Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  “I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you. Crazy suspicions. Accusations.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. Even when damning evidence was falling out of my pocket, you were never unkind.” Natalie had fought all morning against the compulsion to keep checking her pockets and purse to make sure no other evidence had appeared. “Did Felicia say anything about Camille’s purse?”

  “About if she planted it on you? I don’t know. Turner didn’t give me that much detail. I don’t even know if they’re charging her with Camille’s murder. It’s going to take time to get a rational statement from her. What did Bartholomew say to you about the purse?”

  “He asked where the coat had been, who had had access to it, had I noticed any hints of a break-in at my home—which I haven’t. I must be high on their list of suspects, but when we’re face-to-face, they’re always polite . . . and hard to read.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Gideon trapped a dried leaf under the toe of his shoe and pulverized it. “I need to let my family know about Felicia. My dad’s brother and his wife, especially.”

  “Do they live locally?”

  “No. Dallas. It’ll have to be a phone call, and I’d better make it today. If they find out through other channels, Dad will return from the dead and murder me. Dad and Uncle Ron were close; they talked often.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s difficult to share bad news.”

  “Yeah, not my favorite thing to do. Have you talked to Camille’s family?”

  “Yes, to her mother.” The call had been heart-wrenching enough, even without having to break the news. “I’ll go see them as soon as they’re up for visitors.” Natalie beckoned to Gideon and started walking toward the five-story granite and glass office building. “Bob is big on punctuality. We’d better not be late.”

  “Or he’ll send his goons after us?” Gideon joked bleakly. “One broken bone for every etiquette violation?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why do you think he called us here?”

  “To ask us about Felicia,” Natalie said. “While we talk about her, he’ll assess both of us. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t want to mention her concerns about what effect this fiasco would have on her hopes of a Chapman-funded mental health clinic. Gideon was dealing with the personal pain of his father’s death and his stepmother’s suffering; he didn’t need to hear Natalie fretting about the clinic.

  When Chapman’s invitation had come early this morning, she’d dreaded facing him, but a prework chat with Kirk and Skyler had eased some of her apprehension. She hadn’t planned to confide in her colleagues this time, but she hadn’t been able to hold an I’m fine demeanor with them either, and when Kirk had badgered her, an overflow of tension had gushed through the spillways. She’d told them about Felicia, Gideon, Chapman, and the incriminating purse. To her relief, their response had been incredulity, sympathy, and, on Skyler’s part, stupid jokes. They obviously thought she was innocent and assured her Chapman would agree.

  Would they have still believed she was innocent if she’d told them about the money from Dante’s filing cabinet?

  The main doors to the building slid open, and Chapman loped toward them. His white hair flapped in the wind, and he was wearing a flannel shirt, cargo pants, and boots. He looked like a mini lumberjack.

  “Ah, meine schoene Sinn Zauberin.” He took Natalie’s hand and kissed it. Natalie had no idea what he’d called her; this was a new one.

  He extended his hand to Gideon. “Mr. Radcliffe, noble designer of roads and bridges. Thank you for bestowing your presence on me.”

  “No problem.” His expression befuddled, Gideon shook Chapman’s hand. Natalie had to stop herself from smiling. Even in stressful circumstances, it was entertaining watching someone meet Chapman for the first time.

  “Come inside.” Chapman led the way into the building, through the reception area, and down a hallway. He stopped in front of a door and pressed his thumb to a control panel. The lock clicked open. He waved Natalie and Gideon inside and closed the door.

  The room was so far from what Natalie had expected that she goggled at it. Instead of the modern elegance she’d seen in public areas of the building or in areas she’d visited with Camille, this room resembled a queen’s drawing room. Intricate gold-leafed plasterwork decorated the ceiling and walls; swags of lustrous brocade fabric framed the windows. Thousands of diamond-bright prisms dangled from chandeliers. Chapman tromped across the ornate floral rug toward a round table set for three, his outdoorsy clothes even more of a clash with the room than Natalie’s sweater, slacks, and fringed linen scarf.

  Chapman pulled out a chair for Natalie and waved Gideon to a seat. Given the atmosphere, Natalie would have expected cucumber sandwiches, crumpets, and scones, but instead, the platters in the middle of the table carried the fixings for hamburgers.

  “A classic American repast,” Chapman said as he sat. “Chosen in honor of my dear late wife, Sheryl, who would have publicly despised it, then crept into the kitchen at the full moon and feasted on the leftovers when no high-income friends were watching. Eat up, children; serve yourselves.”

  They followed Chapman’s example in filling their plates. “I’m sorry about your wife, Mr. Chapman,” Gideon said.

  “Ah, lad, I appreciate the sympathy, but let’s slice to the heart of the matter. I don’t hold you responsible for your dear stepmother’s prank gone wrong.” Chapman scooped baked beans onto his plate. “Detective Turner met with me last night and informed me of the unfortunate event behind Sheryl’s fate and your stepmother’s certainty that I’d executed a sadistic revenge. I presume that, like Detective Turner, you’d like to know if I ordered a hit on your father?”

  Gideon squirted mustard on his burger. “As long as telling me the truth doesn’t include killing me because now I’m a threat.”

  Chapman chuckled. “Mr. Radcliffe, I’m not a mob boss or a drug lord or a supervillain, though if I had to choose one of those careers, I’d take the third option in hopes of wearing outrageous costumes. I’m simply a businessman who’s made a lot of money, not a farthing of which have I ever spent on paying someone to harm someone else. Murder jibes with neither my style nor my conscience, and frankly, I haven’t an inkling how to hire a hit man. Do I post a job listing describing the qualities desired in an assassin? Is the position generally temporary or is a man in my position expected to have assassins on staff?”

  “Uhhh . . . I’d guess on staff,” Gideon said. “Unless you don’t want to pay benefits, so you use only part-timers.”

  “Camille Moretti was my full-time employee, but I adamantly did not order her to kill your father. I’m told he died from a fall. I’m sorry for your loss. Deeply sorry. My wife—my current wife, Mel—was a great fan of MaryLisa’s and spent so much money there that I felt your father should have placed a brick in his sidewalk with her name engraved on it. Onion rings?” He held out a basket to Gideon.

  “Thanks.” Gideon took it.

  “And I’m deeply sorry that instead of owning up to her ill-fated practical joke, your stepmother let guilt erode her mind until good judgment and even sanity teetered. Random misfortune is now viewed as punishment for her crime, and I am the fist of justice. Is that an accurate analysis, Dr. Marsh?”

  “I’m sorry that I never realized what she was hiding,” Natalie said instead of answering his question.

  “Ah, please, yes, join the game and claim a share of guilt before it’s gone. You bear no fault either. Sind Sie ein Gedankenleserin?”

  “I did finally sign up for an online German course,” Natalie said. “But I’m afraid I haven’t progressed past Hallo, meine name ist Natalie.”

  “I asked if you were a mind reader. Are you? You’re not. You couldn’t have known; your friend was determined to hide her guilt. Let me answer your questions before you ask them: I had no idea Felicia had played a joke on Sheryl that le
d to her death. I never knew why Sheryl panicked while daintily paddling across the pond, but I didn’t meditate over it much because she was prone to overreaction. Perhaps a large insect had buzzed past her face; perhaps she felt a tickle and thought a wasp was crawling down her neck. I tip my hat to Felicia; the stuffed cat was cruel but clever. I love cats myself, but Sheryl had what Dr. Marsh would call a phobia. I have two cats now: Artaxerxes and Beebee the Claw.”

  “She had no idea the prank would harm Sheryl,” Gideon said. “She wanted to embarrass her, not hurt her.”

  “I’m aware of that, and had she taken up a collection to fund her prank, she would have found a significant number of people slipping cash into her pocket. I’ll be candid: dear Sheryl had become a self-centered woman who reveled in making demands, spending money, and flaunting her elegance. More lemonade, Dr. Marsh?”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapman refilled Natalie’s glass. “I had become atrociously embarrassing to Sheryl, despite the fact that I had earned the gold that swept her to association with the rich and famous. But I wasn’t inclined to divorce her. I’ve always condemned the trading of older wives for younger women who lack wrinkles and integrity. She was my wife, she was faithful to me, and I prayed she would once again . . . someday . . . appreciate me as she had when we were living on student loans and canned soup. Mr. Radcliffe, lemonade?”

  “Please.”

  “Money is a powerful thing,” Chapman said, pouring the lemonade. “I enjoy it, but it didn’t bring out Sheryl’s better qualities, though she did have many talents and virtues. I don’t condone your stepmother’s prank, but it doesn’t surprise me that Sheryl grated on her nerves. Since secrets are erupting in abundance, I’ll continue the theme of confession. There were two reasons I insisted The Chicken Noodle cater the opening of Maison du Canard. First, the food was delightful, and second, I wanted to tweak Sheryl’s increasingly high-brow sensibilities. Sadly, I did a poor job of anticipating the reaction of a humiliated caterer.”

  “Felicia was terrified of what would happen if she confessed,” Gideon said.

  “Sheryl’s death was accidental, and though the legal system would doubtless have held Felicia accountable in some measure, I can’t imagine that any legal consequences would have equaled even a millionth part of the guilt she’s endured while keeping her secret.”

  “True,” Gideon said.

  “I’m a happy man.” Chapman added more pickle slices to his burger. “I did love Sheryl, may she rest in peace, but Mel is a delight who indulges me in my eccentricities and couldn’t care less if the gossips know I eat Cheetos.”

  “Felicia also worried you’d blame her for your estrangement from your daughter,” Gideon said.

  “Ah, yes. I do regret the course of my relationship with Tessa. But we didn’t get along well before Sheryl’s death. Tessa was perpetually furious that I wouldn’t fund all her desires. Without Sheryl to run interference, our relationship went up in flames, as they say, and we went for a time without speaking. But she’s maturing, and Mel has been an angel at reaching out to her. I don’t blame Felicia for that estrangement. It was a long time coming and had many roots. It was not the result of a stuffed cat in a rowboat and an unfortunate heart condition.”

  “Thank you for your candor,” Gideon said.

  “It’s your turn to return the candor, son. Do you think your stepmother killed Camille Moretti?”

  Gideon took a bite of hamburger and chewed slowly—stalling for time, Natalie figured. She was curious what he would say and hoped it wouldn’t be “Actually, I think Natalie did.”

  “I don’t know,” Gideon said finally. “I’d like to say no, absolutely not, and I would have said that up until two days ago. But she admitted to being there the night Camille died. She thought Camille had murdered my father and was an ongoing danger to me. She’s clearly suffering a mental breakdown. I don’t know.”

  “Frau Seelenklempnerin? Your expert opinion?”

  “I don’t have an expert opinion,” Natalie said. “Gideon knows much more about Felicia’s state of mind than I do.”

  “The police asked about you as well.” Chapman tipped back in his sculpted mahogany chair. “They were interested in how well I knew you and what I knew about your friendship with Camille. Confess, my dear. Why are the knights of the realm investigating you?”

  Natalie tried to answer this painful question matter-of-factly. “Last night, I found Camille’s purse in my coat pocket, her evening bag that she carried at your party the night she died. I definitely didn’t bring it home from the party with me—I wasn’t even wearing that coat. I have no idea how it ended up in my possession.”

  “Intriguing,” Chapman said. “Eine Dame der Geheimnisse. A lady of secrets.”

  “Me or Camille?”

  “You tell me.” Chapman cut one of the remaining hamburger patties in quarters and stabbed a quarter with his fork so he could eat it plain.

  “I didn’t kill Camille.” She loathed those words. Why did she have to keep saying them?

  “Do they have other reasons to suspect you?” Chapman asked.

  Natalie hesitated. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask that question. She was embarrassed enough at her confession about Camille’s purse; she didn’t want to talk about the envelope of money too. “I don’t know what the police would want me to discuss.”

  “If they didn’t forbid you from discussing it, assume you’re free to share it—which the expression on your face makes it plain you don’t want to do. If it would comfort you, I can summon the captain of the guard to haul Mr. Radcliffe out and chain him in the dungeon where he can’t overhear your confession.”

  “As long as I can take my onion rings with me,” Gideon said dryly.

  “He doesn’t need to step out,” Natalie said. “He’s aware of the situation.”

  “Ah. Then this is something less than a secret. If you’re concerned about discretion, rest assured that I have the wisdom not to spread your scandals. If you fear damaging my thus-far promising opinion of you, know that you’re guaranteed to inflict severe damage by withholding the truth. With full confession, a happy ending is still a possibility.”

  “I’d feel better if I understood the evidence myself,” Natalie said.

  “Then allow me to help you interpret it. I assume it has something to do with your finances, since Detective Turner grilled me about your proposed clinic, the monetary backing you seek from me, and if I have ever bestowed any bags of gold upon you.”

  “The police found an envelope of money with my name on it.” Resigned, Natalie told him about the cash Dante had marked for her, the letter Camille had found, and the reasons Natalie had been reluctant to open it. Chapman listened, shrewd concentration in his eyes.

  When she finished, he studied Gideon for a moment. Was he checking for any giveaway discomfort in Gideon’s face indicating Natalie had lied about something? Gideon didn’t speak. Natalie kept her eyes on Chapman.

  Chapman redirected his gaze to Natalie. “Ah, mein Schatz. My dear. Was your mother your only connection with Dante Moretti? Previous to his marriage to our beloved Camille?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t a direct connection. I’d heard my sister mention him, but I didn’t meet him until he and Camille were engaged.”

  “I met him not long before that.” Chapman wiped his hands on a cloth napkin and focused on the gold-leafed ceiling. “That was a difficult year for Mr. Moretti.”

  “A difficult year?” Natalie asked.

  “A failed real-estate venture. He had invested a significant amount of money in building some sort of nonsensical cross between a state-of-the-art health club and an amusement park. A key investor withdrew, and there was dishonesty and ugly dealings. Not from Moretti; he was more of a victim. His money disappeared, and the project collapsed.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Natalie said. “Though I vaguely remember my sister telling me about the health club.”

  “I doubt the financia
l mayhem got much publicity. I know of it because Mr. Moretti came to my company to try to persuade us to take over the project. We declined; we didn’t think it feasible, and though I don’t like to see a man reduced to bankruptcy, I keep my business and my charitable donations separate.”

  “This must have been before he married Camille,” Natalie said. “I didn’t realize he’d had such a rough patch.”

  “Not long before he married her. He met her in my office when he came to beg for capital. He lost his shirt but gained lovely Camille, which was a superb bargain. Camille was a gem.”

  “That makes this money with Natalie’s name on it even stranger,” Gideon said. “If Moretti was in financial straits, why would he hoard a pile of cash at all, let alone mark it for his wife’s friend?”

  “A weighty question.” Chapman’s gaze locked onto Natalie. “To which there are nearly zero answers that don’t involve unsavory activity. That’s not an accusation. It’s an evaluation of current evidence.”

  “I understand. I know it looks suspicious. I have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Let’s hope the police are able to solve the puzzle,” Chapman said. “I strongly recommend that you do everything possible to aid them, including offering any and all puzzle pieces from your own life.”

  Reddening at the certainty that both Chapman and Gideon were speculating about what sordid pieces she was hiding, she said, “I have, and I’ll continue to offer anything new that I can think of.”

  Chapman rose to his feet, walked to a smaller side table, and picked up a bakery box. “I like and respect what I know of you, but unfortunately, I haven’t known you long enough to invest full trust in you. Again, this is not an accusation. But there are countless good causes, and even I can’t fund all of them. I work with people I trust. Prove to me that you’re in that category, and we’ll do business. Otherwise, my attention will go elsewhere.”

  “I understand.” Natalie’s nearly realized dream of the mental health clinic swayed above her, ready to topple and bury her. She had nothing else to say: Chapman didn’t want to hear a whiny refrain of “I don’t know what’s going on.” He wanted evidence.