Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  He reached for my hand and sat me down next to him on the bed. “I can’t tell you much, Maggie, because of the confidentiality of the investigation. And even if I could tell you everything, I still wouldn’t, because you’d probably manage to use what I said to get yourself kidnapped or shot.”

  “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Detective. I’m not an idiot.”

  Villari shook his head. “I never called you an idiot, but you are impetuous. Unfortunately, in my business, leading face first can get you killed.”

  “Just because I embarked on a little harmless amateur sleuthing doesn’t make me a moron.” I held up my hands when I saw the look of exasperation flit across his face. “You forced me to tell you every little detail of what happened this morning. I deserve something in return. And,” I added pointedly, “before you bring it up, I don’t consider jumping in the sack, or whatever you call what we did, to be that something.”

  “This isn’t a quid pro quo situation, Maggie. As a citizen you are bound to give the police any information you have that might aid a murder investigation. As a police officer, however, I am not bound to tell you a damn thing.” He ran his hands over his face in frustration. “However, I will say this much. All I’ve got is a handful of rumors that won’t hold water.”

  “I still want to hear them,” I said determinedly.

  “Yeah, I figured as much. But you have to keep the information to yourself, even if it is nothing but innuendos and conjecture. That stuff can be just as damaging to people’s reputations, and the department itself, if it gets into the wrong hands.”

  “I’m not going to the newspapers, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  He took a deep breath. “There’s some talk that Tom Mailer is a heavy cocaine user, but there’s never been enough tangible evidence to pin anything on him or even enough suspicion to have him tailed. His record is clean—no write-ups, no medical referrals, and so on. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a friend in Records wiping his slate clean. The story going around is that Mailer, who is noted for making drug busts, has been slipping some of the seized property into his own pockets.”

  “Can’t they arrest him for that?”

  “They could if he was caught. But if you’re the first man on the scene, it’s not difficult to remove evidence that no one else has seen...if you’re working alone. On the other hand, if any of this is true, there’s no telling how deep this goes and how many people are involved. Then again, I don’t know how much is true and how much is conjecture and I certainly can’t question the guy based on gossip.”

  “What about Lindsay’s story? Doesn’t that help?”

  He shook his head in frustration. “It’s pretty difficult to step into a domestic violence situation after the fact. Right now it would be her word against his, a “he said—she said” situation which is notoriously difficult to prosecute. And I can’t do a thing anyway, not unless she decides to press charges, and frankly, she doesn’t sound like she’s willing to go that far. All I can do at this point is notify a social worker or give her the names of shelters to go to.”

  “I’ll give them to her,” I volunteered.

  “No, you won’t,” he said firmly. “From this point forward, you’re out of the loop.”

  “She won’t listen to you, Villari. She’s already scared of her own shadow, not to mention her husband’s. What are you going to do, show up at her doorstep and say, ‘Maggie told me about your problems. Here are some places you can go’? She’ll run in the other direction.”

  “And your suggestion?”

  “Let me talk to her. She knows who I am and I think she trusts me.”

  “I thought she told you to stay away from her, to leave her alone?”

  “She was trying to protect me. She’s afraid of what her husband might do if he saw me with her.”

  “She has a good point, Maggie. Mailer will be instantly suspicious if he sees you within ten miles of his wife. He was at the crime scene, remember? It wouldn’t be difficult to suspect a connection between you and Elizabeth with both of you showing up on his doorstep.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I admitted reluctantly. “But there has to be a way to help Lindsay.”

  “Elizabeth told her about CDV, right? She can get help there, if she really wants it, Maggie.”

  I heard the skepticism in his voice. “She does, Villari, but since Elizabeth was killed, she’s been too frightened to move, especially since she believes her own husband may be the murderer. She’s got the safety of two children riding on the decisions she makes.”

  “Our hands are tied, Maggie. We can’t force the lady to leave Mailer, and without her pressing charges, I can’t move in and start investigating her husband.”

  Villari stood up and started pacing the floor. “The problem is that we have no proof, other than Lindsay’s word, that Mailer even knew Elizabeth, much less talked to her directly. Both Cassie and Preston met him during the initial investigation and neither one said a word about knowing or seeing him before. I can check with the other house employees, show them Mailer’s picture, but I have a hunch we’ll end up with a big zero.”

  “Why are you so sure about that?”

  “Because the guy is a cop, Maggie. If Lindsay’s story is true and he was trying to blackmail Elizabeth, I can guarantee you that he would have been as discreet as possible. Extortionists do not like witnesses. Besides that, I have some real questions about the whole theory of Mailer as a murderer.”

  “Why? The guy likes to slap people around. What’s to keep him from killing someone?”

  “It’s a question of motive,” Villari replied. “If he wanted to blackmail Elizabeth, what good would it do to kill her? How is he going to collect from a dead woman?”

  “Maybe he never intended to kill her,” I mused. “Let’s just say he went to Elizabeth and demanded a large sum of money under the threat of exposing her late husband’s philandering and his illegitimate child. My guess is that Elizabeth refused to be blackmailed for several reasons. And it wouldn’t surprise me if she ticked off those reasons one by one in front of Mailer himself.” Elizabeth’s voice was crystal clear in my head as I continued. “First and foremost, she wouldn’t be bullied by someone as despicable as Mailer, especially knowing the way he treated Lindsay. Second, she had resigned herself to Boyer’s infidelities years ago. And third, she never much cared what people thought about her, and with only a few months to live, she probably cared even less. Her response probably shocked the hell out of him.”

  “According to your scenario, he tried to blackmail Elizabeth, she refused to pay him, so Mailer went berserk and hit her on the back of the head with a heavy object, threw her over his shoulder, and tossed her in your septic tank?”

  “You don’t need to get sarcastic, Villari. I’m just tossing out ideas here. According to Lindsay, Elizabeth died shortly after Mailer’s visit.”

  “If there was one.”

  “There was,” I insisted. “If you met Lindsay and talked to her, you’d know she was telling the truth. Anyway,” I went on, “my guess is that Mailer is biding his time, waiting for the investigation to slow down and be relegated to a back burner. When that happens, he’ll drag Lindsay by the hair to meet Preston and Cassie and introduce her as Cranford’s daughter. Then he’ll demand Lindsay’s rightful inheritance, since he’ll be working under the erroneous assumption that the money is going directly to bloodline descendants, and as his daughter, she would receive the money before his grandchildren.”

  He shook his head. “It’s plausible, Maggie. You’ve got a devious little mind for an artist.”

  I stood up and executed a small curtsy. Then I sat back down on the bed and shook my head. “Some of it makes sense, but I just can’t see those two going meekly along with a blackmail scheme, especially one where they stand to lose a large portion of their inheritance. If Mailer showed up demanding money, the two of them would race to the police and insist on protection. Besides, even Prest
on and Cassie, with their collective IQ of seventy-five, would be suspicious of the timing: Elizabeth is murdered and now a cop is extorting money? They would force the police to reopen the case and check Mailer. I imagine he might not do too well under close scrutiny.”

  “Maybe,” he conceded, “but my guess is that Mailer is looking for money and money only. He’s not looking for Lindsay to claim the Boyer name—abusers tend to want to keep their spouses in the shadows. But Cassie and Preston, not knowing anything about Mailer or his background, will assume that the Boyer name is also important to him.”

  “But not as important as it is to those two,” I noted.

  “Exactly. If they go to the cops, Lindsay’s name will surface, the truth of her story will come out, and their inheritance will be diluted. The Boyer name will be sullied, and I’m not sure either one of them could survive that catastrophe. So they’ll offer some amount of money to keep it hushed. Mailer, wary of any publicity, will hem and haw and shuffle his feet before taking the money and running like hell. And if by chance the cops do intervene, the man’s smart enough to come up with an airtight alibi for the night of Elizabeth’s death.”

  “But what about my job as fiduciary? They couldn’t give him any money unless I agreed to it.”

  Villari grinned. “Yeah, that throws a real wrench into the whole plan. If Mailer did kill Elizabeth because she refused to be blackmailed, and he was afraid she’d go to the police and tell them about his extortion attempts, I’m sure he was under the assumption that the will was a direct descendant type of thing. If he goes to Preston or Cassie and tries to get money, everyone will be in an uproar... they won’t be able to get money without your knowledge, and Mailer”—Villari frowned as he continued—“will probably come after you for a little friendly bit of coercion.”

  A sliver of fear slid up my spine. “So where do we go from here?”

  Villari walked over and glared at me. “Listen very carefully. We don’t go anywhere from here. There is no we in this situation. There is nothing for you to do except to go on about your daily life and let the police handle the rest.”

  I stood and faced Villari. “First you accuse me of being a murderer and now you’re telling me that Mailer may come after me, and in both situations you tell me to sit and do nothing. Why don’t I just invite the guy over, offer him a knife, and let him slit my throat?”

  “Very cute,” he responded impatiently. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. This whole discussion is nothing but wild speculation; we don’t have one piece of hard evidence that proves Mailer even met Elizabeth.”

  “We have Lindsay’s word,” I stubbornly insisted.

  “No, we don’t even have that,” Villari replied impatiently. “We have Lindsay surmising that Mailer went to see Elizabeth. For all we know, he changed his mind and spent the afternoon in a movie theater eating popcorn.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe. If the facts aren’t there, there’s not a damn thing I can do.”

  “So you’re not even going to look into it?” I asked, shocked.

  “Of course I’ll check it out, but you’re staying out of it,” he demanded. “Understood?”

  “I really don’t respond well to people barking out orders,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m not vying for the title of Mr. Popularity right now, Maggie. I’m trying to keep you from becoming another statistic.” He took a deep breath and reached over to caress my cheek with the palm of his hand. “I happened to enjoy wrestling around on top of the sheets today and I’d like to think we’re moving toward some heavier wrestling under the sheets next time, but that only works if you’re around to try it again.” He smiled. “And again.”

  I softened a little. “Okay, I won’t pursue anything, but I’m still uncomfortable with Lindsay living in that house.”

  “One thing at a time, Maggie. Let me try to solve the murder first, okay?” He took hold of my arms and pulled me toward him. “This isn’t exactly the way I imagined our first sexual encounter would end.”

  “I’m not sure that what we did would be characterized as a sexual encounter.”

  The edges of his mouth twitched a little. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I was still hoping for a little affection, maybe a kiss or two, before sending me out the door.”

  I hooked my fingers in his belt loops and wiggled closer until our hips were touching. “You’re still here, Villari. Maybe it’s not too late,” I murmured.

  He reached around my waist and pulled me tighter. “You drive me crazy, Maggie. You’re the only person I know who can tick me off and make me horny as hell at the same time.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Detective,” I said as he released and pulled me down the hall to the front door. We stepped outside and stood on the porch holding hands like real sweethearts.

  “When the investigation is over, I’d like to take you on a real date, Maggie.”

  “Think we can make it through a whole evening together without ripping each other apart?”

  “I doubt it,” he said, “but we’ll have a great time finding out.”

  I laughed and pushed him toward the front steps. “I won’t even ask when I’ll see you again. You have a nasty habit of showing up at odd times, any time of the day.”

  He tipped up my chin and kissed me hard on the lips. I stayed on the porch savoring the taste of his lips on mine, and watched silently as he got in the car and backed out of the driveway.

  The phone rang while I was still standing outside and I reluctantly ran to catch it before the fourth ring, when the answering machine would automatically pick up.

  “Hello?”

  “Maggie? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I panted. “Just another sign that my body is completely and totally devoid of any muscle.”

  Lisa chuckled. “I’ve been begging you to come to my aerobics class. You’ll feel wonderful afterward.”

  “That is such a crock. I’ll feel hot, sweaty, and miserable.”

  “True. But only for the first couple of weeks. Then you’ll be amazed at how much better you feel.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” I grumbled, “but I may not have a choice if I don’t want to end up married to my couch and a thick layer of cellulite.”

  “They’ve got a beginner’s class on Monday morning. Interested?”

  “Do you have to be so damned chipper about the idea?”

  “Give me a month, Maggie, and I’ll have you pushing exercise as hard as Jillian Michaels.”

  “Let’s just get me through the first class,” I quipped.

  “I love a good challenge,” Lisa said, laughing. “I’ll pick you up on Monday at eight-thirty. Think of it as inspiration for your sculpting. You’ll be able to see bodies in all shapes and sizes.”

  “Which reminds me, I’ve got to get to my studio. Things are finally starting to move along a little.”

  “Does this mean our lunch date is off?”

  “Oh, God, Lisa,” I exclaimed apologetically, “I completely forgot about our plans and ate a sandwich with Villari.”

  “The detective? That absolutely gorgeous detective I met the other day at your house?”

  I grunted in agreement.

  “Tell me everything. And don’t leave out any details, no matter how small.”

  “Lisa, there’s nothing to tell. We both ate peanut butter sandwiches, drank iced tea, and I talked about the meeting I had with Hawthorne, Elizabeth’s attorney, this morning. Then he left. End of story.”

  “Okay, I’m coming over. You’re hiding something and it’s too hard to drag it out of you over the phone.”

  “I promise, I’m not hiding anything, and besides, even if I was, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to get some work done. I haven’t done more than a few hours since Elizabeth’s funeral.”

  “Fine. Go play in the clay,” Lisa said disappointedly. “But how about drinks tomorrow? I can
be there around five, as soon as Joel gets home to watch the baby. I’ll bring the vodka; you make the orange juice.”

  “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

  “Nope. I want the whole down-and-dirty story, not this rosy picture crap you’re handing me now.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then. But you’re going to be disappointed. Nothing happened.”

  “I don’t believe you, Maggie. You’ve got that funny hitch in your voice you always get when you’re lying.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me that my nose is growing,” I muttered, before hanging up. I poured myself another glass of tea and wandered slowly back to my studio, wondering why I hadn’t told Lisa the whole truth. We’d been inseparable since college, so my reluctance really surprised me. Maybe I kept it to myself because I was still unsure of how I felt. No doubt Lisa would pry the whole story out of me within fifteen minutes of her arrival, but I needed to think about it myself before I said anything.

  My studio, despite its bright and airy atmosphere, smelled musty and was oddly disheartening. Unwrapping the plastic from my latest sculpture, I rocked back on my stool and studied what was essentially a rough draft of the work to come. My fingertips tingled with the anticipation that never failed to arrive the moment I stepped into the studio. Unfortunately, my heart was more reluctant, more hesitant to follow this time. I was well aware that creating was my way of handling my grief, but I had to struggle to begin. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I felt that when this piece was completed, Elizabeth would be irrevocably dead. It was absurd, of course. Elizabeth was already in the ground. But there it was. Somehow, this sculpture was intricately linked with the finality of her death.

  Using my fingers, I began smoothing the clay. I worked slowly and methodically, and was soon lost in my own rhythm, when suddenly the memories crowded in, memories of Elizabeth so strong and vivid that I could feel them jockeying for first position in my brain.

  I remembered the time, right after we first met, when she gave me unsolicited advice on my gardening. Elizabeth, her hands on braced on her hips, had stood towering over me while I planted impatiens along the border of my sidewalk. When her shadow fell over me, I looked up to see my grand neighbor standing in my yard looking bothered.