by Maia Ross
“He’s in one of the guest cottages at the estate.”
“Charlotte! Honestly! He’d have perfect access to you if he wanted to harm you.”
“He wouldn’t.” But she looked unsure.
“What’s his financial situation like these days?”
She glanced over at Violet, who was examining her hair. “I know he had some real estate deals go bad last year.”
I knew it. “He’s also threatened to sue Julian, because of what happened to Scooter. And he told someone else he planned on suing the city for not keeping us safe from gun violence. And he insured Scooter for one million dollars! He’s obviously in serious financial trouble. And your money, Charlotte, is probably the only lifeline he has. Because he’s running out of time. Those lawsuits are only going to be getting closer, and they are going to cost a fortune to defend. Can’t you get him kicked off your accounts because of that? Isn’t that some sort of moral turpitude? I can’t believe your family didn’t safeguard you more.”
“He can only be removed if he’s charged with a criminal offence.”
I brightened at that. “Charged, only? Not convicted?”
She nodded. The small movement seemed to exhaust her.
“The bullet at the clinic must have been meant for you,” I continued.
“Oh, good heavens. That’s ridiculous.”
“What’s your explanation?”
Violet hiccupped.
“I’m quite sure that bullet was for you. You’ve had a bit of an unsavoury past, Irma. You can’t deny that.”
“I mean, I will. Eventful, I’d agree with. Unsavoury is just...well, it’s unsavoury.”
She cracked a smile, finally. “I’m struggling with all this.”
“I understand. It would be helpful if you had any idea of who would want to harm you, other than Richard.”
“Richard would never hurt me.”
“He inherits everything if you and Scooter die, Charlotte. He knew you were at the clinic when the bomb threat happened. He had more than enough time to find a perch and shoot at us after calling in the bomb threat. My goodness, he could have just opened one of his office windows and done it. It’s not an idle thought. He threatened Julian at the Club the other night. He could easily start threatening you. I’m going to go over to your place and speak to him, because—”
“Be nice to Richard, please,” Charlotte said before waving a hand in the air. “Nice. Understand?”
I mumbled something.
“And I get dozens of messages threatening me.”
Dismay knifed through me. “From who? When? What?”
“It’s been going on ever since Richard’s legal problems started. Mostly via email.”
I put my head in my hands and tried to breathe. After a moment, I looked up. “Charlotte, why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I’ve been hoping it’ll all blow over.” She started to pick at the edge of her sweater. “I just hate to make a fuss.”
I tried to stay calm. “What kind of threats? Do any of them have a particular time or event attached to them? Anything specific?”
“Well…” Charlotte was fidgeting with her purse. I sensed it would soon be a designer squeezebox just like her last handbag. “There were a few mentions of the fundraiser and…something bad maybe happening then.”
“Have the police seen these?”
She shook her head.
“Can you forward some of the messages to Violet, please?”
“It’s best if I can log into the actual mailbox,” Violet said, slurping on her straw. I was beginning to wonder how Irish her drink was, exactly. “Stuff’s easier to track then.”
“Will you do that, please? And let the police take a look?”
Charlotte nodded. “Thank you.”
“And Violet and I are coming to stay with you for a while. Just in case.”
“What now?” Violet sat up and looked around.
“Will it make you feel better, Irmie?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes. At least until after the fundraiser is over.”
“Okay.”
I took a moment to force myself not to gloat. Gloating was not dignified. “Charlotte, I have to ask you about the call from Jake Tapper. Do you remember anything else he might have said?”
“Antoine took the call. I was lying down.”
“I know. What did Antoine tell you the man said?”
“That he’d heard about Scooter’s overdose and he wanted to talk to me about it. Why?”
I glanced at the door. “He’s dead. Someone has murdered him.”
Charlotte’s hands flew to her mouth.
“I think it might be linked to the robbery somehow.”
“Really?”
“I’m not positive. But there are a lot of strange things going on right now in a usually very calm place.”
She nodded, her hands still cupped around her mouth.
I stood up. “All right, I don’t have time to sit here and answer a bunch of questions.” I eyeballed the infirmary’s window. If I had a small grenade, I’d be able to pop it right open, no problem at all. I did a few stretches. Preparedness is next to Godliness, Mother always used to say. Charlotte was looking at me like I had just sprouted horns. “I’m just limbering up a little. I’m going to go out the—”
“Out the what, Mrs. Abercrombie?”
I swivelled. Chief Pickle was standing in the doorway again, glowering.
“Sorry?” I said as innocently as I could muster. “I was just limbering up a bit. At my age,” I looked down like I was embarrassed, “You can never be too careful. Don’t you agree?”
“I, uh, yes. But where were you—”
“I was just on my way to see you,” I said smoothly. “Violet, can you please bring Charlotte to Luna’s Café? I’ll meet you there.”
She woke up abruptly and waved her drink at me as I left. She was going to have a terrible hangover tomorrow, the poor thing.
I turned and followed the Pickle.
Twenty-Five—Irma
Chief Pickle settled me in interrogation room number two, the nice one they used when the children of Club members absconded with a golf cart or set a little fire in somebody’s pool house. Comfortable seats, air conditioning, good lighting. I once spent three days during monsoon season in an interrogation room just east of Kabul that was missing part of the roof, so this was definitely a step up. It’s the little things in life, really.
One of the junior officers had supplied me with a pitcher of ice water and a tall glass. I’d emptied one and was on my second. Good hydration is always so important. “Whew,” I said, fanning myself with a brochure about public nudity I’d picked up from one of the shelves, “it’s a scorcher out there, isn’t it?”
Chief Pickle gave me a limp smile. “Mrs. Abercrombie, I—”
“Oh, please, call me Irma.”
“Mrs.—Irma.” She looked flustered, which was nice. I had no intention of letting her get the upper hand on me. I needed to get back to Charlotte in a timely manner. Whoever was after her was really stepping up their game.
“Yes, dear?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’d like to speak to you about this recent spate of crimes.”
“Of course. It’s quite disturbing, isn’t it?” I nodded like the concerned tax-paying citizen I was. “Alarming, really.”
“Anything you’d like to tell me about it?”
I turned my chair so I was facing her, just in case this was going to take a while. I was no fan of sitting as a general statement, but when one was being interrogated by police or military personnel and especially terrorists, it was really best to be as comfortable as possible.
“Well, I’m very frightened by all this gun violence, to be sure.” I batted my eyelashes and put my hand on my heart, and hunched over a bit. I was going for old and feeble.
“That’s your theory?”
“I don’t have a theory. I was just trying to leave with my dear friend. My dear e
ighty-six-year-old friend. Just two senior citizens trying to—”
She sat back in her chair and huffed out a breath. “Things would be so much easier if you would stop getting in the middle of these things. This is a police matter, Mrs. Abercrombie, and—”
“Irma, please,” I said expansively.
“I prefer Mrs. Abercrombie.” She adjusted her tie with a jerk. Of course, I knew that police officers’ ties were clip-ons, so that particular move felt like it was more for dramatic effect. It was nice she was trying, though.
“Alrighty.”
“And it’s important for you to understand that this is a police matter. We are trained and armed to protect and serve our community. Is there a reason that you don’t want us to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Mrs. Abercrombie, you’re a smart woman—”
“Thank you, dear.”
“—and I know about your relationship with Chief Klein and—”
“Lovely chap.” I smiled.
“Mrs. Abercrombie, are you listening to me?” She took a tortured inhale. “I know you think I don’t know about your background, but I do. I really do.”
Cold knifed through me. I put both my hands on the table carefully and leaned forward just a bit. I met her eyes with mine. “Do you?” It was a darker tone of voice than the one I usually used with her, but time was of the essence. I’d given my statement—I’d seen nothing, which was regrettably actually the truth. I needed to get back to Charlotte.
“I hear you were quite something in your younger days,” she said, with an undertone of satisfaction.
“Still am.” But I stewed on that comment for longer than I should have. “And what do you think you know about my background?” I said softly. She might have heard some rumour or innuendo, but she didn’t know anything about me, not really. She couldn’t. I’d made it my life’s work to be unknowable. And all my files were top-secret, classified, and so redacted the only thing they might reveal were words like: but and the and dingleberries.
“My uncle is in MI6, so he knows all about—”
“Stop!”
She sat back, startled.
“Whatever you think you know—” I put up a hand when she started to protest, “—You don’t. And if you say one more word, it puts your uncle in danger. Not to mention the rest of your family.”
She made an irritated noise that might have been a concession.
I took a deep breath and tried to centre myself. “I’m assuming you’ve canvassed the street and buildings outside the clinic. Did you find anything?”
She shook her head, which didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t, it simply meant she wasn’t going to tell me.
“Have you traced the call?”
“You know I can’t comment on an active investigation.”
“Richard Van Oot is a passable marksman. And he has an office right across the street from the clinic. He knew Charlotte was there.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Mrs. Abercrombie, but so do a lot of other people. And the fire escape for Richard’s building is accessible from street level.”
“Huh.” She had a point there. “Have you made any progress finding the identity of the…uh…deceased man in the van?”
“Sure you don’t know anything about him?”
I shook my head.
“Einar Jonsson. Icelandic citizen. He’d been living in Canada for a few years.” She cleared her throat and met my eyes. “Ring any bells?”
I shook my head, then spent a minute wondering how to casually shoehorn Jake Tapper’s death into the conversation. And then I wondered how Boris had managed to wiggle out of her grasp yesterday. Police tended to be suspicious of those of us who just happened to find dead bodies in our spare time, especially ones who worked for less-than-respectable companies. Then I thought about the favour he’d asked me. A favour that filled me with a vague sense of dread. “Any criminal record?”
She shook her head. “Squeaky clean.”
“Employment status?”
“Out of work.”
“Bugger.”
Mavis cleared her throat before looking at the ceiling for so long, I looked up, too. “Mrs. Abercrombie, you and I are on the same side.” She said it in such a reasonable way, I felt a sudden urge to help her. “But,” she added, “I simply can’t have elderly civilians like you running around interfering with an active police investigation.”
“A little bird told me that there was a dead body found in the woods near Frenchman’s Bay,” I said, trying not to show I was irritated with her ageist comments. “Any comment, Chief Pickle?”
Her eyes widened. “Who told you that?”
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen any mention of it in the island paper. Or any paper, really.”
She gritted her teeth. “We’re keeping a lid on that until after the fundraiser. We’ve asked Mrs. Van Oot to let us bring bomb-sniffing dogs onto the property tomorrow. I’m hoping you won’t try to block—”
“I welcome it. Thank you, Mavis. She’s also been getting some emailed threats as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Abercrombie. I’ll follow up on that asap.”
“What kind of bullet was used on young Mr. Tapper?”
“We can’t comment on that as yet. The ballistics tests aren’t fully complete.” She coughed into her fist.
I wasn’t surprised. Police always had so much paperwork, so many rules, and everything took so looooooooong. Doing things off the books was always faster, more efficient, and just generally more successful. “What progress have you made with regards to Julian’s situation?” I asked.
Her eyes turned darker. “Our investigation is ongoing. But Julian hasn’t been arrested or charged with anything at this time.”
“People will talk. That’s not nothing, especially in a small town.”
She shrugged her agreement, and I thought about telling her about the IV stand hack. But I was pretty sure she’d say it didn’t absolve Julian, and she was right. It was conceivable that he’d set it up to overdose his patients from a distance, like some gloomy Dr. Death. I needed more proof or a confession from the guilty party to clear his name. Preferably both.
“Tell me, what’s your connection to Boris Andropov?” the chief asked.
“What?”
Her lips thinned. “I’m quite certain you heard me.”
I held my hands out and raised my shoulders. “When you get to be my age, who can remember every single person one has met in one’s long life?” A smile.
“He arrived in town last week, three days before the robbery. He works for an international conglomerate that’s been accused of a number of nasty dealings. Ring any bells?”
I tilted my head to make it look like I was thinking. “I don’t believe so.”
“You were seen speaking to him at the Club a few days ago.”
“I’m sure I was just being neighbourly.”
“How kind of you.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“He’s suspected of jewel heists in three countries.”
“How interesting. Have you spoken to him as yet?”
“We’ve had some very recent discussions.” Her expression hinted that Boris had not enjoyed their encounter.
“Is he under arrest?”
“You know I can’t comment on that.” Her tone certainly implied he was locked up and doing hard time, though. Bugger.
“Perhaps I do know Boris somewhat,” I conceded. “Is he still here? I’d like to speak to him.”
She tapped her fingers on the table much like I did when I was thinking. “Maybe,” she finally said.
“Well, thank you so much for your time, but I do have to be going,” I said, standing.
“I have a few more questions.”
I put my hand on the back of the chair. “Unfortunately, I have another engagement. Feel free to contact my attorney if you want to arrange another chat. Unless you let me speak to Boris, that is.”
The Pickle nodded, seeming to realize I’d bested her. She shouldn’t feel bad though, the poor thing; I’d taken down pretty much everyone who’d gone up against me. But just as I reached the door, she said, “Ir-Irma?”
I stopped.
“If there was a danger to the town, a threat you knew about, would you tell me?”
I scrunched my mouth up. “If we were on the same side?”
“We are on the same side.”
“We are not. May I speak to Boris, please?” If they had arrested him, I needed to get him the name of a good lawyer. For old time’s sake. Plus, he’d been nice enough to call the Tapper death in instead of leaving me holding the bag.
She looked down at the table in front of her. There were no folders, no papers on it, just fingers. Then she chewed on her lip for a moment. Was that her tell? “I’d like to know what you’re going to do next.”
“While we’re talking about things we’d like, I’d like to know what calibre gun was used to shoot young Mr. Tapper. And what was barring the back exit at the clinic.” I would have rather gone over myself and checked, but I was sure they’d either blocked it off from view or removed the obstruction by now.
She sat back in her chair and settled her eyes on me. “The back door of the clinic had a small planter wedged against the door, as well as a metal pole bracing it closed.”
“Would you have to be strong to move the planter?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. It was pretty...creatively...put together.”
“Could it have been done in a hurry?”
“I believe so.”
“And that exit is blocked from view by the street by the bushes, so nobody would have seen anything.”
“I believe that’s the case.”
“Aha.” I exhaled. “And what was Mr. Tapper shot with?”
“You first. What are you going to do next?”
I didn’t like her calling the shots, and the back of my neck tensed up. But I couldn’t see any way around telling her what she wanted to know. “I made a call before Dr. Harris stitched me up. And I have some lovely young—and quite large—friends who are on their way here. I’m going to stay at Charlotte’s estate until this is all sorted out. I’ll make sure she’s safe. If you can do your part and find these young rascals, that would be lovely.”