“I mean, what is this all about anyway?”
“What is what all about?” I asked him.
“This . . . ditching us.”
I was surprised that Gilley seemed a little hurt too. “I don’t know,” I said. Because I didn’t.
Gilley shook his head in disapproval. “Like, he should’ve been over here before the limo was even out of your driveway, right?”
I shrugged and moved to the table to sit down. “Or at least over here before nine.”
Gilley eyed me with sympathy. “What time did you finally pack it in?”
“Midnight. You were right to head to bed at ten.”
“Girl, I could barely keep my eyes open. Yesterday was a day!”
“It was. I think I’m still tired.”
Gilley pursed his lips sympathetically. “Sugar, you sit and drink your coffee. I’m gonna make us some breakfast and then we’re going to focus on something fun, okay?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we could go into the city for a day, hmm? A nice stroll through Central Park might be nice.”
“Oh, Gilley, that does sound wonderful, but I think we’re supposed to get rain.”
“We are?” he asked. “I haven’t seen the news in days. How about you turn on the TV while I whip us up a frittata?”
I smiled a little, which was pretty encouraging given how blue I’d been just a few minutes before. “You always know how to lift my spirits.”
“Frittatas lift everyone’s spirits.”
I moved to the couch and plopped down, reaching for the remote. Flipping on the television, I surfed the channel selection until I landed on the morning news. I then watched dully while, behind me, Gilley got out pans, and ingredients, and began to cook.
Very soon Chez Kitty filled with the aroma of sautéed potatoes. Right around the time that Gilley was pulling together his egg, mushroom, spinach, cheese, and potato concoction, the top of the hour hit and, with it, the morning’s lead story.
Which was about the murder of Boris Basayev.
“So that was Basayev from last night!” Gilley called out, as I sat forward to watch the screen intently.
“Gilley, shhh!” I hissed. “They’ve made an arrest and I want to hear who did it!”
“My money’s on the wife. Or maybe the lover. The chick with the bright pink lipstick did it.”
“And we’ve just confirmed that the name of the suspect in custody this morning is Chanel Downey, a twenty-eight-year-old real estate agent from Amagansett,” the reporter said.
I dropped my jaw and the remote.
Behind me something clattered to the floor. Gilley was as stunned as I was.
“What the . . . what?” Gilley cried. Then he rushed over to the couch, picked up the remote, and cranked up the volume.
“We’ve also learned that Downey was the real estate agent of record on the listing for the murder victim’s house, which was for sale. Police have not yet identified a motive in the case but we’ll keep on this story and provide more details as they come.”
Gilley muted the TV and we both turned to look at each other.
“Now I know why Shepherd didn’t come by last night,” I said.
“Yeah, because he was throwing another innocent woman in jail!” Gilley threw the remote back on the couch and stomped off to the kitchen. “What is with that guy anyway? I mean, you know she didn’t do it, right?” he asked me.
“Of course she didn’t do it!” I confirmed. I’d seen the look on her face when I’d finally noticed Basayev’s body, and no way was that an act. “I can’t even imagine what that fool is thinking!” I added. “Shepherd has gone off the deep end.”
“And, meanwhile, the real killer is out there, somewhere, gloating,” Gilley said, waving his hand toward the front door.
I crossed my arms and stood up. Then I began to pace, something I do when I’m supremely agitated. “Why would Shepherd suspect Chanel?” I asked, not really intending Gilley to answer.
He did anyway. “She was at the scene—which we know from experience is the only thing he needs to make an arrest, but more importantly to Shepherd, I think, is that it was her listing, which meant she had access via the code to the door.”
“Yeah, but what’s the motive? I mean, why would Chanel kill her client? Especially if she had any suspicion that Basayev was a mafia kingpin?”
Gilley looked up from the stove. “Did she know he was a mafia kingpin?”
I shrugged. I had no idea, but then I thought of something and it gave me pause. “We suspect that the hit on Lenny was ordered by Basayev. What if Chanel murdered him out of revenge, and used us to cover it up?”
Gilley frowned. “Damn. That would make a good motive.”
I felt disappointed too. Chanel had seemed so lovely. It felt wrong to believe her capable of murder. After thinking on it, however, I had to shake my head. “I’m not buying it, though.”
“Me neither,” Gilley said. “It just feels off.”
“It does. Her reaction at the scene was genuine, Gil. I’m sure of it.”
“But Shepherd wasn’t there with us to see her reaction. Maybe he started grilling her and she cracked under the pressure and said something that made him think she did it.”
I scowled. “He is insufferable. And I bet she doesn’t even have anyone to represent her, the poor thing. She covered it well, but I suspect she’s hurting financially.”
“The purse, shoes, and car?” Gil asked. “All from past seasons. . . long ago?”
“You picked up on those too?”
“Please,” Gil said. “What do you take me for? An amateur?”
I smiled. “I should know better.”
“You should,” he agreed. Then he got back to the topic at hand. “So, are we going to help Chanel?”
I moved over to the counter where my purse sat. Fishing through the contents, I lifted out my phone and held it up. “It’s early, so I’ll just leave a voice mail for Marcus and let him know I’m sending him a check for a retainer.”
Gilley poked at the sautéing spinach. “You’re a good woman, Catherine Cooper.”
I dialed Marcus’s number and was surprised when he answered. “Good morning, Catherine. What can I do for you?”
“Oh! Marcus,” I said, giggling nervously. “I didn’t think you’d pick up. It’s quite early.”
“Yes, which means there’s trouble. What’s happened?”
I filled him in on the details to the best of my ability. When I was done telling him about the night before and Chanel’s arrest, I added, “I’d like to pay you to represent her, Marcus. And if bond has been set for her, I’d like to post that too.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked me—and that surprised me.
“Pay for you to represent her? Or post her bond?”
“Both,” he said simply. “This could get expensive.”
I tapped the counter with my finger, thinking.... “Yes. I’m sure. She’s innocent, Marcus. I know it.”
“Good. I just wanted to make sure you were all in. Her bond hearing will probably be set for first thing this morning. I’ll text you when and if her bond gets set. Meet me at the courthouse with your checkbook and we’ll go from there.”
Marcus hung up and I let out a sigh of relief. Gilley closed the oven door on the frittata and turned to me. “All good?”
“All good,” I said with a satisfied smile.
* * *
Three hours later I got a text from Marcus. Chanel’s bond was set at two hundred thousand dollars. “Yikes,” Gilley said, peering over my shoulder to read the text.
“I only have to put up ten percent of that,” I said, pointing to the next line in Marcus’s text.
“Yeah, but still. Twenty grand isn’t chump change.”
“No, but if it’ll keep an innocent woman out of jail, I’m willing to do it. Plus, I’ll get it back once she’s exonerated.”
“Her attorney’s fees could pi
le up too,” Gilley said. “Cat, are you sure you want to do this?”
I sighed. “What’s the alternative, Gilley? She doesn’t strike me as someone who can afford an attorney, and her only listing is a crime scene. Her choices are probably to go with a public defender or represent herself, and neither of those two choices are likely to keep her out of jail.”
“Okay, Cat,” Gil said. “But before you retain Marcus for a lengthy murder trial, maybe hear him out for the evidence Shepherd has against her. I mean, there could be something we don’t know about going on.”
“That’s a fair point, Gilley. And I will,” I promised. “Now, are you coming with me to the courthouse? Or staying here?”
“I’m coming,” Gil said eagerly.
We drove to the courthouse and met Marcus in the grand lobby. He pulled us aside to talk privately. “Shepherd’s pulled the trigger early again,” he said, and using air quotes, he added, “The ‘evidence’ against Ms. Downey is so circumstantial and so flimsy I’m surprised the judge didn’t throw it out immediately.”
“What is the evidence, Marcus?”
“A tube of lipstick used to write a message on the mirror at the house that had Ms. Downey’s prints and DNA on it. It was discovered at the scene. Also the fact that she had access to the house and knew the victim’s schedule.”
“That’s it?” Gilley asked.
“That’s it,” Marcus said, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it either.
My mind went to something else that I’d seen recovered the night before. “Was there any mention of a necklace, Marcus?”
“A necklace?”
“Yes. A gold necklace with a charm?”
“No,” Marcus said. “Should there have been?”
“I saw the M.E. hand Shepherd a necklace with a charm on it, and Shepherd put it into an evidence bag. It made me think that maybe Mr. Basayev was either clutching it or it’d been near the victim when the M.E. examined him.”
“Hmmm,” Marcus said. “Interesting that I didn’t see any reference to it. I’ll make a point of asking the prosecution to list it in their exculpatory evidence. If it didn’t belong to Ms. Downey, then we open the door for other suspects and reasonable doubt. Either way I should be able to get this case tossed out without a lot of effort.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” I said. Then I handed Marcus two checks, one for his retainer and one for Chanel’s bond. “How soon will she be released?”
Marcus took the checks. “I’ll have her out by lunchtime. You two get on with your day, and I’ll make sure to let her know that you’re covering all the expenses. I’d expect a call of appreciation right around noon.”
I smiled, and felt better about forking over so much money on behalf of a relative stranger. I was doing a good thing. The right thing, and it felt pretty darn great. “Excellent. Thank you, Marcus.”
* * *
We left the courthouse and got into the car, with Gilley at the wheel. “Have we heard back from Willem?” I asked.
“Not a peep. I’ve left him half a dozen voice mails, but he’s not responding.”
I frowned. I was torn between letting Willem be or pestering him until he at least answered our call. What I couldn’t really allow, however, was the thought that we’d put him in an even worse mindset than he’d been in when he’d so bravely reached out to me at the office. I had to convince him that the curse could be overcome, because in my heart, I simply refused to believe otherwise.
“Gil?”
“Yes?”
“Do we know where Willem lives?”
“You mean, can I obtain his address in two winks and a shake from a lamb’s tail? Yes, Cat. Yes, I can.”
“Good. Pull over and look up his address.”
Gilley pulled into a doughnut shop parking lot, turning to me with a grin.
“It’s like you planned that,” I said with an eye roll.
“Sometimes, life just works out,” he said, with a bounce of his brow.
“Fine. I’ll get you a treat while you look up the address.”
“Don’t forget the sprinkles!” Gilley called as I got out of the car.
A few minutes later I was back with a coffee and chocolate-covered doughnut (with sprinkles) for Gil, and a hot tea for myself. “Did you find the address?”
“Does the Easter Bunny like eggs?”
I handed Gilley the doughnut. “How far away is he?”
Gilley had already taken a bite, and as his mouth was full and I was looking at him like, Don’t you dare answer me with your mouth full and spray me with doughnut crumbs, he opted to point to his left and splay out five fingers, twice.
“Ten minutes west of here. Good,” I said. Then I pointed in that direction myself. “Tally-ho, my friend.”
Almost exactly ten minutes later we arrived at the address Gilley had found for Willem. “Wow,” Gil said, when we paused in front of the massive, castle-like structure. “That’s some house!”
“Willem’s granny is loaded,” I said, impressed not just by the sheer size of the place, which was probably double the square footage of my own home, but also by the immaculate care of the grounds. It took serious money to maintain a home like that—I somewhat knew from experience.
“Shall we?” I asked, motioning toward the driveway.
“We shall,” Gilley said.
We pulled into the drive and parked near the front door. As we got out and approached the door, it was opened by a woman in a crisp white suit with carefully coifed ash-blond hair and a chin held at a slightly haughty elevation. “May I help you?” she asked, stepping out onto the top step.
I adopted a friendly smile. “Hello,” I said. “I’m Catherine Cooper and this is my associate, Gilley Gillespie. We’re here to ask after Willem. Is he home?”
“What is it that you want with him, exactly?”
I couldn’t quite figure out who this woman was, but she was clearly the home’s gatekeeper. She stood in front of the door, guarding it with a thin frame but formidable attitude.
“Well,” I said, turning to Gilley, who looked put on the spot. “We want to make sure that he’s all right, of course.”
The woman’s brow furrowed suspiciously. “Why wouldn’t Mr. Entwistle be all right?”
“Because of the other day,” I said. I was purposely holding back details, hoping the woman’s suspicion would be overridden by her curiosity.
“Could you be more specific?” she asked, and there was an impatient cast to her posture.
“Well, there was an accident involving a hot air balloon, and Willem was quite affected by it. No one was hurt, thank goodness, but as his life coach I did want to check in and just make sure he wasn’t still suffering adversely from the incident.”
The woman blinked. Slowly. “His . . . life coach?”
It was my turn to hold my chin a little higher. “Yes. His life coach.”
The woman looked me up and down, her eyes assessing, before her gaze drifted briefly to Gilley’s car. A Lexus LS. We, and it, apparently passed the muster. “Come into the foyer, I’ll see if he’ll come talk to you.”
We followed behind the woman through the door to an enormous open foyer that faced twin staircases. Above us was a dome ceiling and a fresco that could’ve been painted by one of the great Renaissance artisans.
And speaking of Renaissance artisans, a little deeper into the foyer was a lit painting, secured behind thick glass, that I swear was a Sandro Botticelli original (I minored in art history).
And if I was correct and that was a Botticelli, then Willem’s granny didn’t just have money. She had power.
As the gatekeeper began to walk away from us, I heard an elderly voice call out, “Who was at the door, Nancy?”
Nancy moved in the direction of the voice, disappearing into a room just behind the staircase. “It’s two people here for Willem, ma’am,” she said. I had no doubt she thought she was far enough away from us that we wouldn’t be able to hear her,
however, the acoustics in the circular foyer were so good that we could probably hear half the house from where we stood.
“Here for Willem?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who would be here for Willem?”
“A woman who claims to be his life coach, and her companion,” Nancy said, the disdain for my profession leaking into her speech.
“His what?”
“Life coach.”
“Willem has a life coach?”
“Perhaps. I’m going to check with him, but I’ll also alert Anthony that he may need to escort the pair off the property.”
“I want to meet this woman,” the elderly voice said.
Gilley and I exchanged looks. No doubt the voice belonged to Willem’s grandmother, and perhaps I could win her over and she could help convince Willem that he should give coming out with us another try.
“Are you sure, ma’am?” Nancy asked.
“Of course I’m sure. Now, be a dear and wheel me out to them.”
Gilley and I straightened and out came Nancy, pushing a wheelchair that held a tiny woman. Not a dwarf like Willem, but tiny and frail all the same. I pegged her to be at least in her early to mideighties, dressed in a gorgeous green plaid tartan skirt with a black turtleneck, pearl earrings, and wispy white hair, wound in a bun at the top of her head. She grinned when she saw us. “Hello,” she sang.
“Hello,” Gilley said.
“Hello, ma’am,” I said, dipping my head demurely.
“I’m Julia Entwistle,” she said, as Nancy wheeled her to a stop in front of us. “Welcome to my home.”
I bent forward and held out my hand to her. She grasped it in hers and I think she might’ve even tried to squeeze it a bit, but she was clearly frail and her touch remained light. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Entwistle. I’m Catherine Cooper, and this is my associate, Gilley Gillespie. We’re here to see Willem.”
“So I heard,” she said. “Please tell me, when did my grandson get himself a life coach?”
“About a week ago, ma’am,” I said. “Willem told me that he’s taking your advice to heart and working up the courage to get out into the world, beginning with a visit to my office.”
Julia’s brow arched in surprise. “He went to your office?”
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