Murder in the First Edition

by Lauren Elliott

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I can give them to her.” He held out his hand.

  “That’s okay.” She danced a step backward. “I need to talk to her anyway. I’ll head up there.”

  Addie made her way toward the door, the inside of her boot sloshing with every step. She cringed as the water squirted between her toes. She stepped off the elevator on the third floor and headed toward the north wing, where Teresa’s office was located, along with the hospital chairman’s and the other executives. She paused at the reception desk, noted the BE BACK IN ONE HOUR sign, made her way to the far end of the long hallway, and knocked at the closed door. No answer. She knocked again. “Teresa, are you there?” She jiggled the handle and frowned when the door opened freely in her hand.

  She peered inside. “Teresa? It’s me Addie. I’ve just come to drop the appraisal off.” She stepped into the empty room.

  Two coffee cups sat on either side of the desk. One had the unmistakable trace of Teresa’s trademark red lipstick on the rim. The other? She peered at the thick brown goo sitting in the bottom. She picked it up and sniffed. Her nose wrinkled. There was no mistaking that sickening, sugar-sweet scent of Jonathan’s favorite drink, sugar with a splash of coffee. She shook her head and set the cup down. “Well, Jonathan, you weren’t joking about holding off until mid-afternoon, as it appears your luncheon date has gone as per usual.”

  Addie placed the envelope on the desk, turned to go, and spotted the pedestal display case in the far corner behind the door. A red-coiled key ring hung from the lock. She peeked inside and gasped. It was empty.

  “Why would you remove the book, Teresa?” She glanced around the uncluttered office. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would you take it out of the case?” She dashed back over to the desk and began flinging drawers open. Nothing. She scanned the wall file cabinet and tried the drawers, all locked. She took one last look around the room and headed to the elevator.

  Addie nodded at the young ginger-haired woman seated behind the front reception desk, and pressed the elevator button. The lighted floor indicator above the door didn’t budge from the main floor. She pressed it again, tapping her foot, and then remembered what Serena had said about visiting hours. She spotted the stairwell exit and quickly made her way down the four flights to the lower level, where she hoped that Teresa had made an appearance by now. When she came to the last step on the small, lower-level landing, she pivoted around the handrail toward to the exit door. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a dark shape lying in a heap at the bottom of the next flight of stairs leading to the basement.

  She paused, staring down the long cement staircase. “What the—?” She dashed down the steps. “Teresa!” Addie’s stomach lurched at the sight of the odd angle of her head. She placed two fingers at the side of her neck to check for a pulse. The skin was still warm to her touch. The unmistakable pong of whiskey hung heavy in the air. “Help!” Addie screamed. “Someone help!”

  Chapter 3

  Addie leaned forward on the bench in the main lobby, elbows on her knees, her fingers clasped around a vending machine cup. Her gaze drifted from the floor toward Marc Chandler, Chief of Police, who was engrossed in conversation with Simon, the coroner, and Jerry, one of the officers with whom Addie was well acquainted from previous cases. Their faces looked grim. She knocked back a gulp of the rancid coffee and choked.

  Serena reached over, took the half-empty cup from her hands. “Wait until you can have a good cup.” She tossed it into the trash can at the end of the bench. “I just don’t get why my brother’s treating us like suspects and forcing us to wait here. He already has our statements.”

  “He’s just doing his job.” Addie leaned back against the wall, stretching out her long legs, tapping her ankle boots together. “At least my boot dried out,” she snickered.

  “What do you think they’re talking about?” Serena whispered.

  Addie shrugged. “They’re probably comparing notes. You know, making sure that there are no glaring discrepancies in anyone’s statements.”

  “But we didn’t even see her today, so why are we being detained?”

  Addie let out a sharp breath. “Well, I did find her body.” She straightened up when Marc walked in their direction.

  Her shoulders slumped when he walked past without even a sideways glance and pressed the elevator button. She heaved out a deep sigh and bit the inside of her lip. She glanced back at Simon and Jerry, who were looking at the photos Jerry had taken of the crime scene. One, in particular, appeared to hold their attention. Simon raised it closer to his face. He looked over his shoulder at Addie. His brow creased; then he looked back at the photo. Jerry clicked on his police radio. His eyes held fast on Addie’s.

  She grimaced. “That can’t be good.”

  “What?” Serena scanned the lobby. “What can’t be good?”

  Addie shook her head and scrubbed her hands over her face.

  “What happened? What did I miss?”

  “Wait for it.”

  As if on cue, Jerry marched toward them, unclipped his handcuffs from his police belt, and came to a stop directly in front of Addie. “Miss Greyborne. I’m afraid I have to take you in.” He dangled the cuffs in front of her.

  She rose to her feet. “Those won’t be necessary, Jerry.”

  “Standard procedure, miss.” His feet planted squarely.

  “Come on, you know me. I’m hardly a danger to you or a flight risk.”

  His cheeks flushed. “I know, but—”

  “This is ridiculous, Jerry.” Serena shot to her feet. “What’s going on here?”

  His eyes flashed an apology at Addie. His shoulders twitched with a slight shrug. “Chief’s orders, sorry.”

  “Addie?” Serena grabbed her arm. “What happened that I don’t know about?”

  “Nothing, it’ll be okay. I’ll call you later, promise.”

  Jerry looked from Addie to Serena, refastened the cuffs to his belt, stood back, and allowed Addie to walk out the door in front of him.

  “Thanks for not cuffing me in the lobby, Jerry.”

  “I’m going to have some explaining to do later, but—” He placed his hand on the top of her head and steered her into the backseat of his patrol car.

  * * *

  Jerry ushered her up the back stairs into the police station and led her past Carolyn, the desk sergeant, who was also Simon’s sister, and escorted her into Marc’s office. “Have a seat. The chief will be along shortly.” He left, closing the door.

  Addie slumped into a chair, drumming her fingers on the wooden arms. Moments later, the door burst open. She jumped when Marc strode in, slamming it behind him.

  “You really ordered Jerry to handcuff me?”

  He stomped toward his desk. The dark look in his chocolate-brown eyes sent a shiver through her. He sat down and folded his hands on the desk in front of him, fixing his cold gaze on her. “I didn’t think you’d come willingly.”

  “What? Did you think I was going to bolt and dash when I hadn’t done anything wrong?” She leaned forward, matching his gaze.

  His eyes flashed, and his jaw tensed. “I’ve seen some stupid things in my life, Addie,” he spat out between clenched teeth, “but you doing what you did beats them all.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  He shook his head and stared down at a file folder clutched in his hand. “Obviously, you did. Your prints are all over Teresa’s office. I thought you knew better and were smarter than that?”

  “Yes, they are, and I am.” She rose to her feet. “Remember, that was before I knew Teresa was dead and it was a potential crime scene.”

  “Sit down, Miss Greyborne.”

  “Miss Greyborne? We’re back to that, are we?” She touched her lips where he’d last brushed his with hers, and bit her tongue, holding her thoughts in check. That was a long time ago.

  He studied her face. “You’re right.” His lips pressed into a straight line. “But I do have some ques
tions for you.” He leaned forward on his elbows, raking his hand through his thick chestnut-brown hair. “And the truth is, it’s not really a crime scene yet, either. At this point it looks like her fall was an accident.”

  “I guess it could have been. She did smell of alcohol.”

  “Exactly, so if she was drinking, she may have stumbled and fallen down the stairs, but until the autopsy is done, we won’t know for certain. That’s why not contaminating the scene is imperative. You know that.”

  “Except you’re missing one important fact, and that’s a book that I had donated to the auction worth over sixty thousand dollars is missing.” She leaned across his desk. “That’s why my prints were all over the room. I couldn’t believe she’d removed it from the case. I was looking for the book. I hope you’ve asked Patrick if he knows where she put it.”

  “We’ve also brought Patrick in for questioning, so I’ll ask him about the book, too.”

  “Patrick was downstairs, and had been for a while by my understanding. He was the one who sent me up to her office to see if she’d returned from lunch. Why bring him in?”

  “Because”—he leafed through the folder on the desk—“as far as any witnesses are concerned, he was the last person to see her alive before lunch.”

  “I don’t think so.” She tapped her fingers on the chair arm. “I think it might have been Jonathan Hemingway who last saw her.”

  “Who’s Jonathan Hemingway?”

  “He is . . . was David’s father.” Marc’s jaw flinched. “He told me this morning that he had a lunch date with her, and I know he’d been in her office.”

  “Did you see him in there?”

  “No, but two coffee cups were on the desk, and one was no doubt his.”

  His brow ticked up. “How do you know?”

  “Because not many people take their sugar with a dash of coffee, and let’s just say that over the years, I’ve had to soak enough of his cups in hot water to get all the crusty goop out.”

  He pulled out a yellow notepad, clicked his pen, and poised it on the paper. “What else did you notice when you were in her office?”

  She scrubbed her hands through her hair, adjusting the elastic on her long ponytail. “Nothing, really. Well, except I remember wondering why she was concerned about displaying the book downstairs before the auction for fear it would be stolen and then would leave it in her unlocked office.”

  “So, the door was unlocked? Is that all you noticed?”

  “No, I also thought she must be Wonder Woman because her office looked a little too neat and orderly for a woman who was in the final stages of hosting a large silent auction and dinner gala.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s just that over the years, I’ve done appraisals for tons of these charity events, and usually the coordinator’s office looks like a hurricane just swept though as the date gets closer. Her office was pristine.”

  “She was”—he jotted something down—“a rather particular woman.”

  “I know. She only shopped at New York’s Fifth Avenue.” Addie’s lip curved in a twisted smile. “But this was more than immaculate.” She shrugged. “It all looked like it had been staged. As if someone had ransacked the office, maybe looking for the key to the bookcase, then tidied up, but too much.”

  “First, we don’t know if it was stolen and that she didn’t move it, and if it was, why wouldn’t the culprit just do a smash and grab?”

  “Because the top of the case is shatterproof glass.” She leaned forward, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “Maybe I’m overthinking it, though.”

  “You probably are”—he gave her subtle wink—“but it is worth noting.”

  Her chest constricted with an involuntary heart flip, or had her eyes and ears deceived her. She watched him continue to scribble in his notes. Had he really offered her a word of kindness, a friendly wink? Was the old Marc she knew and cared for deeply finally reemerging? The person she knew before that life-changing day when she’d uttered that one word that tore them apart. She wiped her damp palms across her knees. Maybe he was seeing his way around to being able to forgive her.

  “Tell me more about this Jonathan Hemingway,” he said without looking up.

  “There’s not much to tell. He is, was David’s natural father. I haven’t seen him much since the”—her words caught in her throat—“the funeral. Actually, just once since then, I think.”

  “And he showed up today? At your house, your shop, where?” He paused and looked up at her.

  She fidgeted with her bottom jacket button. “My shop, first thing this morning.”

  “And he said what?”

  “Not much, really. He met Catherine Lewis when she came in, had a coffee, and left, saying he had a lunch date with Teresa Lang, and that she was an old friend of his.”

  He stared down at his pad, tapping his pen. “Where is he now?”

  “On his way home, I suppose. He said he was leaving right after lunch because a storm was coming in.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Not sure. He moves a lot, but he did mention he was living north of Albany, New York, now.”

  “Okay.” He pushed the pad of paper away and rose to his feet. “I think I have all I need right now.”

  “So, I can go?” She picked up her purse from the floor and stood up.

  “Yes, but”—he walked around the desk toward the door and opened it—“don’t leave town. I may have some more questions once we get the autopsy report back and talk to Patrick about that missing book.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m such a flight risk.” She shook her head and stalked out, tempted to slam the door in his face.

  So, that was that. The Marc Chandler she knew was still gone. He was the cop, and she was a . . . what? Was she a witness or a suspect? She buttoned up her coat to ward off the chill and headed across the waiting room to the front door. It flew open, and Serena bolted right into her.

  “There you are. Sorry, got here as soon as I could. Both stores are closed and secure against the impending storm. And Paige has been delivered safely home by yours truly. It’s really kicking up as you can see.”

  Addie pulled her collar up and stepped out into the howling wind. “Thanks for that and for this, but you didn’t have to come. It’s late. You should have just gone home.”

  “Nonsense, I didn’t know what was going on. No one would tell me anything at the hospital, not even Simon.” She steered Addie toward her Jeep.

  “I can walk. It’s not that far to my shop.”

  “Not in this weather. With this wind and now the snow starting, it looks like the nor’easter came sooner than expected, and they say it’s only going to get a lot worse.” Serena pulled her collar up over her face. “Besides. . .” Her voice was muffled by the wind and her wool coat. “I’m starving, so we need to eat before we get snowed in tonight.”

  Addie dropped into the passenger seat, shivered, and brushed the snow from her hair. “Me, too. Where do you want to go?”

  “Mario’s, it’s close.”

  * * *

  “Come in, come in, Signorina Greyborne, Signorina Chandler.” Mario’s glistening teeth beamed through a broad smile. Addie figured the smell of the food would entice her even if Mario lost his smile and booming welcome. “I have a table for you right this way.”

  He took Addie’s arm and swept them to a table at the back of the restaurant. Short room dividers topped with potted plants created smaller intimate dining areas in the large room. Addie settled into a chair facing the main room. Serena took the seat opposite looking toward an Italian garden wall mural.

  “May I take your jackets?” He filled their water glasses.

  “Maybe in a few minutes after I’ve warmed up, thanks.” Serena rubbed her hands together, shivering, and smiled up at him.

  He bowed, clicked his heels, and headed back to the front counter.

  Addie stood up and removed her coat. Her face turned ashen.
r />   “What’s the matter?”

  She dropped into her seat and leaned forward. “Look, there by the front corner table.”

  Serena spun around in her chair and stood up to see over the leafy planters. “It’s Catherine. I wonder who she’s with.”

  “That”—Addie picked up her water goblet and took a long sip—“is Jonathan Hemingway.”

  Chapter 4

  Addie slid her red and white Mini Cooper into a parking space behind a black Land Rover with New York plates. Her fingers clutched hard around the steering wheel. “Well, Jonathan, by the looks of that high-end vehicle, business must be good, whatever business it is these days.” She jammed her car into park and slammed her door for emphasis. Picking her way through the wind-swept snowdrifts, she finally made it to the front door of Catherine’s nineteenth-century two-story, salt-box-styled house.

  Catherine answered the doorbell, a glass of white wine in her hand. “Addie, what on earth are you doing out in this storm? Come in, come in.” She stepped back for her to enter.

  “Thanks, it is rather nippy out there. I just wanted to make sure you got home all right.” Addie peeked around the corner into the living room. She looked coolly at Jonathan reclining on the sofa in front of the window. “But I see you’re home safe and sound.”

  “Yes, thanks to Jonathan rescuing me,” Catherine giggled. “I was trudging up the hill loaded down with my parcels, and he offered me a ride.”

  “I see.” Addie glanced back at him. The sparkling lights from the Christmas tree in the corner reflected a rainbow pattern over the surface of his wineglass.

  “Yes, then after he unloaded my bags and we ran a few errands, he invited me out to dinner.” A smile spread across her face.

  “How thoughtful of him.” Addie’s gaze drilled into his. He nodded, raising his glass to her. If he would have winked, she would have smacked the smirk off his face, too.

  “Yes, we had a most enjoyable meal.”

  “I guess it’s lucky for me that I didn’t miss you, then.” She returned her gaze to Catherine. “I would have been beside myself with worry if you weren’t home yet.”