"Surprise—I brought your wedding pictures with me!"
She squinted. "Mom, I didn't get married, remember?"
"Well, almost, dear. I told the photographer to develop the pictures he took before the ceremony. Here are the proofs of the ones with your eyes open." She handed them over. "You have a peculiar look on your face in most of them, but your bridesmaids look splendid."
Her mother was right—she did, and they did. Instead of glowing with nuptial bliss, she had a pinched look about her face, as if something sharp were in her shoe. But the bridesmaids wore their best fake I'm-so-happy-for-her smiles. In the photos of herself alone, she seemed almost incidental to the shot. A great picture of the fountain with a bride in the foreground. A great picture of the church with a bride entering right.
"Here's the one of you and me," Dee said, then wiped at an imaginary tear. "I look so sad."
In the photo, Dee looked the same as always. Sad, happy, surprised—who knew? She'd had the plastic surgeon sever most of the muscles that affected expression, although the "angry" muscles had somehow managed to regenerate.
"And this one of me and your father is grand. I already ordered a sixteen-by-twenty."
It was a good photo—her mother looked slim and pleased at the prospect of being rid of her.
"I ordered you a photo album—one of every shot," Dee said.
"But I don't want a photo album," she whispered.
"And good news—almost everyone I contacted said you should keep their gift, that you deserved it."
"Mother, did you hear me?"
"Except for Lilly Barkin, but she only sent a Pyrex dish, for heaven's sake. As if you could cook anyway."
"Mother, I don't want any photos, and I don't want any gifts." Well, maybe the silver tea service, but the rest of it was going back.
"Don't be difficult, Angora."
"I just want to pretend as if that day never happened."
"Well, it did happen, young lady, and I had to do all the explaining." Dee fanned herself. "Have some sympathy for me—after all, I was humiliated in front of my entire social circle."
"You were humiliated?"
"That's right. That church wasn't packed to see Angora Ryder be married, missy—it was packed to see Dee Ryder's daughter be married." Her mouth flattened. "And you couldn't even do that right. God, Angora, you are a colossal screw-up."
"I think you'd better leave."
Angora and her mother both looked up. She had forgotten that Mike Brown was still in the room. He sort of blended in with the drab walls.
Dee lifted one eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You're upsetting her. I think it's time for you to leave."
Angora blinked—no one ordered her mother around.
"Who are you?" Dee asked in the voice she saved for the gardener.
"Ms. Ryder's attorney."
Dee scoffed. "And why would my daughter need an attorney?"
"I told you," Angora broke in hurriedly. "I was the last person to see Dr. Seger alive." She sent Mike a warning glance—if her parents thought she was a suspect in a murder case, they'd stroke out. "Mr. Brown is handling the police for me."
Dee looked him up and down. "Looks to me as if he's handling the livestock." She shook her head. "No, this person will never do. I'll call Bennett and he'll fly up to take care of everything. You may go," she said to him, punctuated with a shooing motion.
"Mrs. Ryder, this is your daughter's decision." He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and boldly stared at Dee.
Dee stared back for a few seconds, then faltered. "Angora?" she chirped.
Angora gawked. Any man who could face down her mother was someone she needed on her side. "I choose Mr. Brown," she murmured in renewed appreciation.
"And you should be going, Mrs. Ryder," he said. "Angora needs her rest. She's had complications, you know."
Angora coughed to bolster his argument. And in truth, she was growing tired.
Then the door burst open and those two plainclothes police officers strode in. The hateful one, Jaffey, leveled his gaze on her. "Angora Ryder, you're under arrest for the murders of Tammy Paulen and Dr. Carl Seger. You have the right to remain silent—"
Her mother swayed, then hit the floor face first. The cop didn't miss a beat, shouting her rights while the three men wrestled Dee into a chair. She roused and began to screech hysterically, something about the Junior League and being blackballed.
"Do you understand your rights?" Jaffey yelled over the fracas.
Angora nodded, then sighed. Only Dee could turn the spotlight on herself while her daughter was being handcuffed to a hospital bed.
Chapter Twenty-six
AFTER A NIGHT IN THE COUNTY JAIL, the next-to-last thing Roxann needed was a gauntlet of reporters in the hall of the district attorney's office. But the very last thing she needed was a confrontation with her Aunt Dee in front of said reporters. Her aunt was coming out of the restroom, and when she saw Roxann, her face screwed up.
"This is all your fault!" Jackson held his wife back by the shoulders as security guards circled. "If you hadn't interfered, Angora wouldn't be in this mess."
Roxann bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that she was in the same mess, and her daughter wasn't exactly blameless.
"You talked her into it, I know! Angora is a good girl—she would never do anything to disgrace me and her father on her own."
Roxann stopped. Cameras flashed. "Angora was arrested for murder, and you're worried about the family name? God, you're such a bitch." They'd probably bleep that part out on the local news.
Dee's face went scarlet. "Peasant. Just like your father."
"I take that as a compliment." She stepped up her pace and caught up with her white-faced attorney. Phyllis Troy had the most impressive ad in the Yellow Pages but was more nervous than Roxann at the prospect of a conference with the DA. Not a good sign.
The meeting-room door stood open. Roxann held back until her aunt and uncle passed through, then closed the door behind Phyllis, who was now visibly shaking.
"Come on in and have a seat." District Attorney Robert Mason waved them in. He was a big blond-haired man in his fifties who had the voice and demeanor of a Baptist preacher. He lorded over a dark wood conference table surrounded by padded chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a young woman whom he introduced as an assistant DA. Angora's attorney, the round-faced Mr. Brown, occupied another. He had dressed up, sporting a new denim shirt, and his curly hair was slicked back with something shiny. Angora herself looked frail and victimized sitting in a wheelchair and wearing a paper gown. A blanket covered her legs. She refused to make eye contact, which suited Roxann just fine. Dee and Jackson moved their chairs to sit on either side of Angora and hold her hands. Sadly, it was probably the most of their undivided attention she'd ever received.
"How was jail?" Mason asked Roxann without preliminary.
"Unpleasant," she answered. In a single night the institutional funk of the place had permeated her skin, hair, and clothing. Thanks to a doctor's note, Angora had been spared the same treatment and confined to a guarded hospital room until her arraignment, which had taken place this morning moments before Roxann's. They both had pleaded "not guilty." Roxann tried not to let the fact that Capistrano hadn't shown up in court, or since, bother her. The episode in the hotel room was a manifestation of mixed emotions, none of them grounded. She had thought of a way to get rid of him, but first things first.
Mason opened a file on top of the stack in front of him. "This wasn't your first time in our jail."
"No. I was arrested twice during protest rallies when I attended the university."
Dee made an indignant noise in her throat. "I'm not a bit surprised."
Mason swung his gaze in her direction. "They were peaceful protests."
"Roxann has always been a troublemaker," Dee said, her head bobbing. "She's a bad influence on Angora." From the tone of her voice one might have thought Angora to be a six-year-old.
The DA cleared his throat loudly, indicating he wanted silence, but Dee was never good at taking a hint.
"My daughter would do something illegal or immoral only if Roxann talked her into it."
Angora's attorney turned his slick head. "Mrs. Ryder, would you kindly shut your pie hole?"
Roxann blinked, and her estimation of the greenhorn rose a couple of notches. Not only was he astute enough to realize that Dee wasn't doing Angora any favors, but he didn't mind telling her. Wow.
Her own attorney, meanwhile, leaned over and puked something brown on the beige carpet. She was hustled to the ladies' room and the goop temporarily covered with an upended trash can. When Phyllis returned, apologetic and pastel, everyone reconvened at the opposite end of the table. Roxann was getting sick to her stomach, not because of the throw-up, but because this Troy woman was probably making ten times her salary.
"Let's get right to it," the DA said. "Ms. Beadleman, Ms. Ryder, as you can imagine, this is a high-profile case with all the trappings of a scandal, which the university could do without. So we'd like to take care of this matter as expeditiously as possible." He paused and looked back and forth between them for effect. "Basically, we think you're both involved in the murder of Dr. Seger." He let the words sink in. "But whichever one of you talks first gets to walk."
Roxann chanced a glance at Angora, who was chewing on her lower lip. Dee was massaging her hand and whispering low, with a pleading look on her face. Panic blipped through her—Angora wouldn't lie to save her own skin, would she? Her heart thudded. Of course she would.
Since her own attorney was useless, Roxann leaned forward and clasped her hands on the table. "Face it, Mr. Mason. You have nothing but circumstantial evidence, or you wouldn't have arrested both of us. You need an eyewitness, which you don't have. But you and I know that if you put us both on trial, it'll be easy to generate doubt among the jurors. If that's not enough, we'll throw in the fact that I'm being stalked by a man who threatened to hurt people around me, and who, by the way, is still unaccounted for. If you think we're lying, then give us a lie detector test, but don't try to bribe us into making up something to incriminate the other just so you can dangle someone in front of the press and the public."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Maybe you should have been a lawyer, Ms. Beadleman." Then his smile vanished. "But the way we see it, you two could have been in cahoots to get rid of the man. We found these lists that the two of you made where Dr. Seger seems to be the target of some kind of sexual fantasy."
She set her jaw. "Those were harmless ramblings of youth."
"We were smoking dope," Angora offered.
Roxann closed her eyes, and Dee said, "See, see, I told you—Roxann is a bad influence."
"Maybe," Mason said, "the two of you went over to his house for a threesome, and things got out of hand. The medical examiner's report said that the alcohol level in Dr. Seger's blood was near the legal limit. And he was already unconscious when he was strangled."
"He had passed out?"
"No—hit from behind with a blunt object on the base of the skull."
Roxann digested this new bit of information. "But if we had hit him, then strangled him, why would we incriminate ourselves by leaving behind a very identifiable scarf?"
Mason shrugged. "Some killers get a kick out of leaving a souvenir. It's not my job to look into your psyche, Ms. Beadleman. It's my job to prove that you have motive, means, and opportunity." He looked back and forth between them. "The offer is on the table for two more minutes, then you both can take your chances."
"What about the other murder charge?" Mr. Brown asked and looked at his notes. "A student named Tammy Paulen?"
Mason looked at his assistant, who offered Brown a flat smile. "We're willing to drop those charges if your client cooperates."
Roxann's eyes bugged. If she cooperates? They might as well have said if she hands them Roxann’s head on a platter. "Why?" she pressed. "Why would you drop the charges if you have evidence of a crime?"
The lady DA fidgeted, then said, "Some of the files from the Paulen case seem to be missing. So...we'll be dropping those charges, regardless."
Mason tapped his watch. "One minute, ladies."
Angora looked at her from across the room, and Roxann saw thirty years of hurt, jealousy, and disappointment in her eyes. Angora's lips parted and she started to say something, then stopped. She shifted in her wheelchair, and tears glistened in her eyes. Dee was pumping her hand.
Angora could do it all in one fell swoop, Roxann realized—pin the blame on the cousin she saw as competition, and exonerate herself in the eyes of the parents she so wanted to please. Roxann swallowed. And if Angora was guilty, then she had even more incentive to fabricate a story. And when it suited her, Angora could lie like a Persian rug.
She maintained eye contact as the seconds ticked away and the tension mounted. The faint odor of the throw-up had found its way out from under the trash can. A fly buzzed lazily on the light fixture above the table. The assistant DA clicked the end of her pen in slow, steady succession.
Dee whispered furiously in Angora's ear. When her cousin looked away, Roxann began to nurse a bad, bad feeling. Angora suddenly shoved at her mother and cleared her throat.
"Mr. Mason...if you had an eyewitness to the crime, what would the charge be?"
Oh, God.
Mason bounced the tips of his fingers together. "Since Dr. Seger was already unconscious when he was strangled, it clearly was not accidental, nor a crime of passion, nor of self-defense. We'd be charging first-degree murder."
"And the sentence?" Angora asked.
"Life in prison."
Roxann knew Angora well enough to know when she was terrified—the question was, was she terrified that Roxann had seen something through the window? If so, was she contemplating turning on Roxann first?
"Angora—" she began, but Mason stopped her.
"No conferring, Ms. Beadleman, unless it's with your attorney. My watch says fifteen seconds."
She wet her lips and willed Angora to look at her, but she wouldn't. Don't do it, she pleaded silently.
"I—" Angora said, and all eyes went to her.
"Yes?" Mason prompted.
She looked at Roxann, desperation on her face. "I...don't have anything to add to my story."
Roxann exhaled slowly.
Mason's mouth went flat and he closed the folder, smacking it back on top of the pile. "All right, then, we're finished here. By the way, we're going to try you ladies at the same time." He stood and gathered his things, then strode from the room with his assistant on his heels.
Roxann's attorney had fallen asleep during the commotion. The woman obviously shut down in the face of stress. Roxann scribbled "You're fired" on a sheet of paper, stuck it on Troy's briefcase, then wheeled her out in the hall in the rolling chair.
When she came back in the room, she looked at Angora. "Can I talk to you—alone?"
"Stay away from her," Dee said to Roxann. "Angora should have turned you in when she had the chance."
But Roxann was still looking at Angora, who nodded. "Wait for me in the hall," she said to her parents, and to her attorney. When the door closed, Roxann eased into a chair in front of her cousin. "How are you feeling?"
"Not great," she said. "I feel like I've been turned inside out, and those crabby nurses aren't giving me as many painkillers as before."
Roxann smiled. "They must not realize they have a celebrity on their hands—Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge."
Angora smiled back, then her eyes filled with tears. "The police won't give me back my crown."
"Isn't that a coincidence—you lost a crown and I have a spare one lying around somewhere."
She lit up. "You mean it?"
Roxann sighed. "Angora, you know better than anyone that I didn't deserve that Distinguished Alumni award. So cheer me up a little by taking that thing off my hands."
She looked back, bit into her lip, and sm
iled. "Okay." Then she teared up again. "Roxann, I'm sorry I said those terrible things about your mother."
She squeezed Angora's hand. "It's okay. I'm grateful to you for telling me—now I realize what my dad was going through." She smiled. "And now I understand why you were so lenient on him."
Angora nodded. "Your dad's great."
"Yeah. It was nice of your parents to come up."
"I suppose. Is your dad coming?"
"No, I asked him not to. I hope I convinced him that this is one big misunderstanding that will unravel in a few days."
"Is it?" Angora asked. "Is it one big misunderstanding?"
Roxann inhaled and looked into Angora's eyes. "Angora, I'm going to ask you a question, and you have to be honest with me. I swear, whatever the answer is, I'll help you get through it, okay?"
Angora nodded.
"Did you do any of those things to Carl that the DA said happened—did you hit him, or strangle him with my scarf?"
Her lower lip began to tremble. "I didn't hit him, but..."
Roxann's stomach pitched. "But?"
"But I keep having these terrible visions of him lying on the floor with that green scarf around his neck. And I don't know if they're real, or if it's something that's gotten in my head. I do that sometimes—think about something so hard that I can't remember if I made it up, or if it really happened."
"Did you find my scarf somewhere?"
"No. I'm sure about that part."
Roxann smiled. "Well, then, don't you see? If you didn't find my scarf, then you couldn't have done it."
Angora hiccupped. "Unless Carl found your scarf. We were at the same restaurant that night."
Roxann stared. "Utopia?"
"Yes. I didn't see you, but the police told me you and Nell were there."
"We were."
"Is that where you lost your scarf?"
"It's possible," she murmured, trying to think back. "I remember going to the ladies' room, and...and I made some calls at the pay phone."
Love Can Be Murder Box Set Page 76