Tom had told me to demand to see my lawyer immediately. So when we reached the department parking lot, I astonished Reilly and Blackridge by announcing that my attorney should have arrived by now. I said I wanted to confer with him before any taping began. When Blackridge glanced in the rearview mirror to check my expression, I just closed my eyes.
After about ten minutes of bureaucratic wrangling and trying to find the person Mrs. Schulz was asking for, I was ushered into a room where Brewster Motley was waiting, grinning from ear to ear. Surf’s up!
“I think I’m in trouble,” I began, once the door was closed. Brewster suppressed his grin and nodded sympathetically.
“Tell me about it.” His voice was as warm and comforting as custard sauce. “Let’s sit.” He snapped open a luxurious leather briefcase and pulled out a notepad. “Relax.”
I did as told. No wonder they call them Counselor.
“First of all, Mr. Motley, I did not shoot my ex-husband.”
“Call me Brewster. And by the way, I’m aware of the few times you’ve helped the cops with cases. I read about them in the paper.”
“Super. But I have to tell you, Brewster, there are a lot of circumstances that are going to make this look really bad.” I gave a very abbreviated account of the terrible history between John Richard and me. John Richard, I went on, was an unreformed batterer who’d beaten one girlfriend almost to death, an act that had finally landed him in prison for aggravated assault. He’d gotten out six weeks ago, on April the twenty-second, and had already dumped one girlfriend who was now furious with him. Brewster asked for her name and I spelled out Courtney MacEwan for the second time that day. I told him about the Jerk’s brief argument with Ted Vikarios, and again spelled out that name. Plus, John Richard seemed to be in trouble with creditors. He was living a country-club lifestyle with no visible means of support. I believed he was borrowing large amounts of money, secured by who-knows-what. That could be the only explanation for his sudden ability to sponsor a golf tournament, afford the rent on a Tudor McMansion, and buy, not lease, a new Audi. John Richard had been trying to embrace the high-flying rich-doctor lifestyle he used to have. Except that he wasn’t practicing medicine. His license had been suspended when he went to jail.
“How do you know he bought the Audi?”
“His other ex-wife, Marla Korman, and I are best friends. She told me.”
“Yes. That’s the Mrs. Marla Korman who hired me.”
“Right. Marla loves to track the…John Richard, his love life and financial dealings. And she passes on all she learns to me.” I felt my cheeks coloring. “We do gossip about him. Did.”
Brewster tapped his pen on the desk. “Did you and Dr. Korman have any children?”
I told him about Arch, that my son had been with me when I’d discovered John Richard’s body. Well, not exactly with me, and that was part of the problem.
Brewster held up a hand and gave me another charming grin. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Did Dr. Korman keep up with child support while he was in prison?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “His lawyer arranged for the sale of the Jer—uh, John Richard’s house, and supposedly the child support came out of that.”
“What do you mean, supposedly? Did you ask Korman’s lawyer where the money came from?”
“You bet I did. And he rudely informed me that as long as I got the money, where it came from was none of my beeswax. He also told me that Marla’s snooping wasn’t going to get her anywhere.”
There was a knock on the door. Brewster Motley jumped from his chair to answer it. He spoke in a low but confident voice.
“No,” he said finally, “my client and I will tell you when we’re ready.” Without waiting for a reply, he shut the door.
“Maybe we should move along to today,” Brewster said lightly once he was seated again. “Tell me everything you think is pertinent.”
I described showing up to prep a funeral lunch, being shoved aside by an unknown assailant and then chopped in the neck. No, I didn’t know who the guy in the mask was. Yes, I suspected the Jerk. That was what Marla and I had begun calling John Richard at least ten years ago. It was based on his initials, I explained, and it suited his personality, too. Brewster shook his head, a grim smile on his face.
I summarized the rest of it—Marla coming, our discovery of the break-in, the mice, my firing the thirty-eight. Brewster wrinkled his tanned face.
“Where’d you get the gun?”
“I’ve been keeping the thirty-eight in my glove compartment ever since John Richard had his sentence commuted.”
Brewster’s blond curlicues of hair trembled. My heart plummeted.
“Why was his sentence commuted?”
I sighed. “A prison guard was having a heart attack. John Richard gave him CPR and saved his life. There were witnesses. The guard, his cardiologist, and everyone in the guard’s family wrote to the governor begging him to let John Richard out.”
Brewster frowned. “And nobody’s tried to hit or ambush you until today?”
“No.”
“And you fired the gun today.”
“Right. You should know that my husband of the past two years is Tom Schulz, a sheriff’s-department investigator,” I added quickly. “He thought my having the thirty-eight was a good idea, as long as I kept the glove compartment locked, which I’m sorry to say I appear not to have done, um, after I accidentally fired at the mice.” Brewster stopped writing and gave me a confused look. “A cop came and took a report. I showed him the gun, then put it back into the glove compartment. But I forgot to lock it.”
“How do you know you forgot to lock it, Mrs. Schulz?”
“Because somebody stole my gun.”
His expression was studiously flat. “Keep giving me an exact summary of events, please.”
“My assistants and I were able to put together another meal, a cold plate. But after the lunch, John Richard started screaming at me, outside the Roundhouse. He wanted me to bring Arch over to his house at four so they could play golf. It wasn’t a pretty exchange. Even worse, lots of the guests still at the lunch—”
Wait a minute. By the time John Richard and I were arguing, people had begun to leave. There’d been folks milling around in the parking lot, getting into their cars and taking off. One of them had gone into my van and stolen my gun. But why? And who? Usually people sneaked into my van to steal food. So the culprit hadn’t found any food, had stolen my gun, and then had killed John Richard with it, just for good measure?
“Lots of the guests still at lunch,” Brewster prompted me.
“And folks in the parking lot, too. They all witnessed this argument. Anyway, I rustled up Arch, who was with a pal at an ice rink down in Lakewood. I brought them to our house, got Arch cleaned up, delivered some brownies to a bake sale, dropped Arch’s friend at his house and arrived at John Richard’s just before four.”
“Please give me the times, exactly.”
I did. I also repeated the scenario of the fellow asking for money, then driving off, and how I’d discovered the body—by myself. Brewster nodded and kept writing.
“But you haven’t heard the worst part, Mr. Mot—Brewster.”
“He was shot with your gun?”
“My gun was at the scene. How’d you know?”
“More important, how do you know, Mrs. Schulz?”
I let out a breath. How could I say this without it sounding as if I was somehow collaborating with my cop husband? “Even though he’s not on the case, my husband had been up at the garage with the team. When he came out, he spotted my thirty-eight lying beside the driveway. He came back to my van and opened the glove compartment. When there was nothing there, I knew my gun had to be up near John Richard.”
There was another rap at the door. Brewster put the notepad back in his leather briefcase and stood up.
He said, “Every time they ask you a question, look at me before you say a single word.” He hesitated, then gave me h
is beach-boy grin, as if he were actually looking forward to the interrogation. Still smiling, he said, “Let’s boogie.”
I followed Brewster down the hall until the cop who’d knocked on the door ushered us into an interrogation room. Two more cops were there, along with Blackridge and Reilly. The cops shocked me when they stepped forward and placed brown paper bags over my hands, then taped the bags closed. Meanwhile, Blackridge was talking.
“Mrs. Schulz, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney…”
Aw jeez, Miranda? And they were checking for gunshot residue already? There was no way they could have run the serial numbers on my thirty-eight that quickly.
“I strongly object to the placement of bags on my client’s hands.” Brewster’s voice was suddenly authoritative, cold with rage. “She is here as a witness, not a suspect. Either arrest her or take the bags off.”
“Sit down, Counselor,” ordered Blackridge. “She’s a suspect.” He motioned me to a chair, too. I stared up at the blank mirrored wall, behind which, I knew, a video camera was rolling. Probably the chief of detectives was back there, too, observing this little drama along with a prosecutor. Oh, joy. “While the two of you were having your conference,” Blackridge went on, “we had a chance to check our files. There are quite a few reports in there from you, Mrs. Schulz.” He raised those same questioning dark eyes and black eyebrows at me. “Your ex-husband perpetrated violence on you? Did you finally see your chance to get even?”
“We resent the question,” Brewster quickly announced. “My client will not answer. And if you checked those files thoroughly, you saw that Mrs. Schulz has helped your department with several homicide investigations.”
Reilly snorted.
Unmoved, Blackridge went on, “We also had the chance to talk to a few guests at the lunch you catered today. They said that when folks were beginning to leave, you and your ex-husband had a screaming match outside.”
Brewster piped up, “Dr. Korman yelled at my client. He demanded she bring their son over at four o’clock today, which was not a prearranged visitation. As you saw from your files, he was a violent, dangerous man, given to fits of temper. His demand was extremely inconvenient for my client, and she said so. If you check your witnesses, you’ll see it was Dr. Korman raising his voice. Not my client.”
I sighed and put my bagged hands up on the table. This was a mistake.
“How’d you get those marks on your arms?” Blackridge demanded.
Puzzled, I looked down. The places my arms had hit when I’d landed on the ground this morning had had time to swell and turn red. In some places, they were already shading to purple.
“My client refuses to answer questions on her appearance,” Brewster said, indignant.
Blackridge ignored him. “Can you account for your movements, Mrs. Schulz, between the time of your argument with Dr. Korman and your finding his body?”
I glanced at Brewster, who nodded. In as few words as possible, and looking straight at the video camera, I recounted the chronology.
“And you told us earlier there was a man there?” Blackridge prompted.
Brewster indicated that I could answer, so I again summed up the story about the down-at-the-heels gent wanting his money.
Blackridge leaned into my face. “Do you own a gun, Mrs. Schulz?”
“I’m advising my client not to answer,” Brewster interjected. “And I want you to take the bags off.”
“Look, Counselor, either you let us swab her hands or we’ll get a fast court order to do it.”
“You will find GSR on my client’s hands,” Brewster announced, his voice matter-of-fact. “The explanation is simple.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Blackridge muttered.
“There was a rodent infestation at her place of business this morning. She was carrying a firearm to protect herself and accidentally fired when surprised by the rodents. Not only do we have a witness to this shooting, but a Furman County patrolman, called to the scene, saw the bullet hole in the Roundhouse kitchen floor. He also saw her weapon in her van’s glove compartment.”
“Right,” said Blackridge. Then he turned to me and glowered. “So you do have a gun. Your ex beat you up today, didn’t he? Or maybe he did it last night. So you planned today out. You put mice in your restaurant, got a friend to meet you there, and then you shot at the little furry creatures. That way, you’d have a good explanation for the GSR. You knew you’d see Dr. Korman at the event you were catering, and that he’d want something right away. He always wanted something, didn’t he? You’d have to do something for him, take something over to his house. Or maybe you made up an excuse to go over there.”
“No—” I protested.
“You saw your chance and you took it, didn’t you, Mrs. Schulz?”
“No!” I yelled. My voice was loud and vehement, but I didn’t care. “I’d have everything to lose and nothing to gain by doing such a thing!” Under the table, one of Brewster’s loafers nudged my left sneaker. I pressed my lips together.
“Again, Mrs. Schulz, for the record, do you know who else disliked Dr. Korman as much as you did?”
“My client refuses to answer unless you reword the question.” For a surfer dude, Brewster Motley sure seemed to know his stuff.
“Calm down, Counselor, we’re not in court yet.” Blackridge tilted his wide, meaty face at me. “Do you have any idea who Dr. Korman’s enemies were, Mrs. Schulz?”
For the third time that day, I found myself spelling MacEwan and, even more reluctantly, Vikarios. I said John Richard had no job, and appeared to be living on what I surmised was borrowed money. Beyond that, I did not know.
“What about the other ex-wife? Marla Korman? Any enmity between her and Dr. Korman?”
Brewster shook his head and said, “My client refuses to answer any questions about Dr. Korman’s other ex-wife. You’ll have to interrogate Marla Korman yourselves.”
Well, I certainly didn’t like the idea of that. But Brewster had not given me permission to speak.
“Where is your gun now, Mrs. Schulz?” Blackridge asked.
“My client refuses to answer.” Brewster had allowed a weary note to creep into his voice. “Okay, boys, do the GSR test, and then we’re done here, unless you intend to arrest my client.”
Blackridge made a face, but glanced over at the cops who’d bagged my hands and gave a single nod. They brought in the distilled water and Q-tips, removed the bags, and swabbed first the top and inside of my index fingers, then the web of my hands going to my thumbs, and finally the top and inside of my thumbs. Checking for antimonium barium, otherwise known as gunshot residue. Which they were going to find, all because I’d been startled by mice.
The cops left the room with the swabs. The detectives exchanged some prearranged facial signal and told us to wait. When they banged out the door, it shook on its hinges.
I covered my mouth and leaned over to Brewster. “What are they doing now? Where’d they go?”
Brewster, with a palm over his own mouth, whispered, “They’re consulting with whoever was behind the mirror. They’re trying to decide if they have enough evidence to go to a prosecutor now. They’re also trying to decide if you’re a flight risk. My guess is that they’ll answer no to both questions, and let you go.”
What seemed an eternity later, but was probably only ten minutes, Reilly reentered the room. I thought of Arch. My stomach cramped. Please, God, let me not be sent to jail.
“Mrs. Schulz?” His tone was solemn. “You may go for now. Please do not leave Furman County. Do you understand?”
Did I understand? How dumb did he think I was?
My voice was weak and my body was unsteady. But I said, “Sure,” scraped back my chair, and followed Brewster Motley out of the interrogation room.
7
As we walked down the department’s echoing metal steps, dizziness assaulted me. I grabbed the metal railing, which was shockingly c
old. Or was it really hot? Hard to tell.
I told myself that grabbing something hot should remind me of…a delectable dish, something hot from the oven, its crumbly crust steaming, its fruit filling sizzling…. I stopped and closed my eyes.
The last time I’d burned my fingers had been when a pot holder had slipped, and I’d inadvertently grabbed the copper side of a hot tarte tatin mold. Straight from the oven, the tarte’s luscious, bronzed apple slices had bubbled and popped around the edges of a circle of buttery, impossibly flaky pastry. To compound the injury to my burned finger, a few drops of scalding caramelized juice had oozed out of the pan onto my palm and I’d yelped. To comfort myself, I’d wrapped my hand in an ice pack; with my free hand, I’d scooped out a large helping of the tarte and heaped it with frosty globes of cinnamon ice cream….
“Goldy?”
I opened my eyes and stared up at the wavy-glassed four-story bank of windows. The glass caught and magnified the sunlight. I blinked in the glare.
What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, caramelized apples….
Brewster, seeing that I was no longer descending, turned and gave me a questioning look. “Need help?” he asked.
“Thanks, I’m fine,” I replied, and started back down the ringing metal steps. Then I stopped again. I had no way to get home. The detectives had brought me down in a department car. Tom was either at the Druckmans’ house or at home—in either case, he was with Arch and I didn’t want to bother him.
“Actually, there is something you can do for me, Brewster. If you wouldn’t mind.” I told him I needed a ride back to my van, which was at the scene of the crime. If the crime-scene guys had finished with it, then I’d be able to pick it up and drive home.
“That’s absolutely no problem,” he replied cheerily. “I have a few more questions for you, anyway. Might save you an office visit.”
Oh great, I thought dully as Brewster disappeared outside to retrieve his car. More questions. I’d already had what, three hours of interrogation at John Richard’s house and here at the department? I just couldn’t wait.
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