Just Evil

by Vickie McKeehan

  “No,” St. John grunted. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Griffin, but we have bad news. It’s about your mother. Alana Stevens has been murdered.”

  Once again, Kit heard the words but couldn’t seem to get them to fully register in her brain. A fogbank moved in. Alana murdered? That was impossible, she couldn’t be dead. They were mistaken. Alana was too…what…too…mean, to be…dead.

  Baylee saw Kit go pale and stepped between the two men. Taking her arm, she forced Kit into the nearest chair. When Kit just sat there staring into space, Baylee’s curiosity kicked in and she asked the two men, “How? When?”

  Disappointed that the questions hadn’t come from the daughter, St. John took out his notebook, more out of habit than necessity, and clarified, “The how, stabbed. The when, occurred sometime between Saturday night and early Sunday morning. Where were you then, Ms. Griffin?”

  For the first time she looked directly at Holloway before turning her gaze to see St. John’s piercing, accusing dark eyes. It finally sunk in. “What? What? You want to know where…” Noting they were serious, she blinked again before stammering, “I…I was…at home Saturday night and all day Sunday. I…I baked all day Sunday.”

  “Anyone with you? Can anyone verify that?”

  “I…I…don’t know…I…I’m not sure.”

  Baylee saw the doubt form in their eyes as they stared at Kit, stared at her as if they were waiting for her to confess her worst sins. Oh lord, thought Baylee, this is bad, really bad. Her first thought listening to the two men question Kit in more detail was that her friend desperately needed a lawyer and preferably not one named Boyd.

  With each question, St. John got more agitated as the interrogation grew more intense. Frustration ruled as he desperately tried to get information out of the woman who refused to give them anything. After a half hour went by, Holloway suggested that the brunette leave them alone. But Baylee simply looked him in the eye, shook her head, and stubbornly told him, “I’m not going anywhere.” Baylee took up guard behind Kit’s chair, with one hand on her shoulder for support, refusing to budge.

  St. John simply ignored the brunette. “We’ve spoken to Jessica Boyd. She seems to think you had more reason to harm your mother than anyone else. Why is that?”

  Kit looked up when the bell jingled over the door to see Jake walk in. At her wit’s end, she’d never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  Without waiting for Kit to respond, Baylee took exception to the question. “Now wait a minute. I see where you’re going with this. Kit wouldn’t hurt a fly. But Alana, now there was a woman who made Joan Crawford look like Mother of the Year.”

  Jake walked up just in time to hear Baylee’s revelation and understood the implications right along with the two detectives. Jake wasted no time. “That’s it. Interview’s over. Kit’s not answering any more questions without her lawyer present.”

  St. John wheeled around to confront the man who’d interrupted their questioning just as things were getting interesting and came face to face with Jake Boston, a face from the past, a face he knew only too well. “Good to know you’re back in town, Boston. Now I won’t have to fly half a world away to arrest your sorry ass.” St. John turned to his partner and reflected, “You remember the Claire Boston murder, don’t you, Dan? That brutal murder over on Neptune where the woman was beaten to death in broad daylight. Do we have any other persons of interest in the Claire Boston homicide?”

  Dan shook his head. “Nope, never did. Mr. Boston, here is it.”

  “Maybe you’d like to talk about your wife’s murder, or do you need your lawyer present for that, too?”

  “We can go through it again for the hundredth time. When Claire died I was either thirty-eight thousand feet in the air or at work. But that’s a fact you chose to ignore.” He took a step closer to St. John. In a low, menacing voice, Jake vowed, “You won’t do to her what you did to me, so back off. Interview’s over. If you want to grill Kit any more today, call Reese Brennan, make an appointment. She’ll be there.”

  St. John’s face grew red before turning back to Kit to tick off his points, one by one. “You have no alibi. No one can vouch that you were home Saturday night or Sunday morning during the time in question, which I might point out was Mother’s Day. We have a problem here, Ms. Griffin. Jessica Boyd says your mother was about to change her will, leaving you nothing. And then she’s conveniently murdered.”

  When Jake started to interrupt, Holloway held up a hand in warning. “Don’t go anywhere Ms. Griffin. This isn’t over. We’ll be in touch.” And with that both detectives turned to leave.

  Once they were out the door, out of earshot, Jake turned to Baylee, almost not recognizing the woman with brown hair. “I know you were trying to help, but you couldn’t have said anything that hurt Kit more. You handed them a motive.”

  “But I didn’t mean…I’d never…”

  Nerves frayed after more than an hour of intense questions, Kit snapped back, “Don’t jump down Baylee’s throat. They would have found out eventually, if they didn’t know already.” But if they’d known, why hadn’t they mentioned it?

  Jake’s voice softened when he asked, “I had no idea Alana hurt you. Why’d you never say anything?” And why hadn’t Gloria, whom he considered an old friend, never mentioned it?

  “Talk about it, you mean?” She shuddered at that. “It was a long time ago.”

  Jake reached out for her hand. “Come on, I’ll take you home.” When Kit went to get her purse, Jake turned to Baylee. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump…”

  “No, you’re right; I should’ve thought before I opened my mouth. I wasn’t thinking. But Jake, they were trying to say that Kit…”

  Jake squeezed her hand. “You were trying to help, trying to defend her. That’s what happens when the interview gets out of hand, gets heated. They pound and pound. They count on people saying things they don’t intend to say. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get her home.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Jake pulled into the driveway of a small, tri-level Spanish style bungalow mere yards from the beach. The stucco house belonged to Gloria, but had been Kit’s home for the past four years where, like the Book & Bean, she’d put her own personality into the place.

  She’d painted the outside a warm gold, the trim a cool red. With no yard to speak of, she’d taken advantage of the tiny courtyard at ground level and set out Adirondack chairs to watch the waves. She’d lined the red-tiled steps leading up to the front door on the second level with colorful pots containing an assortment of blooming flowers and fragrant herbs. She’d fixed the little house up and made it a home, the first real home she’d ever had. After the last couple of hours, she couldn’t think of a single place she’d rather be right now.

  And then there was the man sitting next to her. He’d rushed to her defense. It had been wonderful to watch. She did her best to tamp down the feelings he always managed to bring out.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

  She gave him a weak smile, and opened the car door. “I’m fine. Want to come in?”

  “Sure.”

  The minute Kit opened the front door Pepper jumped two feet off the floor to greet her with a sloppy, wet tongue.

  Jake followed her and the dog into a small but tastefully decorated rectangular living space with walls painted buttercup yellow and floors of polished hardwood. The space felt cozy, homey. Pepper ambled off to his bed in front of a rounded kiva fireplace in the corner. To complete the room, two red loveseats sat facing each other separated by a blanket box that doubled as the coffee table.

  Jake looked around. She’d taken advantage of every square inch of space by turning the area underneath the staircase going up to the third floor into her office. Here a mahogany desk held an assortment of books, a laptop computer, and a printer.

  It was then Jake noticed the framed artwork on the walls. Her work, he realized, staring at the signature and a collection of beach scenes
done in everything from acrylics to watercolors to charcoal. He’d known she could draw and paint. When she’d been younger she’d always taken the time to create her own funny little greeting cards to hand out. But the paintings on the walls showed real talent.

  An old upright piano in the far corner of the room caught his eye. He went over and started thumbing through several sheets of music messily propped up and remembered one musical recital in particular from the past. Alana had shown up and embarrassed Kit with a slew of insults in front of everyone. She’d been drunk..

  Jake racked his brain. A lot of Kit’s past clicked into place. Had Alana ever had a good word for her daughter? Skimming through the stack of music, he finally found what he was looking for. “I always liked this.”

  Kit walked over to the piano. “Let me guess.” Without even glancing at the sheet music he held in his hand, she sat down and began playing Cliffs of Doneen. She smiled broadly, and added, “You and my father.”

  But after a brief rendition she abruptly stopped and headed for the kitchen. “I need coffee. What about you? If St. John has his way, my arrest could be imminent. Perhaps I should plan on getting blitzed tonight.”

  Following her, he laughed. “Not a good idea. You want to talk about it?”

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “No.”

  Just then the phone rang. One glance at caller ID told her the call was from someone at BBG&G. “Great. Just what I need. Jessica already told the police I did it. She isn’t my favorite person to talk to right now.” She let the answer machine take the call.

  Seconds later, Connor Boyd’s authoritative voice held court in the small house as his message filled the air. “Kit, we need to talk. I’m handling Alana’s probate. It seems you’re a very wealthy woman. You’ve inherited Alana’s entire estate. Call me. I’ve got some papers you’ll need to sign so we can move this forward.”

  Suddenly shaking, she lost control. “God, I can’t handle this right now. They’ve made a mistake. Alana would not leave me a dime, let alone her entire estate.”

  And one more reason they’ll think she killed her mother, Jake thought sourly, as he wrapped his arms around her while she cried her eyes out.

  From his vantage point on the beach, he considered Kit Griffin.

  From the beginning, the plan had been for her to get the blame, at least initially. So far, everything was going according to plan, but for some reason, for the first time in years, maybe for the first time since he’d been doing this job, he didn’t like the taste it left in his mouth.

  What would they think when the others fell? Would they figure it out then, let the daughter off the hook? How long would it take the police to take off their blinders, maybe start thinking outside the box? What if that didn’t happen?

  He’d underestimated Jessica Boyd. And that he would correct.

  CHAPTER 5

  To get her mind off St. John, Jake took Kit to Pirelli’s down at the waterfront for dinner. In spite of an overcast evening, they dined outside in the open air on steak and lobster and were on their third bottle of wine when Jake insisted, “How about we take a walk on the beach, walk off this meal, head down to the marina. I’ll show you my boat.”

  “You really love that boat, don’t you?”

  “It isn’t so much the boat. I like being out on the water.” How could he explain that, after being the person of interest in a murder investigation for the better part of a year, he’d needed to make some life altering changes?

  Waking up one day and finding his perfect life wasn’t so perfect after all but rather an illusion had sent him into a tailspin. The humiliation of it all had him searching for an outlet where he could lock himself away from the pressures of his business and forget how he’d fucked up his life.

  Sailing had been it for him.

  But he revealed none of that as they left the restaurant and walked outside into a heavy lingering marine layer. They headed south, toward the marina. With only streaky bits of lowering sun, the breeze right off the water made the gray May evening feel chilly. He took one look at the slinky, form-fitting black dress Kit wore and asked, “Are you cold?”

  She shook her head. “I enjoy being outside. When I was a kid I always hated being cooped up inside. I’m like my father that way. He was an outdoor kind of guy.”

  They’d just reached the outer fringes of the downtown shops when Kit abruptly stopped and asked in a wobbly voice laced with emotion, “Do you think you could find out for certain what happened to him? My father, I mean. Alana told me he died when I was fourteen on location in Spain filming a western. I always wondered if she told me the truth.”

  She saw the questions form on his face. “He and Alana hated each other. They divorced when I was a baby. There were long periods of time when I didn’t see him.”

  Jake looked out over the water, furrowed his brow. “I could do a search online, start with the union, the Screen Actors Guild.” When he saw her puzzled look, he explained, “He had to belong to the union in order to work. As an actor, they’d keep track of his residuals. Might be a good place to find out who’s getting what. I take it that’s not you.”

  Again, she shook her head.

  The implication of it all hit him at once. He suddenly resented being put in the position of pointing out to Kit the sad possibilities about this whole thing. “He could have arranged for his residuals to be part of his estate through his will and the residuals are going to the person named in the will. Isn’t it possible he might have remarried or for that matter had other children? Do you have stepsisters or stepbrothers? I’ve never heard you mention any.”

  Looking at the puffy eyes from where she’d cried earlier, Jake realized talking about this couldn’t be easy. Taking in those sad green eyes, he wanted to take away the hurt. “This must be difficult for you, but I don’t know any other way to do this except to strip away the layers one at a time.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. “I don’t care about his residuals. I got used to the fact that I wasn’t exactly his primary interest a long time ago. He never mentioned that he remarried or had other kids, but then he was usually a half a world away. It’s entirely possible he had other children. Even though, to tell you the truth, I hadn’t considered that possibility until right now. Alana might have been right. I’m not exactly the brightest bulb on the tree.”

  They stopped momentarily, long enough for him to knuckle the tear off her cheek. “Get his social security number. I’ll check a little deeper than just surface stuff, find out more details, maybe even contact the authorities in Spain for any information they might have about his death. If you know the name of the film he was working on when he died, maybe we could find out more, find out who some of the actors were, get in touch with them. They might remember something.”

  Kit looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He was willing to take the time from his busy schedule to find something out about her father. Maybe this man was different from the self-absorbed guy she’d known for so many years. As they started walking again, she suddenly thought of something. “Why on earth is your boat docked here instead of Marina del Rey?”

  He flashed a smile at her and lied through his teeth. “There was some problem with the boat permit at the time. I thought it would be better to move the Sea Warrior rather than fight with the marina. You know I stopped by the bookstore a couple of weeks ago when I got back. You’d already closed up for the day.”

  “Why didn’t you just call me at home while you were here? We could have gotten together for dinner.”

  He raised a brow. “After the chilly reception I got Saturday, I can just about picture how well that phone call out of the blue would have gone.”

  “Ouch. Direct hit. But it seems I had an epiphany this afternoon in the form of two police detectives. They didn’t exactly have my best interests at heart. It reminded me that in a spot like this, a person can’t have too many friends. And we’re two mature adults who both care a great deal abo
ut Gloria.” It was the wine putting her in such a generous mood.

  Deciding that friend was a huge step up, he said, “We’ve never had a problem being friends, Kit.”

  “You can’t say I haven’t tried to be more over the years.”

  “Yeah. The timing was always off.”

  “For you maybe. Not for me.”

  There it was. That reminder that he’d hurt her. He redirected his focus on getting her to open up since he had to admit he’d never been curious about her childhood. “Talk to me, honey.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “All of it.”

  She sighed. He’d just keep bugging her till she did. “Alana and my father were always at war with each other. Their life—my life— after the divorce was a war zone. They had no interest in getting along for the sake of a child, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more opposite in their approach to life in general or their attitude toward me.

  “I see all these horrific custody cases in the news and my heart goes out to the kids because I’ve been through it, in the trenches, pulled apart by two people who wanted conflicting things for me.” She shrugged her shoulders before going on, “I don’t know when their animosity started but it had to be before I came along.

  “Look, growing up with divorced parents was no big deal. Half the kids I went to school with were in the same boat. Being a product of divorce was never the issue. These two people were so volatile, sometimes it seemed as though I was no more than a pawn, something to be fought over, fought about, and then when one side won, I was quickly cast aside as an afterthought.

  “The year I turned five, he petitioned the court for full custody.” Sadness crept into her voice. “Obviously he gave up the fight. Later he told me it was because Alana had Jessica on her side and he knew he couldn’t win, but as I grew older I suspected there was some other reason.”

  “Like what?”

  She grew quiet, willed the tears away.

  As soon as they neared the edge of the water, Jake watched as she slipped off her shoes and walked along the sand in bare feet.