.
I arrived at my spot and unlocked the lock, opened the gate, and stepped inside. The automatic light flickered on, glowing over some boxes and bags of non-perishable foodstuffs and my cart. Finally.
Pushing it out into the common area, I looked it over, mentally cataloguing the sprucing up it would need before next week when the season truly began. It wasn’t bad, thank heavens, since I’d already lost so much time. It was pretty dusty though, so I pulled on a pair of gloves and paced around it, studying the logo and the fittings before opening the warming drawer and finding…
“This isn’t my knife!” And it was crusted with someone’s blood. Richard’s blood. Whose else could it be?
A hand clamped around my wrist. “Isn’t it? Then why is it in your cart?”
I tried to yank free, heart pounding in my ears, but Detective Aguirre had a firm hold. “Let me loose. What are you doing?”
“I’d say keeping you from disposing of the evidence?”
Chapter Fourteen
Before any more could happen, I was whisked away to the police station. Well almost not any more. Detective Aguirre—who would never be Roger to me again after the way he acted—called for backup and a team loaded my cart into the back of a van. They bagged the blood-encrusted knife. The detective escorted me, hands humiliatingly cuffed behind my back, to his car and cupped his hand over my head while settling me into the back seat.
He did not read me my rights, however.
Why not?
Although I wanted to say a lot of things, even without being read the Mirandas, I suspected anything I said would be used against me anyway, so I opted for silence on the ride to the station. Which took about three minutes. I supposed I should be grateful he hadn’t walked me down the street in cuffs all the way there, increasing the humiliation factor to the stars.
If he’d parked in their little parking lot instead of a block away, it might have helped even more. Everyone in town seemed to be out, shopping, dining at the outdoor restaurants, and strolling the streets on this beautiful day. A day that would be marked in my mind forever. A day that would ruin me. Who would want to buy hand pies from a murderess? Did he really think I was a killer? Sure, I’d been a suspect, or at least a “person of interest,” but I’d never thought he truly believed I did it. He’d seemed to be trying to protect me, unless I’d entirely misread his behavior.
I just wanted to go home, pull the covers over my head, and hide for a year. Or maybe, when and if my cart was ever released again, load it on the trailer and set out for somewhere far away where nobody thought I killed people because they tried to buy my house. Or for whatever reason the detective thought I had.
By the time he led me into the interrogation room at the station, the words I wanted to say, many of which would color the air blue, were fairly bursting out of me, but before I could let them out, he closed the door behind us, pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. Then spun me to face him.
“That should do it.”
Everything I intended to let loose faded at the relaxed, friendly smile on his face. I didn’t even want to punch him in the eye…much. “Should d-do what? I thought murder suspects were cuffed to the table in here, at least they are on TV.”
He grinned. What the hell was wrong with him? Satisfaction at having apprehended an evil-doer? How the heck would I manage to convince him otherwise. “Sit down, Chloe. I have some questions for you.”
I shook out my tingling fingers. “Are we alone or is there a two-way mirror somewhere?”
The detective shook his head. “You do watch a lot of television. I suppose some stations still have those, but we rely on a camera to live-stream our meeting.”
I looked up and, sure enough, in the corner opposite the door, mounted close to the ceiling, was a small camera. “I see. But let’s call this what it is, okay? Not a ‘meeting’ but an interrogation. You found me with a knife in my hands, one I presume from the stains on it was probably the murder weapon. And it was in my cart.” Crap he might not have known that. When did he come in, anyway?
“That’s right. The cart you asked so desperately to get out of storage on so many occasions.”
“Not because of the weapon. I didn’t even know it was in there. How did you…I mean…”
“We checked.” I didn’t think detectives were big eye rollers. He proved me wrong. “Of course.”
“And just left it there? You didn’t take it in for evidence or anything?”
“Yes, we did.”
“When did you put it back? And what did you find out? Were there fingerprints or fibers or…” I struggled to remember what all I’d seen in those TV shows he so disparaged. “Other stuff?”
“I can’t tell you that. But I need to ask you some questions for the record. Did you stab Richard Beckham?”
“I already answered that. More than once.” And my anxiety and confusion were through the roof.
“For the record, Chloe.” He’d called me that a moment ago, too. Did he think we were friends again or something? “Just answer the question. Did you stab Richard Beckham?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you know who did?”
“What? No! Don’t you think if I saw the murderer I would have told you by now? At the very least to get the suspicion off me?”
“Did you see anyone enter or leave the building that day when you were there.”
“No…I…” I tried to think. Nobody was in there with me, but had anyone been leaving as I walked up or anything? I tried to remember entering the building and drew a blank. “Not that I recall, but there are some blank spots before I found the body. Just stuff gone. “What’s wrong with me?” Panic threatened to close my throat. Didn’t cops try to make you comfortable before tricking you into admitting things? Maybe things you didn’t even do? I hadn’t thought he was that kind of policeman, but how well did I know him after all?
“Settle down. Trauma can make you forget things, but so can panic. Would you like a glass of water?”
I shook my head. What I wanted was out of here. But with my cart impounded, what was the point?
“Okay, one more question. Who else has a key to your unit?”
“Nobody.” I was very sure of that. “The management does not ask for a key to the individual locks. If you don’t pay, they just double lock it, and if it goes to auction, they cut yours off. I never gave anyone a key.”
“And do you know who has the units around yours?”
“Everyone. All of the beach vendors, practically, and a lot of the shopkeepers as well. It’s the only convenient storage close to the beach walk for one thing. Lots of the locals, too. I see them there dropping things off. Also the owner, the one I know anyway, Mr. Slinger has an office in the building, but I don’t see him often, mostly just his car parked outside.” I sucked in a breath. “My god. If that knife got in my cart, someone had to have a key, didn’t they?”
“Probably unless there isn’t another answer. I had hoped you’d given one to a friend for emergencies or something. That was our next step.”
“No. Nobody. And the only time it was out of my possession was when you had it. Can you tell me, were there fingerprints on the knife?”
“I can’t tell you.” He sat down opposite me and reached over to pat my hand. “But since your fingerprints are on file from your initial business applica
tion, I know whose fingerprints are not on it. Not even now, since you wore gloves today.”
“Yeah I was checking things over and they get dusty during the winter…is that suspicious?”
“Not at all.” He stood. “Now, let’s walk outside. Try to look nervous, if you can. We want the killer if they are watching, to still think you are the prime suspect.”
Outside the station, his words slammed into me, a bit of a delayed reaction. “You think they’re watching?” I started to look around, but he spoke low.
“Don’t do that. Just look terrified of me, if you can.”
Detective Aguirre, Roger, escorted me back to my car, speaking to me along the way about keeping my head down, being careful, reminding me not to play sleuth, and I didn’t realize until I drove away that I’d forgotten to tell him about the warning.
Crud on a cruller.
And my cart was in police lockup for a while. He hadn’t been able to tell me how long, but promised to try to get it back before opening day. If he didn’t, I’d be selling pies out of a backpack or something.
Chapter Fifteen
That afternoon, after a most confusing interrogation, I tried to regain some sense of balance. As if he suddenly remembered his copness, Detective Aguirre…Roger…whichever I now called him had told me not to leave town. How could I forget? Worn and worse for the wear, I drove like a zombie to my house. I couldn’t wait to get out of these shoes and into a hot bath. That was the only thing I craved in that moment, Well, that and a good square or seventeen of chocolate—the good stuff.
As I pulled into the driveway, I sighed in relief. There was truly nowhere like home.
I grabbed my purse, getting out and lamented still not having my cart. Things were getting out of hand. My realtor nemesis was causing havoc and trouble even in death.
“What in the name of raspberry strudel…” I stopped mid-way up the stairs in shock. I dropped my purse, faintly hearing the sound of it tumbling down. My mouth was agape while my heart ceased to beat. Sweat broke out along my hairline and I covered my mouth to quell a scream.
Spray-painted on my otherwise lovely home, in blood red, was a new and more terrifying warning. Back off pie girl. The letters dripped paint in a downward motion as though the artist, and I used that term loosely, was standing too close to the wall when he or she decided to mar my home.
My head ceased to pound. I couldn’t feel my feet anymore.
I was wrecked inside.
Get a grip, Chloe. Do something.
I had to call the police. I bumbled down the stairs and grabbed the bottom of my purse. I shook out its contents until I saw my phone and grabbed it, sitting on the bottom step, back to the degradation of my house. I couldn't look at it anymore—it was gut-wrenching and nauseating at the very least.
Roger didn’t answer his cell phone, so I dialed 911, hoping they would deem my latest crisis an emergency. I was too shaken and stirred to look up the station number, plus my hands felt weak. 911 was the only thing that came to mind.
I was a mess.
The woman on the line promised a detail would be at my home in no time. She made small talk, assuring me that someone was on the way. When I saw the blue-and-white car approaching, she finally let me hang up, knowing I was safe.
Well, as safe as I could be considering someone had trespassed on my property and wasn’t sophisticated at all about the warning for me to back off.
“And this was here when you got home?” the officer asked not minutes later. The spray-painted message apparently warranted more officers and in minutes the street was lined with patrol cars and some unmarked vehicles. Behind me, I could hear the clicking and whooshing sound of pictures being taken.
I turned to look at the atrocity again and saw a man crouching down, dusting a fan-like brush over surfaces now marred with something black. They thought this person was dumb enough to leave fingerprints. Hopefully, they were.
I could use a little bit of dumb in my life right about now.
My stomach was a bundle of nerves so when one of the cops came up behind me, I yelped like there was no tomorrow and nearly peed my pants.
“Whoa! It’s just me, Ms. Cotton. I have some questions to ask you.”
I blew out a breath and turned around to face him. He was a young cop with a baby face, and my yelp had clearly made him blush a little. He had a thin, long notebook in his hand, opened to a blank page. He pushed his pen against his chest, clicking the thing open.
“Isn’t Detective Aguirre here?” I didn’t want to call him Roger to this officer. For some reason it made me feel too intimate—too close.
Scanning the area, my stomach turned into knots. He wasn’t there. I didn’t know why I wanted him there in the first place. He thought I was guilty and would be snooty about the whole thing. I just knew it.
“He’s not, ma’am. Off-duty this evening. Some kind of fishing excursion…” His voice trailed off with the last word. “That was too much information. Just forget I said that.”
Odd, he didn’t tell me he was going fishing when I left him half an hour ago…
Oookay.
He paused a little longer than necessary making me even more jumpy. My gaze inadvertently went to the spray paint, and the panic flooded my veins all over again. “You had some questions?” I pressed, trying to get this over with.
“Yes. Can you walk me through the events of this afternoon? Take your time and give me all the details you can.”
I blew out an exasperated breath. I’d already gone over this with the other officer and didn’t want to rehash the events again. Still, goodness forbid I look antsy. This guy would surely bring that pertinent info directly to Roger.
“I came home right after leaving the station. I pulled into my driveway, got out of the car and there it was. Then I freaked out and dropped my purse, shook out the contents of said purse and called Ro…Detective Aguirre, but he didn’t answer. Then I hung up and called 911. End of story.”
I was curt. Even I heard the stiff tone of my voice. All I wanted in life was to be happy and make hand pies. Period.
Now I was smack dab in the middle of a murder investigation with no end in sight.
“And you don’t know of anyone who would want to hurt you?”
I shook my head. “No. Not anyone I can think of.”
“Hmmm…” The wet behind the ears officer tapped his pen on his notepad, working things out in his head, or so I assumed. He was on the skinny side, and the chef part of me wanted to offer him a lot of pies and some whole milk.
“Anything else? Maybe some advice on how to remove spray paint?” I asked, pointing to, but not looking at the graffiti mess.
“Nothing special I know of. We took enough pictures and have gathered evidence so feel free to paint over it or clean it…whatever you are going to do.”
How helpful…
They cops finished their business, piling their evidence and tools into plastic bags and briefcases. Some of them gave me an sympathetic look as they passed, but most ignored me like I was simply another number to them.
Another case file just as generic as the rest.
Chapter Sixteen
I just didn’t have it in me to deal with the paint tonight. The sun was setting by the time I managed to stop my hands from shaking—something they started doing about two seconds after the police left—enough to make a cup of calming chamomile tea, and it was nearly midnight when I heard a car stop outside. The houses on the cliff were set well apart from one another, so nobody going to visit a neighbor would park in front of my house.
Whoever it was, they’d come to see me. At midnight.
I was sitting on the couch in the living room with a blanket around my shoulders, too freaked out to go to bed, and when I heard a car door slam, I flipped off the light on the end table beside me and tiptoed to the front window next to the door. Shifting the curtains just a smidge to the side I watched the dark silhouette of a man moving up the walk and climbing the stair
s to the porch. The fog had rolled in and while it was not as thick as it sometimes was, it made it difficult to make out features. And the man wore a cap and heavy jacket, so I couldn’t really tell if he was thin or fat. I did know he was tall.
When he set foot on the porch, I flipped the switch and turned on the light, casting the shadowed figure in brilliance. Roger! I opened the door to the good detective before he could even knock, and since he’d covered his eyes with his hands, maybe he might not have right away.
“Chloe, what the heck? Are you trying to blind me?
“No, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I propped my hands on my hips. “It’s the middle of the night and I’ve had two very scary warnings in the last twenty-four hours.”
One brow swept up at my words. “And when did the first warning come?”
Oops.
“Want to come in?”
“I’d better.” He marched past me and stopped in the entryway. “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”
I almost snarked that no I had no chairs, but I decided not to try him. He looked ready to explode. “Let’s go in the kitchen. I was having tea. Do you want some or maybe a beer or something?”
“I’m not technically on duty,” he said, following me toward the back of the house, “but I think I will go for the tea. Or coffee?”
“I’ll brew a pot.” I would have some myself. I wasn’t likely to be going to bed anytime soon anyway. “Have a seat in the breakfast nook.” The curved outer wall overlooked the ocean, and it was one of my favorite places to sit on sunny days and foggy nights. Right now, the fog was moving past the windows, on its way to wherever fog went when it left us behind. It made me feel afloat in a gray, drifty sea. I put spoons and a pitcher of cream and the sugar bowl on the table along with two small plates and napkins.
When the coffee was ready I brought two mugs to the table along with a plate of halved hand pie samples I’d been working on over the past few days and then took the seat across from Roger.
A Pie in the Hand (Pacific Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 1) Page 6