by Celia Loren
"Mark, you know I'm not very good at pool," Kristine protests as Mr. Redmond racks the balls.
"That's OK. I always beat Brent," Mark replies.
"Always might be overstating it," Mr. Redmond says with a smile.
"Three out of four games," Mark says.
"You can break," Mr. Redmond says to his friend, stepping back from the table as I take a cue from the rack. He walks over to me as Mark lines up his shot. "I hope I interpreted that nod correctly," he whispers to me.
"How much is your most expensive bottle in that cellar?" I whisper back.
"Somewhere north of twenty-thousand," he murmurs.
I stare at him. "Well, then, I hope so, too." I feel a jolt of nerves as I watch Mark line up his second shot. He sunk his first ball, stripes, when he was breaking, and now he sinks another. He lines up his third shot, and just barely misses.
"You go ahead," Mr. Redmond murmurs to me and I step forward, circling around the table toward the cue ball. I had been feeling so confident until he told me how much was actually on the line. I didn't even know wine could be that expensive. I take a deep breath and remind myself that the amount of money that these rich guys are betting doesn't actually have any effect on my skill set. And I saw Mark's technique, he's good, but I'm better.
I bend over, eyeing the solid 7 ball near the corner pocket. Easy shot. I feel my dress uniform riding up against the backs of my thighs, and wish I were wearing my old, worn-in jeans. I bring back the cue and smoothly pocket the 7 ball.
"Ooo, nice shot," Kristine says.
"Thanks," I reply with a smile as I make my way around the table again. I make quick work of the 4 and 2 balls, and hear Mark moan as I bounce the cue ball off the side to sink the 3 ball.
"Oh my god, you brought in a ringer!" he exclaims to Mr. Redmond.
"I hired her for her billiard skills," Mr. Redmond says with a smile at me. "It's been one long con, but I've finally lured you into playing a game."
"How'd you get so good?" Kristine asks as the 1 ball drops into a side pocket.
"I used to meet my dad at a bar every day when he got off work, and we'd play pool. None of the regulars would play us after a while, but once in a while a new person would wander in and my dad would win a few bucks," I explain.
"She's a shark!" Mark says, shaking his head ruefully as Mr. Redmond guffaws.
"I honestly had no idea, I swear to you," he says. I look around at the table. I've sunk everything but the 8 ball, and it's tucked away between two striped balls and impossible to get to. I tap the cue ball against them to avoid a scratch, and to set up Kristine in a tough position.
"I have a feeling I'm going to be polishing some silver," she says good-naturedly as she attempts to set up a shot. She doesn't manage to sink a ball, but it would have been a tough position for even a good player. Mr. Redmond steps forward and sizes up the situation.
"Can you imagine if you missed this shot, after Cora sunk all those balls?" Mark asks him jokingly, trying to get in his head.
"8 ball, corner pocket," Mr. Redmond replies with a smile, indicating the pocket just below where I'm standing. He bends over, smoothly guiding the cue through his long fingers, his arms steady in his fine sweater. He lines up his shot, then at the last second looks up at me, holding my gaze as he pulls the cue back and then cleanly slides it forward, sending the 8 ball into the pocket with a clean crack. A shiver runs through me as he stands.
"Best two out of three?" he asks, turning to Mark with a wolfish grin. Mark groans in reply.
We end up playing four more games, and Mr. Redmond and I win all of them. True to their word, Kristine and Mark insist on heading back upstairs to finish my work on the silver. Mr. Redmond lags behind in the basement as I instruct the couple on the proper cleaning technique of the tea set. He emerges with a bottle of red wine in hand and takes out wine glasses from the cupboard.
"Oh, you didn't have to do that," Mark says, spotting him working a corkscrew into the bottle.
Mr. Redmond shrugs. "What do I have it for, if not to share?"
"Cora, you think I could shine my ring with this stuff?" Kristine asks, waving the huge sparkler on her left hand.
"Um, I'm not sure…is that silver?"
"Platinum," she says with a smile.
"Of course," Mark says, rolling his eyes.
"If I left it up to him, he would have gotten me an amethyst set in gold, or something," she says pointedly.
"Engagement rings weren't even popular until the De Beers company—" Mark begins.
"I like it," Kristine cuts him off. I smile politely. Kristine is charming and beautiful, but she's certainly got an edge to her. While I was content with being on the fringes in high school, I bet she was the queen bee in the center of it all. I turn to Mr. Redmond, who is now pouring out the wine, and see that he's taken out four glasses.
I shake my head. "I think I've drunk enough of your expensive wine," I tell him.
"Oh?" Kristine asks from the table, her eyes flicking between us. Was that a glimmer of jealousy I just saw?
"Mr. Redmond let me try a couple bottles that were already open," I clarify, hoping I'm not blushing. I definitely should not have brought that up.
"You sure?" he asks, the bottle poised over the fourth glass.
I nod. "And since you two are doing such a great job in here, I better keep going with my work. Excuse me," I say with a smile, not wanting to overstay my welcome.
"Bye!" Kristine and Mark call after me as I head down the hallway. They were very kind, but I'm not really a member of their group, and I never will be.
Chapter Eleven
The man turns around to look toward the back of the bus again where I'm sitting. His eyes keep wandering over to me, and I think I noticed him following me all the way back in the supermarket in town. If he looks like he's going to get off at the same stop as me, I'll sit back down and call the police. I memorize his facial lines and his clothing just in case.
I realize that we're crossing the bridge over Cedar Lake and peer down into the murky waves. It's a large body of water, with a few boats sailing on it from the yacht club, and the water looks slightly choppy from the wind today. The bridge connects the wealthiest neighborhood of Norwich¸ where the Redmond estate is, with the rest of the town. The bus stops just on the edge of it, and then continues in a circuitous path around the lake.
As we reach the other side of the bridge, I press the stop button and gather the straps of the grocery bags. I check to see if the man looks like he's getting up: I have to pass him in order to get off the bus. The bus pulls over to the side of the road, lurching slightly, and I stand up. The man's head turns slightly, but he doesn't move. I walk with more confidence than I feel up to the front of the bus. I can see in my periphery that he has remained seated, though he's staring at me. I step out onto the sidewalk, and the bus doors close after me, and it pulls away with him still inside.
Phew. I shake my head at myself. I was probably just being paranoid. I think that Jody Hall's murder has me and everyone else on edge. The police still haven't made any headway. I put the bags down to get a better grip, then continue the walk toward the house, cursing myself for not getting my driver's license renewed. Without a license, and on Aaron's day off, I was forced to make the trek into town by foot and by bus to get these last minute supplies for the dinner party tonight.
When I finally reach the house, I press the security code into the front pad and the side door buzzes open. I smile up at the new security camera that's trained on the door, one of the many that Aaron had put in earlier this week. By the time I reach the front door, my arms are aching with the weight of the groceries. I hear the sound of gravel crunching behind me and glance around.
"Let me help you with those," Mr. Redmond says, grabbing a couple of the bags.
"Thank you, sir," I reply. From his sweats and tight athletic shirt, it's clear he's just returning from a jog. I manage to take just a single, secretive glance at his jacked upp
er body as he tucks his iPod into his pocket to help me.
"I got it," he says, as I reach for the keypad next to the front door. "Hi, Mom," he says as Mrs. Redmond walks through the foyer as we enter. I notice her frown slightly as she watches her son help me with the groceries. She walks just ahead of us toward the kitchen, talking over her shoulder as we go.
"So now Whitney has decided that she is coming," she says. "I told her that she should have told me earlier, which I thought clearly meant she should not come, but then she just texted me that she's on her way!"
"Mom, it's fine. We've clearly got enough food," Mr. Redmond says.
"That's not the point!" she retorts as we set the food on the counter and I begin unpacking it. Ms. Mueller turns to us from her perpetual station over the stove. I smile, enjoying hearing this billionaire, this titan of industry, having to talk down his mother.
"It'll work out Mom. We can always just add another table," he says, walking over to Ms. Mueller, who looks at him fondly. As I slide the crisper in the fridge closed and turn back to the bag on the counter, I see a slip of paper sticking out between the apples still left inside. Thinking the receipt has torn and needing it for the files, I carefully pick it up and turn it over. It's not the receipt. It's a piece of scrap paper on which someone has written, Be careful. It was someone in the house.
"Cora? Cora?" I look around confused to see that everyone is staring at me, and realize that Brent has been repeating my name. "Are you alright?" he says, walking over to me.
"Um, no," I reply, chewing my lip as I stare down at the note in my hand. Seeing where I'm looking, he reaches his hand forward. At the last second, I snap out of my trance and pull the note away. "No, don't touch it. Fingerprints."
"Fingerprints?" he echoes, frowning. I turn the paper toward him so he can read it and watch his face carefully as he does so. His expression doesn't betray his emotions, but I hear him take a deep breath.
"It says it was someone in the house. I assume regarding Jody," Mr. Redmond finally announces. "I'll call Detective Donohue." He walks over to a drawer and pulls out a plastic sandwich bag as Mrs. Redmond and Ms. Mueller watch frozen in shock. As he shakes it open in front of me, I understand what he's doing, and I obediently drop the paper inside it.
"I'll be in my room," I say as he walks to the phone, leaving the other two women looking on. I need to start working while it's still fresh in my mind.
In my room, I flip to a fresh sheet of paper—it's lined, but it'll have to do—and take out a pencil. I close my eyes for a moment, picturing the man on the bus, and then begin with the line of his narrow mouth because that's what stuck out to me. Some time passes, I don't know how much because I always lose track when I'm drawing, and I hear a knock on the door.
"Come in!" I call out. I don't look up, but can smell Mr. Redmond's normal oaky scent mixed with sweat.
"The police are on their way," he tells me. I realize he's waiting for me to respond.
"I have to do this now. I can't talk but you can wait." I'm concentrating so hard that I don't realize how rude it is to talk to my boss, or anyone, that way, but I see him sit down out of the corner of my eye. I begin to shade in the man's hair, remembering how pin straight it was, spiky at the front, and then short on the sides. I take a breath and sit back for just a moment, looking at the overall impression, then dive back in, seeing that his nose needs to be narrower over the bridge. I sit back again, and gently color in the eyes a little darker. Yes, I think that's him. Or as close to him as I can get. Maybe when I was in art school I could have done better. With a start, I remember Mr. Redmond is sitting behind me. I swing around in my chair.
"Sorry about that," I say as I take in the sight of him sitting on my bed.
"What are you doing?" he asks, more puzzled by my behavior than annoyed, thank goodness.
"Well, I saw this man following me today, and I wanted to draw him while he was still fresh in my mind. You know, like a sketch artist." He stands up and crosses to the desk. I turn back around in my chair as he rests a hand on the back of it and leans over, examining the picture.
"Wow," he says. I'm tongue-tied, and just look down at the picture. We haven't been this physically close since the kiss, and he's in my bedroom, and he's wearing a tight, sweaty shirt…my body feels like it's on fire. We both jump at the distant sound of the doorbell.
"Come on. I asked Ms. Mueller to show them into my study," he says, walking out. I pause for a moment, then grab the notepad before I follow them. I just realized I never told anyone here about my connection to Jaime. It didn't seem important before. Jody Hall's murder seemed so far away. But we're already walking through the foyer and I can't tell him now.
"Detective Donohue, Detective Sullivan," Mr. Redmond greets them as we walk in. "You remember Cora MacAuliffe?"
"We remember," Donohue replies drily.
"Here's the note that she found in the grocery bags," he says, taking the plastic bag out of his pocket and handing it to them. Donohue takes it carefully and turns it over, then hands it to Jaime. "And Cora has something else to show you," he adds with a nod to me.
"I drew this of a man who was following me," I say holding out the portrait to them. Donohue smiles at me, but as he looks down at the drawing, his face changes.
"Holy shit, that's Andres Moreno," he exclaims, and Jaime leans in. I frown up at Mr. Redmond.
"Jody's boyfriend," he murmurs. Oh, god.
"Did he say anything to you?" Donohue asks, his gaze snapping up to me.
"No. I just noticed him in the supermarket, and then later, he got on the same bus as me."
"How'd he know who you were?" he demands, as though he's accusing me of something.
"Her uniform," Mr. Redmond replies, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice.
"So he recognized the uniform, thought you might be the new maid, followed you onto the bus to make sure, then slipped you the note," Jaime says.
"I guess," I reply with a shrug. "But why would he do that?"
"Sounds like he was trying to warn you about someone," Donohue says, his eyes flicking toward Mr. Redmond.
"But you told us she wasn't killed here. That Moreno and a few others had seen her in town on her day off, and she'd never returned to the house," Mr. Redmond says.
"We'll be questioning him again," Donohue replies.
"You'll need to come into the station and give a statement," Jaime adds.
"Is tomorrow alright? There's a big dinner party here tonight," I ask.
"A dinner party?" Jaime echoes sarcastically.
"For potential investors," Mr. Redmond says, in full-on CEO mode, giving Jaime a withering glare.
"Tomorrow's fine," Donohue says. "Just give us a call before you come by."
"If there's nothing else…" Mr. Redmond says expectantly, and I steal a glance at him. It's funny how different he seems now than when we're alone together.
"For now," Donohue replies with a grim smile.
"I can show you out," I say, gesturing toward the study door. They nod and follow me down the hall toward the foyer. Jaime pauses, and I think he's about to say something, but then he glances behind me and appears to change his mind. I shut the door after them, shivering as a gust of cold air worms its way inside. I turn around to find Mr. Redmond standing at the foot of the stairs.
"You don't have to work tonight if you need a break. I'm sure we can find someone," he offers.
"It's alright, really. I'm fine." I glance around to make sure we're alone. I can vaguely hear Ms. Mueller in the kitchen, but those are the only sounds. "There is one other thing that I thought you should know. Or might want to know. Jaime, Detective Sullivan, we used to…date." Mr. Redmond's expression doesn't change, so I continue. "We grew up together. We were serious for a while. I just…thought you should know."
He shrugs, looking impassive. "I don't think that matters."
"Oh…alright," I reply, feeling foolish.
"I'll be upstairs," he says, turning
around. I watch his broad back as he ascends the stairs and feel a flash of anger toward him. I feel like he's got me on a yo-yo. He pulls me in and then he pushes me away. He wants to have dinner, then he rejects me. We have drinks every night like friends, then he acts like I'm an idiot for telling him about Jaime.
I head toward the kitchen, wishing I'd taken him up on having the night off.
Chapter Twelve
I sit next to a desk at the Norwich police station. There are only a few other officers milling around, and Jaime and Detective Donohue sitting across from me.
"Does that all sound right to you?" Donohue asks after he finishes reading my statement back to me.
"Yes, that's right."
"Just sign here," he tells me, and I take his offered pen and do so. "You have an interesting position in the house," he says. "You're the only one who wasn't there that night."
"What night?" I ask frowning.
"We talked to Moreno this morning. He admitted it was him who slipped you the note, and that he'd lied about seeing Jody that Sunday."
"Why would he lie about it? Oh, unless he's the one who, you know…"
"No, we don't think it was him. When we first talked to him, he thought we were asking him about his cousin," Jaime says. "He's a small time drug dealer and Moreno had been running an errand for him that afternoon. He thought he was clever for using Jody as his alibi, but then felt guilty when he saw you. Worried you might be in danger. His story checks out with his cousin, and he's on the security tape of his apartment building."
"But other people saw her in town, too, right?"
"When we talked to them again, now that they've heard she's dead, they weren't so sure. So now—"
"Now Jody could have been killed in the house," I say, completing Donohue's sentence for him.
"Not just that. She could have already been dead that Sunday. Now we know the last time anyone definitely saw her alive was Saturday night, the 17th. She was serving at a dinner party at the house." A shiver runs down my spine. I watch Jaime take out a list.