Tinsel and Temptation

by Eileen Rendahl

  Maren felt anger taking precedence over her feelings of physical shock and sickness.

  If Alibi Morning Sun wasn’t going to see that she was taken care of, she would damn well do it herself. She’d done nothing wrong and she was determined she would not be treated like a criminal any longer.

  “I’m very cold,” she said. “Do you think you could get me a blanket or coat or something?” Although posed as a request, Maren spoke loudly and clearly. There was no doubt she was making a demand.

  Alibi frowned, then stood and opened the door to the hallway. He exchanged words with someone before returning to his seat. “Officer Lee will find you a blanket.”

  “Am I under arrest?” she asked firmly. “Should I have a lawyer present?”

  He seemed to consider his words carefully. “No. Senator Stanton’s reaction when she saw you raises questions, ones for which I will need answers. But you don’t have to speak to me without a lawyer if you prefer to wait.”

  She wasn’t sure what to do—she had minimal experience with criminal matters, her focus was the “legalese” used to write laws. Since she hadn’t killed anyone, she figured one approach would be to answer Alibi’s questions honestly. But, there was also the possibility that her answers wouldn’t clear her of the crime, in which case she should not offer more information without an attorney.

  Maren was given a reprieve in her deliberations when Officer Lee appeared, carrying neatly folded velour sweatpants, gold with red trim, and a matching zip-front hoodie, both emblazoned with the University of Southern California fighting Trojans logo. Maren returned to the bathroom. The dry clothing seemed to make everything better, despite her being a CAL Berkeley grad who wouldn’t normally be caught dead in USC colors.

  Back in the library, she found her hands steady as she accepted a protein bar and water bottle from Alibi. She didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, but his eyes seemed softer, even kind. In that moment, Maren decided to answer his questions without waiting for a lawyer. It wasn’t just that he seemed less hostile, although that was part of it. It was also that now warm and dry, her head relatively clear, it had occurred to Maren that this interview wasn’t only about determining her guilt or innocence, or at least it didn’t have to be. Information she provided might help the police to locate the real killer.

  "When we took a break, we were at the point where you said you’d just used the bathroom," Alibi said, consulting his notes.

  “No. It was occupied.”

  “How did you know? Was the door locked?”

  “I heard voices, male and female…sounds.” She felt herself blushing. Even in this context, she didn’t want to have this conversation with this man. “My best guess is they were having sex.”

  Alibi raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

  “I came here to wait. I walked to that glass door, over there.” She pointed to the slider. “It was open. I went outside to get some air.”

  “Open? It was unlocked?”

  “It was unlocked, but it was also actually open. An inch or so.”

  Alibi nodded.

  “I wanted to see what the rest of the estate looked like.” She reached her hands up and rubbed the back of her neck, fighting a wave of fatigue. “A drooping branch of a tree got bumped when I pushed the gate. The flowers on it were heavy with rain so I ended up getting soaked. I wanted my coat…”

  “Why did you want your coat when your clothes were already wet?”

  “My dress was white, so getting wet meant …” Maren could feel her cheeks coloring as she held her hands open in front of her chest to indicate the problem.

  Alibi looked away, down at his phone. But not before she caught the hint of a smile on his face. When he looked up his tone was definitely gentler, more conversational.

  She had known men who couldn’t accept that they might not be able to protect a woman from pain or sadness. The stereotype was the man who couldn’t stand when a woman started to cry, and would withdraw coldly or might yell at her to stop, even if he cared for her. She knew it was a stretch to assume that kind of emotion might overtake a cop during a murder investigation, but she considered it a possibility. Because now that she seemed stronger, less in need of him, Alibi was behaving more like the man she’d met at the party. The one who asked whether their conversation counted as a date.

  “I thought it best to go around the side of the house, and then back in the front where the coat check was set up. That way the fewest people would see my…” She realized that sentence needed no end, and went on. “But I didn’t have a chance, as soon as I was out of the courtyard Senator Stanton was there.”

  Maren took a breath, remembering how awful those next few minutes had been.

  “She pointed at me and said I killed Santa. She looked disheveled, her hair, her make-up. I thought maybe she was drunk. But then I saw Johnny, I mean I saw his body. By the pool. I don’t remember what happened exactly, but pretty soon there were a lot of people outside, I guess they’d heard the senator scream. One of her staff brought me here.”

  Alibi’s eyes rested a moment on hers, he seemed to be searching for something there. “Just a few more questions. Then we can find a room where you’ll be able to lie down. We’re not detaining you. But if you stay it might save us from having to bring you to the station for further questioning in the morning.” He scrolled through his notes before speaking again.

  “Did you know Mr. Jameson, the deceased?

  Maren marshaled what little energy she had. She sat up straight. Whether Alibi was leaning towards believing in her innocence or not, she knew that what she said next mattered.

  “I was appointed to a community-based task force to advise Johnny Jameson and his staff at Health-for-All. We focused on strategies to ensure that every child in California would have access to a medical home—a doctor to see regularly. None of us knew Jameson, he’d come here from a private sector position, I think it was in Florida or Texas.”

  “What was he like?” Alibi asked.

  “Smart, high-energy. But it was hard to tell whether he was personally committed to the mission of health care for children.” Maren’s throat felt dry. She picked up her water bottle and took a drink.

  “Last week Senator Hindall announced that he planned to introduce a bill to close nonprofit clinics in California and shift that funding to a for-profit organization. He argued it would serve patients more efficiently and save the state money.” She took another sip, then set the water down. “But Hindall and his staff hadn’t done their homework. The major for-profit company in that market, LILHealth, was under investigation in five states for deaths, including two children. Critics say LILHealth has failed to deliver adequate preventive care—regular physicals, hearing and vision screens, vaccines.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Alibi said. “How does Hindall’s bill involve Jameson and you?”

  Maren nodded, she was getting there. “Someone leaked emails showing that Jameson is the one who sold Hindall on the idea to move funding to LILHealth. Being new, Johnny might have felt pressure to show that his division could provide care at a lower cost—nothing illegal in that. But then a reporter found that Johnny was on LILHealth’s payroll before he came here, and rumors flew that he would get kickbacks from his old employer if he was able to open the door to the lucrative California market.”

  There was a knock at the library door. It was Officer Lee. Alibi stood, the two men turned their backs on Maren and spoke in near-whispers. “I’ve got to go,” Alibi said, grabbing his sports coat. “I’m sorry, Maren, we’ll finish later.”

  He was part way out the door, but Maren wasn’t done. She wanted to go home. She wanted something better than a protein bar to eat. So she stood and continued. “I told Johnny Jameson that he should be the first to sign up for LILHealth services in California, because if anyone was going to die from their shoddy, substandard care, it should be him.” She swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have said it. But I did, and it got tweeted o
ut, going viral. It was everywhere: Ecobabe Lobbyist says Jameson should die first.”

  Alibi’s phone buzzed. He told the person to hold and turned back to Maren. “Wait for me, can you do that? Officer Lee will be in the hallway if you need anything.” He didn’t stay for her answer.

  As soon as she was alone, Maren let out something close to a growl of frustration. Shouldn’t Alibi have asked her a few questions before he ran out? Like did you want Johnny Jameson dead? Or better yet, did you kill Johnny Jameson? Wasn’t this the moment when she got to explain Senator Stanton’s mistake and proclaim her own innocence?

  What could possibly be more important?

  Then it hit her. If Officer Lee told Alibi that they had discovered evidence pointing to someone else, that they were on the track of the real killer, then Maren would no longer be a suspect. It was the only thing that made sense to her. She’d been holding herself together through sheer willpower since Jameson’s body was found. The kernel of hope she was allowing herself to feel now, that this craziness might be over, was enough that she stopped fighting her fatigue and curled up in one of the oversize chairs, soon drifting into a welcome, if unsettled sleep.

  The back of Senator Stanton’s property was lit up like a nighttime movie set, a half dozen stationery lights set at intervals, black electrical cords snaking through thick foliage to outlets and generators. The rain had stopped, but blue tarps elevated on stakes were strategically placed to protect the equipment in case the bad weather returned. Alibi, in dress shoes, made his way carefully across the still-slick slate patio to the far edge where his team stood at a makeshift command station.

  Rachel Codghill, junior detective in homicide, was in charge of the crime scene. Her short, bleached blonde hair with black roots made her look more like a punk rocker then a cop. Next to her stood a young, ginger-haired and freckle-faced officer, Clyde Watson.

  “Evening, sir,” Detective Codghill said. “I can give you a rundown on what we’ve found at the scene. Then Clyde—Officer Watson—will update you on the status of interviews with guests and staff. Unless you’d like the other way round.”

  There was a loud crash as someone tripped on one of the cords and knocked a light over on the upper terrace. Alibi turned, saw it was being handled and returned his focus to Rachel. “What do we have in terms of physical evidence? Since his jacket was soaked in blood, it’s a good guess our guy didn’t drown. But I’m assuming you’d have told tell me if you found the weapon?

  “38 revolver, standard.”

  Alibi raised his eyebrows. “We have it?

  “No.” Codghill stuffed her hands into her pockets and stamped her feet. The temperature was in the high 40s. “But we have a bullet. The killer missed once and we got lucky, it was close enough to the guesthouse that we picked it up on the first search.”

  Alibi nodded. They’d caught a break there, it would take time before the coroner dug any other bullets out of the victim.

  “Also, we found footprints on the second level. The hour of rain didn’t have much punch to it, plus thick cover from tree branches up there sheltered the ground. One set is clearly the victim’s—they match running shoes found with his clothes in the guesthouse. Then there are the boots Jameson had on. Prints show he walked from the guesthouse towards the edge of the terrace, stood in one spot for at least several minutes, causing deeper indentations.” Rachel demonstrated Jameson’s actions as she spoke, taking a few steps, then standing still. “He backed up, looks like he was staggering, the weight distribution between his feet was uneven, before falling over the edge.”

  “Any chance he was pushed?” Alibi asked.

  “Looks like he fell from the way the footprints skid.”

  “So, putting the location of the bullet and the trajectory of his footprints together, Jameson was shot there,” Alibi said, pointing to the second terrace “…and fell into the pool, below. But how did a dead man get to the pool stairs, half out of the water?”

  “Senator Stanton said she found Jameson’s body floating face down and dragged him over to the stairs to see if she could save him. That fits with her shoes being off and her dress and hair drenched.”

  “But that doesn’t rule out Michelle Stanton having fired the shots herself, then afterwards coming down to the pool and pulling Jameson out. To make it look like a rescue.” He looked up towards the featureless concrete guesthouse, picturing Stanton firing her weapon, then coming down the rock-hewn staircase to the pool, moving Jameson and screaming for help. “She wouldn’t be the first killer to feign discovering the body,” Alibi said.

  A cold wind came up. Codghill moved to her left, hoping for better shelter at that angle. “There were also a woman’s footprints on the top terrace. Barefoot. Senator Stanton was shoeless when she accused Maren Kane of the murder.” Codghill was shaking her head as she said it. “But the footprints on the top terrace are a woman’s size seven. The senator wears a size 11. A man’s size 11.”

  Alibi looked down to give himself a moment. When he first met Maren Kane that evening he’d found her more interesting and attractive to him than any woman in a long time. The next thing he knew she was a suspect in a murder that he was investigating. Then he’d allowed himself to become convinced that she didn’t do it, that her supposed threat against Johnny Jameson was nothing more than political posturing in the capitol. Now it was clear from the evidence that the killer was a woman, person unknown.

  He tried to picture Maren’s feet. He’d noticed her silver high heels, it was hard to miss them at the end of those long legs. But were her feet big, small, or average? And for that matter, was a size seven women’s shoe big, small or average?

  He texted Officer Lee and directed him to ask Ms. Kane if she would mind sharing her shoe size. He figured if she tried to make a run for it rather than answer, at least they’d have gotten somewhere. He turned his attention to Clyde Watson.

  “A member of the Senator’s staff, Ginger Lassen, reported greeting the victim at the front door to the Senator’s home at 6:45 PM. Ms. Lassen was instructed by the Senator to provide Mr. Jameson with any support needed in his role this evening.” Clyde took a breath. “Lassen walked Mr. Jameson to the back door and indicated the location of the guesthouse on the second terrace, where his costume was laid out for him. She offered to walk him up there, but he declined. Lassen obtained Mr. Jameson’s cell number and told him she would text when it was time for him to come down, when all the guests, and in particular, the governor had arrived.”

  “The Governor?” Alibi asked. He’d forgotten that Governor Caries was supposed to be in attendance. “Did he…?”

  Rachel Codghill cut in. “Governor Caries was running late. We were able to reach his team when Jameson’s body was discovered and divert him from coming.”

  Alibi let out a breath. At least that was one problem he didn’t have to deal with. He signaled to Clyde to continue.

  “Ms. Lassen texted Mr. Jameson at 7:45 to let him know the governor was delayed and that Jameson’s entrance as Santa would be pushed-back. Jameson didn’t respond. Lassen told Senator Stanton, who said she’d check on Jameson herself. It was 15 minutes after that when the senator announced she’d discovered the body.”

  “So that puts the time of the murder at between 6:50 pm, when Johnny Jameson left to go up to the guesthouse, and 8:00 pm when Senator Stanton says she found the body? That’s scarcely over an hour. While the coroner may be able to tell us something more, I doubt we’ll narrow the window. Speaking of which, where is Sandy?” Alibi could see from where he stood that the body had been moved from the edge of the pool, so the coroner’s initial assessment must have been done.

  “Sandy’s lying down. In the guest house,” Rachel said. “He’s not feeling well. He said to let you know you could speak to him there when you’re ready.” Codghill was clearly trying to suppress a smile. It was common knowledge that Sandy Zane, the coroner, was always sick with something. Alibi would get to Sandy when he finished with Clyde
.

  “And where are we with the guest interviews?

  “Done.”

  Alibi was sure he’d heard him wrong. “You’ve interviewed over 100 guests?”

  “Yes, sir. 134. I have an app for it, sir. I modified one that companies use for hiring. It permits me to rapidly scan IDs, so I have name, address, birthdate, all that, in a few seconds.” Clyde paused, he appeared uncertain how much detail to give. “I altered the fields to address questions about each guest’s whereabouts during the party, including if they had witnesses that could place them inside the house during the time in question, and whether they saw anyone leaving who they knew, so that we can identify people we need to talk to who might have left.”

  Alibi was stunned. “Did you create this application this evening?

  “I’ve been working on it for awhile. This is my first use of it in the field, though, and I didn’t anticipate trying it out with so many people.” Watson adjusted his glasses, shifting from one foot to the other, apparently nervous about what his boss’s reaction would be to his innovation.

  “Terrific, Clyde.” Alibi said. “Anyone you think we should look at?”

  Clyde considered the question. “With the party occurring in one big room, since it was raining and all, everyone had a similar story. They arrived through the front entrance sometime after seven and stayed inside all night. Neither the kitchen nor the bathrooms directly off the main room provided access to the back yard.” He scrolled and clicked a few times. “But there are two people, Tina and Tim Simpson, who said there was a line for the main bathroom so they went and found another. Sounds like they were gone for 20 minutes or so from the main room. I didn’t have them point out the location yet, but I can talk to them. I guess especially her, given the footprints.

  The Simpsons’ story matched what Maren had told him. Alibi was surprised to hear the couple was married to one another, though. Seems they couldn’t wait until they got home. Good for them, he thought. He turned to go up and look at the scene by the guesthouse.