“I wish I could go with you,” he said.
“Well, you can’t. She shouldn’t be, either.” Mendoza scowled at me. “But you, at least, have a job. You can’t leave. She can. And it’ll be helpful, having someone there who can keep Mrs. Hollingsworth occupied while I talk to Mr. Hollingsworth.”
I smiled. Zachary looked envious. “You’ll come back and tell me what happened, right?”
“Of course,” I reassured him. “As soon as we’re finished, the detective will bring me back here, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Mendoza muttered something else. This time I didn’t ask him to repeat it.
“C’mon, then,” he told me. “Let’s get this over with. Did you send that picture to my phone, kid?”
Zachary nodded. “Have fun,” he said wistfully.
Mendoza shook his head, but didn’t say anything, just pushed me back out the door and over to the car.
“You don’t have to be mean to him,” I told him when we were back inside and rolling down the road. “He’s just a kid.”
“He’s a pain in the ass.”
I must have looked surprised, because Mendoza took a deep breath and blew it out before shaking his head. “Sorry. He’s a nice kid. He just thinks police work is like TV. And it isn’t. Most of the time it’s routine. Talking to people, writing reports, reading reports, poring over hours and hours of security footage...”
“He did just pore over hours and hours of security footage,” I pointed out. “And it seemed like he enjoyed it, too.”
Mendoza didn’t respond to that. It might have been because he was concentrating on driving, but traffic wasn’t very heavy, so I don’t think so.
“I appreciate your letting me tag along,” I added, making myself comfortable as we headed back out of downtown, along West End Avenue this time.
He glanced at me, a hint of amused malice on his face. “Maybe I’m just looking forward to seeing you take off your trench coat and sitting in Martha Hollingsworth’s parlor in your late husband’s boxer shorts and knee high boots.”
Oops. “I didn’t think about that,” I said. I’d just shoved all the plastic bags with my new clothes at Zachary, not even considering the fact that I was hardly dressed to make a Sunday afternoon social call on anyone.
Mendoza chuckled. “Too late now. But you can stay in the car if you prefer.”
“In your dreams,” I said. If the price of going inside the Hollingsworths’ house in Belle Meade was doing it in David’s boxer shorts and tank top—braless—I’d do it.
Mendoza shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I will.”
* * *
FARLEY AND MARTHA lived in Belle Meade, in a two story French chalet that had been in Martha’s family since it was built in the 1920s. She came from money, and married Farley when he was a young and struggling financial whiz kid. That was thirty years ago, and I’ve always thought their marriage was strong. Farley has always seemed to adore Martha. I was not looking forward to breaking the news about the burglary, and the murder, and especially Shelby.
It was Martha who answered the door, still in her Sunday best. They might not have been home very long. Sunday mornings were for the sermon at the Belle Meade Baptist Church, and lunch at the Pineapple Room at Cheekwood Botanical Gardens.
Her eyebrows rose when she saw Mendoza. “Detective. What’s going on?”
And then she saw me, and the eyebrows crept up another quarter inch. “Gina. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for you,” I said.
Martha looked surprised. Mendoza gave me a quelling sort of look. “I’d like to have another conversation with your husband, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
“Now?” Martha said. “It’s Sunday afternoon, Detective.”
“I’m aware of that, ma’am. Unfortunately, this can’t wait.”
He was very polite to her. Much more polite than he was to me. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad thing.
Martha sighed, a long-suffering sound redolent of the need to be gracious to those of lesser social standing—like policemen—even if they had no manners.
“Very well,” she said and stepped back. “Come in if you must.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mendoza stepped aside and let me walk into the house first. His face was preternaturally solemn, but I could see the twinkle in his eyes. He wasn’t any more impressed by Martha’s lady-of-the-manor airs than I was.
“Farley’s in his office,” Martha said, turning on her heel. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you back to him.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mendoza followed, with a wink in my direction. I smiled back, before I headed into the parlor and took a seat on the crushed velvet loveseat circa 1932.
A minute passed, and then Martha’s sensible two-inch heels came clicking back down the marble floor of the hallway.
“I’ve always loved your house,” I told her when she came in through the door. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Thank you, dear.” She looked around complacently before turning her attention back to me. “Can I get you anything?”
I thought about it. I hadn’t had lunch, and it was getting on for that time of day. But I didn’t want to impose, and besides, it didn’t seem right to make her get me something to eat or drink when I’d come to be supportive while her husband was being arrested.
“I’m fine,” I said.
She sat down across from me and reached for my hand, looking concerned. “Are you, really?”
“I really am. I got out of the house with minimal damage from the jump into the bushes, and before the smoke got too bad.”
“Good,” Martha said and let go of my hand with a last pat. She sat up. “Would you like to take your coat off?”
“I would,” I said, “but I’m not wearing much underneath.”
Martha frowned and glanced at the doorway. “Isn’t it a little soon to get involved again, Gina? David’s been in the ground just two days. And with a policeman?”
“Oh,” I said, blushing. “No. I’m not involved with Mendoza.” Who might as well have been a garbage-man, with the way her nostrils flared. “He had to take me back to the house so we could talk to the fire chief, and when he said he had to come here, I asked if I could tag along.”
“Oh,” Martha said, a tiny wrinkle between her brows.
“I wanted to be here for you.”
“For me?” The brows rose. “Whatever do you mean, Gina?”
“I know this is going to be hard to believe,” I said, leaning forward, “but apparently Farley had something to do with David’s death.”
Martha leaned back, away from me. Or away from what I was saying. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gina.”
“I’m not,” I said. “He broke into David’s penthouse yesterday afternoon, looking for something. Mendoza has a picture.”
“A picture?”
“Photograph. Video footage of the door from the garage opening and Farley coming inside.”
“I’m sure he had a logical reason for being there,” Martha said.
I’m sure he did, too. “There was something in David’s penthouse he wanted. Files, or something.”
“Why would he want David’s files?” Martha wanted to know. “There are copies of everything at the office.”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I just know he was there.”
Martha shook her head. “That’s silly, Gina.”
“I saw the footage,” I said. “He came from the garage into the building and went into the service elevator. It was definitely Farley. And David’s files were all over the bedroom floor.”
“You’re not making sense, Gina,” Martha said kindly. “First you said Farley wanted David’s files, and now you’re saying he left them on the floor?”
“Some of them! There was something he wanted in the rest.”
Martha shook her head. “The originals to all the files are at the Music Row office. And there are copies here. If you say
Farley was there, I’m sure he was, but he had no reason to want David’s files. He has plenty of files of his own.”
“So maybe they’re different files,” I said, a bit desperately.
“Why would they be different, dear? There’s no reason why there would be two sets of files.”
“I don’t know! Maybe... maybe he’s been embezzling, or something!”
Martha’s eyebrows rose. “Why would he embezzle from his own company, Gina? And don’t you think David would have noticed if he did?”
Actually, no. David left the financial matters to Farley. Farley could have been skimming, and David wouldn’t have had a clue. My late husband had been good at many things, but one thing he hadn’t had, was a head for money.
“Don’t you think I would have noticed?” Martha wanted to know.
That was a much better point. She probably would have. Farley is smart, but so is she. She just happened to be born into a generation of Southern Belles who were still expected not to soil their hands with labor.
“He might have put it into a secret account,” I said. “David did.”
Martha didn’t say anything to that, although her eyebrows spoke volumes.
“After he left me. Or before.” Probably before. “He had an IRA I knew nothing about, and a savings account, and other things. It was how he paid for Jacquie so I wouldn’t find out about her until he was ready to tell me.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Martha said.
“Don’t be. Be sorry for yourself instead.”
“Why would I do that?” Martha asked.
“Because your husband is cheating on you.”
Martha laughed. In someone else—someone less dignified—I would have called it a snigger. “You’re talking about Farley?”
“Of course I’m talking about Farley! Who else would I be talking about?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Martha said. “Farley wouldn’t cheat.”
“I saw her. At the office. She’s replacing Rachel.”
“Who?”
“Farley’s mistress! Shelby. She’s barely twenty, and looks like a Playboy bunny!”
Martha kept shaking her head. “That’s not possible, dear. Farley wouldn’t cheat on me. And especially not with sweet, little Shelby.”
I stared. “You know her?”
“Of course I know her, Gina. She has been helping Farley for several months. Lovely girl.”
We were either talking about two different people, or Martha was losing her eyesight or her sanity in her middle age.
And to top it off, she was sort of placating me. Patronizing. Mentally patting me on the head, like a child too immature to understand what was going on. It was beyond annoying.
“I’m sorry, Gina. I’m sure you mean well. But you must have misunderstood something. Farley would never have anything to do with Shelby. And as for breaking into David’s apartment—”
“I don’t know why he did that. I just know he did. Photographs don’t lie.”
“Sometimes they do,” Martha said.
“Well, this one didn’t. That’s why Mendoza is here.”
Martha glanced at the door. Farley’s office was at the end of the hallway, too far away for us to be able to hear anything.
“I’m sorry,” I said gently. “I know it’s no fun to find out that your husband isn’t who you think he is.” Nobody knew that feeling better than me.
Martha looked conflicted for a second, and then she stiffened her spine. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” she told me. “I’m sure you mean well, Gina.”
I nodded.
“But you’re wrong about this. You have to be.”
She got to her feet and marched down the hallway toward the office. I watched her go, wondering whether I should go after her, or should just let Mendoza handle the situation. It was his job, and he was probably used to dealing with the distraught wives of the men he arrested.
On the other hand, I had offered to come with him to be useful. And it wasn’t very useful of me to sit here and let him handle things in the office.
Then again, I didn’t want to butt in on his interrogation. I had promised I wouldn’t; that I’d only come along to be here for Martha.
Of course, now Martha was in the thick of it in the office...
Except she wasn’t. In the time it took me to reason things out—no more than a minute—Martha disappeared into the office and closed the door gently behind her. There was silence for a few seconds—I strained my ears, but couldn’t hear anything. Maybe there was a faint murmur of voices and some sort of thud or bump, or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe I was imagining things. Then the door opened again. Martha came back into the hallway. “Thank you, Detective,” she said over her shoulder.
She stopped for a second to adjust her sleeves, and then she came briskly down the hallway toward me. “Just as I thought,” she told me as she entered the parlor. “There’s a logical explanation.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, waiting for her to share it with me.
“The detective has requested a glass of water. Would you like one, as well? Or perhaps some sweet tea?”
If Mendoza thought it was OK to ask for refreshments, who was I to say no? “I’d love a glass of tea,” I said.
Martha patted me on the shoulder. “You stay right where you are, Gina, dear. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Sure. I watched her disappear through the door to the kitchen and heard the clinking of glasses and the sound of cabinet doors and the refrigerator being opened and closed. After a minute, she came back in with a tall glass of iced tea in each hand.
“Here you are, dear.” She handed me one and put the other on the table. “Let me just go give Farley and the detective their drinks, and I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” I said.
“You go right ahead and get started while you wait.” She gave me a motherly sort of smile before heading back into the kitchen. A moment later she was on her way down the hallway with two more glasses: one clear for Mendoza, one whiskey brown for Farley, who must also have requested tea.
I sipped from my own glass and watched as she disappeared back into the office. This time she was gone several minutes before she came back out. And when she reached the parlor, she tossed back half the glass of iced tea in a single swallow.
“Everything all right?” I inquired. I’d been sipping mine more daintily, but I had managed to polish off half the glass, too. I was starting to feel more relaxed.
Martha smiled. “Yes, dear. Everything is fine.”
“Would you like to tell me what’s going on in there?” Because part of me couldn’t wait to hear this logical explanation for why Farley had broken into David’s apartment—or maybe not broken, exactly, since presumably he had a key—and tossed David’s belongings around.
“Oh, they’re just sitting and talking,” Martha said breezily, taking another slug of her tea. “Don’t be shy, Gina. Drink up.”
I took another sip of tea. To be honest, it was a little too sweet, and I’d probably pay for it later, when the sugar rush wore off and left me hungry for more. “What are they saying?”
“Nothing that need concern you.” She smiled. “How are you feeling, dear?”
“Fine,” I said. “A little tired.”
Martha nodded sympathetically. “And no wonder, with all the excitement you had last night. Would you like to lie down for a bit, perhaps? Until you feel better?”
I would. That actually sounded wonderful. But—
“I’d probably better not. Mendoza might be ready to go soon.” I put the empty glass on the table and got to my feet. And found I had a bit of a hard time keeping my balance. Guess she was right and last night was catching up to me.
Martha peered up at me, looking concerned. “Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just going to go down to the office and stick my head in the door and tell Monda... Mendoza we need to go soon.”
I headed that way without waiting for her response. I could hear her putting her glass down and getting to her feet behind me, but my entire attention was focused on making my way down the hallway to the office door. The floor kept shifting under my feet, and the walls weren’t entirely steady, either. Every once in a while, I had to put out a hand to steady myself against the wall. Behind me, I could hear the click-clack of Martha’s measured footsteps.
Eventually, I reached the office door and put my hand on the knob. It took effort figuring out which way to turn it. When I leaned against the door, it didn’t open, so I figured I must be doing it wrong. I rocked back on my heels instead.
By now Martha had reached me. “The door is locked, dear,” she said kindly, and put an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s just go and lie down. You can sleep it off.”
That sounded great. However— “I wanna see Mond... Mend...”
Good Lord, I sounded like I was drunk!
“Jaime,” I said firmly.
Martha sighed. “If you’re sure, dear.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
Or at least I think I must have, because she knocked on the door. There was a response from inside, and Martha said, “It’s us.”
After a moment, there was the sound of locks and deadbolts being drawn back. Farley opened the door.
Unlike Martha, who hadn’t a hair out of place, he looked distinctly disheveled. His glasses were askew, and so was his tie.
“Goodness,” I said, “what happened to you?”
Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just thought it. Farley didn’t respond, anyway. Instead, he gave me a distinctly unfriendly look. “This is all your fault, you know.”
No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t possibly be.
“You were supposed to be arrested for murder,” Farley told me. “Not help the police investigate.”
“What was I gonna do? Sit and do nothing?”
It came out garbled, but Farley understood what I was asking. “Not become Miss Marple,” he responded angrily.
Miss Marple? Wasn’t she, like, seventy-five?
I would have complained, but my tongue felt too big for my mouth, and I couldn’t get it to cooperate in forming words.
“Come along, Gina,” Martha said briskly. “Let’s get you upstairs so you can lie down.”
Ditching David Page 20