by J. S. Marlo
The results didn’t come as a shock to Blythe. As far as he knew, it’d been one possibility the police entertained all along, but it still didn’t mean the same person pulled the trigger.
Jackson added two more photos to the table, each showing a bullet and a casing. They were labeled CH-Nov 9 and RK-July13. “We have no record in any database of the gun, the bullets, or the casings. Had it fallen into the hands of gang members, it would have left a trace of evidence. We now have reason to believe the two cases are closely related, and that the same individual fired both shots.”
“But Roswell is dead.” Trying to make sense of the implication, Blythe rubbed his temple. “Are you saying he didn’t shoot Claire?”
“On the morning of November ninth, your wife entered Roswell’s residence and took his stepson into protective custody. Roswell uttered death threats that were heard by the two policemen escorting her. That same evening, she was shot in the parking lot of Children’s Services where she worked. Roswell had no alibi. He had a lengthy police record. And he abused the boy.” The detective didn’t need to remind him of the evidence he had against the stepfather. Blythe remembered too well. “Even without the gun, Roswell made a strong suspect. When he died in a drug raid, it seemed like a fitting ending.”
“If not Roswell, then who?” The leather of the couch squeaked as he moved closer to Riley, snaking an arm around her shoulders. “Who would want to hurt Claire and Riley?”
“I’m seeing a love triangle, Mr. Huxley, with you at the top.”
“A triangle? This is absurd. There was never any triangle.” Riled by the false accusations, he shouted. Riley placed a hand on his forearm, but it didn’t calm him down. The detective had no right to drag Riley’s reputation through the mud. “When Claire was shot, I didn’t know Riley. She didn’t start working at the studio until the beginning of May. And when she was shot, we weren’t involved.”
Jackson’s brows shot right up to his hairline. “You expect me to believe that?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hoping to appease Blythe and dissipate the tension mounting in the room, Riley leaned her head against his shoulder and stroked his forearm. She didn’t know the rules of this game being played, and she resented the allegations made by Jackson, but had she walked in his shoes, she might have made the same ones.
“Blythe and I spent a lot of time together, and there were unsubstantiated rumors floating around the studio, but we didn’t have an affair.”
“Appearances can be deceptive, Mrs. Kendrick. If you could bear with me, I’m going to make a timeline.” After adopting a more conciliatory tone, Jackson moved the photo labeled CH-Nov 9 to one end of the rectangular coffee table. “On November ninth, Claire Huxley was shot in the parking lot of her office. Mr. Huxley, did you know your wife was working late that evening?”
“Yes.” Blythe leaned closer to her. “She called me at the studio to let me know.”
“How long had you been home when my men stopped by your house to tell you your wife had been shot?”
“A couple hours I guess.”
“Can someone verify your whereabouts at the time of your wife’s shooting?”
An oppressive silence fell upon the room as the accusation sank in, and a wave of exhaustion assailed her.
“What?” Blythe’s outrage was apparent as he bolted to his feet. “You can’t possibly think I murdered my wife.”
“Sit, Mr. Huxley. I’m simply suggesting you could have done it.”
“And I should thank you for that distinction?” Blythe held Jackson’s gaze, but the detective didn’t flinch.
If Jackson’s tactic was to push Blythe’s buttons, he’d obviously succeeded. Riley reached forward and tugged on Blythe’s sleeve. The grueling day had taken its toll, and all she wanted was to crawl back into bed and close her eyes, not fight with him or the detective. “Please, sit.” It took a few tugs on her part before he complied with her request.
“Any reason you’d want your wife dead? Insurance money? Another woman? Gambling—”
“This is ludicrous. Claire and I had a good marriage. I had no reason to kill her.”
The accusations were ridiculous. Blythe was a good man, and he loved his wife, otherwise Riley wouldn’t have fallen in love with him.
“Very well. We’ll move to July fifth. Can you tell me what you purchased with your VISA on that day?”
“I use my credit card every day. You’ll need to be more precise.”
“If you insist.” The detective added the photocopy of a receipt dated July fifth to the table. “Emerald dress from Exquisite Creations and Designs. Does that ring a bell?”
“This is uncalled for, Jackson.”
Confused by Blythe’s sharp response and the impassive mask obscuring his expression, Riley pulled away from him and took the copy of the receipt. “This is my dress, Detective, but there has to be a mistake. It should be my name at the top, not Blythe’s. I charged it to my credit card…” The amount was wrong. “I didn’t pay two—” As understanding dawned on her, she stared at him. “You spent over two hundred dollars on me? What on earth were you thinking?” She hadn’t been able to afford the dress, and yet, he’d tricked her into buying it. “If Ollie had found out, he—he’d—” Tears of frustration pooled in her eyes. Her husband hadn’t felt threatened by her friendship with Blythe, but had he known Blythe was showering her with an expensive gift, he might have become suspicious, and it would have put a strain on her marriage. “I was married, Blythe, or had you forgotten?”
“No, I hadn’t.” His face softened into quiet resignation. “But the dress was beautiful, and when you saw your reflection in the mirror, your eyes lit up the same shade of green. No man could have resisted the vision. If Oliver had seen you, he would have bought it for you.” He reached out, and she didn’t fight him when he pulled her into a gentle embrace. “No one needed to know who paid for it. This was my gift to you and Oliver. I never dreamed I’d be the recipient of it.”
As misguided as the purchase had been, he’d meant well, and she couldn’t fault him for that. “That was nice. Inappropriate, but nice.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt, but could we please rewind to the part where you say you never dreamed of being the recipient of it? Didn’t you attend the gala together?”
A low growl welled from Blythe’s throat. “Riley’s husband had to deal with an emergency at work, and he cancelled his flight at the last minute. When I heard Riley was alone, I changed my plans.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.” The sarcasm in Jackson’s voice wasn’t lost on Riley. “Who did you ditch in favor of Mrs. Kendrick?”
“My sister, Jackson. Feel free to ask her. She’ll tell you she was more than happy to stay home with her injured son.”
“I see.” The detective didn’t sound convinced, but Riley couldn’t care less. If he bothered to check, he’d find they hadn’t lied. “Now, if you look closely at the copy of the receipt, you’ll see it was torn in half. I pieced it back together.”
Now that Jackson mentioned it, Riley noticed a narrow gap between the two halves.
Blythe took the photocopy from her hand and threw it on the table. “Is it relevant, Jackson, or are you just having fun trying to sabotage my relationship with Riley?”
“Trust me, Mr. Huxley, this is relevant.” The detective returned the copy of the receipt to the timeline. “May I ask where you kept the receipt? Home? Work? Car?”
The scar on Blythe’s cheek twitched. “In my desk at the studio, where I assume you found it.”
“The top portion of the receipt was indeed stuck in a crack in the drawer of your desk. Now would you venture a guess at what I also found in there?”
“No, but I’d like to know who gave you permission to search my desk.”
“Don’t worry. I showed a proper search warrant.”
In order to obtain a warrant, Jackson would have needed to show probable cause. Why he considered B
lythe a suspect stumped Riley.
“I found two pictures dated July seventh, the night of the gala.” The detective placed a copy of each picture on the table. “Mr. Huxley, please tell me what I’m seeing.”
***
Blythe stared in shock at the two pictures.
The detective had seen what Blythe had shown. A man in love with an amazing woman, except he hadn’t realized he loved her until much later. No wonder rumors about them flew left, right, and center. He’d let his guard down and worn his feelings on his sleeve.
During the evening, wine and champagne had flowed like a waterfall, and he’d indulged in a few drinks while Riley sipped on a lone glass of white wine. In the first picture, he stood by her side near the buffet table. One of the executives had finished making a speech, and they had raised their crystal glasses. An angelic smile graced her lips. His left hand had disappeared behind her back, and although he didn’t recall committing any improprieties, his attention should have been directed toward the recipient of the toast, not on the shimmering emerald dress hugging her lovely curves.
After dinner, he’d picked a yellow rose from one of the three huge bouquets decorating the buffet table and offered it to Riley as a token of friendship. In the second picture, they sat across from each other at one of the small tables set up on the terrace. Eyes half closed, Riley held the rose to her nose while he caressed her with his gaze.
“I’m waiting for an explanation, Mr. Huxley.”
“You’re seeing a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress. You may not believe me, but I’ve never seen those pictures until tonight. I don’t lock my drawer. Anyone could have slipped them inside.”
He glanced at Riley to gauge her reaction. A dark shade of pink infused her skin, a lovely contrast against the snowy-white bathrobe.
“Those are candid shots taken during the gala, Detective.” Her voice quivered. “Nothing more. At the end of the evening, Blythe drove me back to my hotel, but he didn’t go up to my room if that’s what you’re implying.”
Seducing Riley had never been part of his agenda. And had she not lost Oliver, he wouldn’t have admitted his feelings to her—or to himself.
“I see.” Without showing any insight into his real thoughts, Jackson added the picture of the bullet and casing labeled RK-July 13 to the timeline. “On July thirteenth, Mrs. Kendrick went running without you, but you followed her in the park. Why?”
Annoyed by the double meaning, Blythe glared at Jackson. “I was hoping to catch up with her. I hope you’re not suggesting I tried to kill her.”
“One could argue you had motive and opportunity.”
“Motive?” While Jackson made absurd accusations, the man responsible for the shootings was enjoying a restful slumber. Something’s wrong with this picture. “This is ridiculous. I had no reason to harm Riley. I love her.”
“My point exactly, Mr. Huxley. You buy her a dress. You go to the gala with her. You drive her back to her hotel. And she leaves you at the door of the elevator. That has to be frustrating. So, you decide if you can’t have her, her husband can’t have her either.”
For a cop, Jackson had one hell of an imagination. “You can’t possibly be serious. This is a waste of my night.”
“Actually…” Riley’s nose twitched as she looked at him with those big green eyes. “If it wasn’t for the fact I’d planned to attend with Ollie, it wouldn’t be a bad scenario.”
The detective’s chest puffed up at the compliment. “July twentieth. Mrs. Kendrick’s husband died.” When a copy of a newspaper article titled Deadly Fire touched the table, Riley flinched. “You’re free to pursue her.”
As much as he would have liked to argue Jackson’s assumption, Blythe couldn’t deny the fact that Oliver’s death had given him a second chance at happiness. “Last time I checked the criminal code, dating a widowed woman wasn’t against the law.”
“Maybe not, but now that Mrs. Kendrick is free, you also want to be free. On August ninth, you asked Dr. Salinski to disconnect your wife, and you contacted a realtor to sell your house.” A copy of the letter he’d handed Salinski and a listing of his house appeared next on the table.
Both events had occurred, but not for the reason implied by Jackson. “I didn’t know Riley had lost her husband. I didn’t learn about his death until a week later.”
“But the fire made the news. If you closely look at the newspaper article, you’ll see it comes from the Winnipeg Sun, and that Oliver Durham’s name is mentioned. Granted, it’s a small paragraph on page eleven, but it could reasonably be argued that you found out.” A deadpan expression was set on Jackson’s face, and it frustrated Blythe that he couldn’t glimpse the detective’s inner thoughts. “Which brings me to August sixteenth.” A copy of his boarding pass landed in the timeline. “You flew to Sparrowsnest to spend a few days with Mrs. Kendrick at her ranch, hoping to gain her affection.”
It appeared the detective had been tracking his every move, but he hadn’t read him his rights or officially accused him of any crime. The game he played baffled Blythe.
“Oliver had just died, Jackson. I’m not even going to dignify that allegation with an answer.”
“Fair enough. August twenty-third. After months of fighting with your in-laws over your wife’s medical treatment, a judge grants you permission to end her life support.” The verdict hit on the table. “August thirtieth. You disconnect your wife, but she keeps breathing.”
The arrangements for Claire’s funeral had been made, he’d been ready to let her go, but she’d kept breathing, and he’d cursed fate for not lifting the nightmare. “Claire beat the odds. Move on, Jackson.”
“Three weeks later. September twenty-fourth. Mrs. Kendrick flies in late in the evening, but there’s no record of her staying at a hotel.” Another airline ticket joined the row of false accusations.
Blythe glanced at Riley.
A laser glare shot from her green eyes, the beam directed at Jackson. “I was at his apartment, sleeping on his couch, until we flew back to Sparrowsnest early that morning. You’re not going to show me a picture of my burned ranch, are you?”
“No, but I’ll show you this. September twenty-fifth.” Another picture was added to the table. “This is you and Mr. Huxley at the airline counter. The picture was taken by a security camera located behind the employee.” His finger pointed at the computer on the counter. “See the time index on the screen? I guess you can’t see it very well, which is why I blew up the picture.” He presented them with a close-up picture of the computer screen. “You bought the tickets in person at 3:43 a.m. and the plane departed at 5:15 a.m.”
There was no way Blythe would have let Riley deal with the destruction of her ranch alone. “We flew out early, and we returned late tonight.”
“I know. I kept track of your credit card activity, and I had two officers posted at the airport. After you landed, they followed you. I’d planned on paying you a visit at your apartment, but when you lingered at Mrs. Kendrick’s hotel, I changed venues.”
“How considerate of you.” The demonstration appeared over, and Blythe was ready to go back to bed. “Was there a point you were trying to make with the timeline? Or did I miss it?”
“In low traffic, how far is the airport from your wife’s hospital? Thirty? Forty minutes?”
With all green lights and no traffic, he could cover the distance in twenty-five minutes. “About thirty minutes. Why?”
Jackson placed another sheet on the table. “This is a page from the hospital logbook in which you signed in and out every time you visited your wife outside of visiting hours. Would you please read the last entry aloud?”
Eager to end the charade, he leaned forward. “September twenty-fifth. Blythe Huxley. In at 3:30 a.m., out at…3:45 a.m.? This is wrong, Jackson. We never stopped at the hospital. We were on our way to the airport.”
Riley laced her arm with his and peeked over his shoulder. “It looks like your signature.”
“Two of o
ur best experts examined the signatures in the logbook, Mr. Huxley, and they couldn’t differentiate one signature from the other.”
The fake signature unsettled him. Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to impersonate him and make it look like he was at the hospital the night Claire died. His in-laws hadn’t provided him with a time of death, only an approximation, and it hadn’t occurred to him to inquire further. “Did something happen at the hospital during those fifteen minutes?”
“At 3:15 a.m., a nurse checked on your wife after changing her nightgown and bedding. At 3:47 a.m., the same nurse heard someone leave your wife’s room. She looked at the logbook and saw your name, so she assumed it was you. When she entered your wife’s room, she found her with a pillow over her head.”
“A pillow? You mean—” His breath caught in his throat as a gasp escaped Riley’s mouth. Claire’s parents told him she’d stopped breathing. He assumed that nature had taken its course, not that-not that someone had helped it along. “My in-laws, they-they didn’t mention any pillow.”
“Your in-laws weren’t made aware of the details, Mr. Huxley. They don’t know that between three fifteen and 3:45 a.m., someone suffocated their daughter.” The detective picked up the emerald gown receipt and held it. “Remember I told you I found the top part of that receipt stuck in your drawer? Well, the bottom part of the receipt was found in the folds of your wife’s nightgown after she was killed.” He then pointed at the picture taken at the airline counter. “If you had not flown to Mrs. Kendrick’s ranch at the same time your wife was dying, I’d be arresting you on the suspicion of murder.”