We entered the room for a home gym. Mitzi seemed to be lost in an imaginary movie as she ran her hands along the row of free weights resting in front of a mirrored wall. The diamonds on her left hand picked up the sunny room's light and sparkled. She was still wearing her wedding ring, which made me wonder if we were on the wrong trail entirely. If she'd killed her husband, wouldn't she want to be free of him in every way, including the symbolic circle of gold?
Then again, perhaps she just really loved the ring. When I returned to my apartment that evening, I planned to change the locks but keep the new dining room table.
“What's this device?” Derek asked. He pointed to a pile of metal bars, straps, and springs on the floor.
Mitzi seemed to stop breathing. After a moment, she spat out, “Junk. I'm throwing it out. Chad said he would take it off my hands.”
Derek leaned over the pile of metal. “It's an inversion device,” he said with amusement. “I haven't seen one of these in years, darling. It's a human gyroscope, isn't it? You get in it like a little hamster in a wheel! Too cute!”
“My late husband was fascinated by ridiculous things,” she said. “He was a real thrill seeker, not like me. I prefer to be right-side up and in control of my faculties at all times.”
“Me, too,” Derek said with a playful lilt. “Except for Friday nights. And Saturdays.”
He let out a laugh that managed to infect Mitzi Kensington with a small chuckle.
“Next room,” he said cheerfully. “Tell me you have a gentleman's study? With old books? We'd save the time and trouble of set decoration if you have one.”
“You're in luck,” she said, and continued giving us the tour. The house was even larger than it looked from the outside. It had to be seven thousand square feet.
Several minutes later, we reached a room on the lower floor that Mitzi held back from entering. She stayed at the door and waved us in ahead of her.
It was the late Brock Kensington's study. The computer had been removed, but the remainder of the room looked untouched, with an antique oak desk, contemporary chairs, and tall glass-doored bookshelves full of expensive-looking first-edition books.
Mr. Kensington had worked his whole life in the shipping industry, starting in the billing offices and eventually becoming CEO of Avamar International. The walls of his office were decorated with highlights from his career, including a large photo of Mr. Kensington breaking a bottle of champagne across the bow of a new boat. On one side of him was a portly man, much shorter and wider, with olive skin and dark curly hair. On Brock's other side was a chic black woman in sensible heels.
Mitzi saw me looking at the photos and commented from her position in the doorway, “My late husband loved his work. Nothing else in life gave him the same satisfaction.”
“It's a fun photo,” I said. “I bet it was a fun day, smashing a bottle of champagne across a boat.”
Mitzi frowned. “The champagne wasn't Brock's idea. It was his friend, Roxanne, who insisted.” She fiddled at the center of her clavicle like she was adjusting an invisible string of pearls. “It was a waste of perfectly good champagne, if you ask me.”
Derek looked over my shoulder and clucked his tongue. “Handsome fellow, that man of yours. So athletic and intense. I'm sure you'll be happy to reunite again, in the Great Beyond. He'll be holding those big, strong arms of his wide open for you.” He let out a low chuckle. “Not too soon, hopefully.”
Both of Mitzi's hands flew up to her throat protectively. “No,” she croaked. “Not just yet.” She stepped backward, away from the doorway, like the room held germs she didn't want to catch.
Derek continued to look around the study. He opened the lower cabinets of a credenza and knelt on the floor. “What's this? A safe?” He turned his head and gave her an innocent grin. “I just love old safes. This one looks like an antique.”
“It came with the house,” Mitzi said. “Is it old? I don't know. Brock never used it. We have a box at the bank for my extra jewelry.”
Derek jiggled the handle. “It's locked.” Chewie came to inspect, sniffing all over the old-looking dial.
Mitzi cautiously stepped back into the room and came to kneel in front of the safe next to Derek. She twirled the combination lock and tried the handle.
“That's odd,” she said. “I swear the combination was one-two-three-four. Brock didn't use it, but we reset it with those numbers because Megan used to love playing with the safe when she was little. She'd put her dolls in there and beg her father to bust them out of Barbie jail.”
Derek looked over at me and gushed excited, “Abby, what do you think of that? Barbie jail!”
I plastered a professional smile on my face. “Sounds wonderful. More fun than tea parties.”
Softly, Mitzi said, “We were a very happy family once.” She stood up and walked over to the wall of framed photographs, where she stared at the boat-christening photo.
“You have a wonderful home,” Derek said. “I apologize for being intrusive.” He twirled the combination on the safe and tried the handle again. The safe remained locked.
Mitzi said impatiently, “Just leave the stupid Barbies in jail. I'll deal with that later.”
Derek stood up and quietly closed the credenza cabinet door. “Sorry. I'm just the kind of guy who can't resist a mystery.” He waved to the door. “Please, Ms. Kensington, continue the tour and don't mind me.”
“Certainly,” Mitzi said, sounding tired.
We continued the tour, but she wasn't the same woman we'd met on the way in.
When she finally led us to the front door at the end of the tour, she was still smiling and polite, but subdued, like talking about her husband had exhausted her.
As Derek and I stood on the front step, he thanked her again for the tour. “Someone from the studio will be in touch,” he said.
Mitzi's cobalt eyes had a faraway look. “Have a pleasant stay in Norfolk,” she said, her words hazy.
Derek started walking toward the car, calling over his shoulder, “Tell young Chad the interlopers have left the driveway and it's all his!”
Mitzi closed the door without another word.
“Chewie needs a detour,” Derek said. “This lawn will do.”
He walked onto the manicured lawn at the edge of the driveway, nodding for me to follow. I took a few steps onto the grass, but found the spiked heels of my shoes sank into the soft dirt, so I stepped back and stayed on the hard surface of the driveway.
Chewie happily followed scents around the grass before doing her business.
The back of my neck prickled. I looked back at the house and saw we were being watched by Megan and Chad. My pulse pounded in my ears as I gave them a friendly wave. Instead of waving back, Megan reached up and closed the blinds.
Chewie finished sniffing the lawn, and we all climbed back into the rental car. I shook out my hands, which I'd been clenching so hard I'd left half-moons on my palms from my fingernails. My heart continued racing.
Once we were a block away, I said, “That was so intense. Is this what it's always like for you? I feel like I just ran a hundred-meter dash. Twice.”
Derek didn't respond. He wasn't paying any attention to me. Chewie gave me a sympathetic look from his lap. No wonder she had such a loud howl—she needed it to get her master's attention when he went off into the musty corridors of his mind.
After a few minutes of me driving while he dazed out, I said, “Where to next?”
“Huh?”
“I'm driving, but I don't know where I'm going.”
“That's fine. Driving helps me think. Just drive around and show me the sights.”
* * *
I drove around Norfolk for an hour before Derek said, out of the blue, “Abby Silver, have you ever been in trouble with the law?”
“I know where the police station is, if that's what you're getting at.”
“Yes,” he said distractedly. “Let's go there in person rather than call. I love to see the look
s on their faces when I drop key evidence into their laps.”
I frowned as I looked in the general area of his jacket's pockets. “You've got evidence to drop? Did you get something from the house when you wandered off?”
He made eye contact with me briefly, and then his eyes unfocused as he disappeared into his mind again.
I clicked on the turn signal and began driving to the police station.
Chapter 5
8:10 p.m.
Driving
Nine hours later, it was nearing dusk when I steered Derek's rental car off Hampton Boulevard onto Magnolia Avenue. He sat in the passenger seat, and Chewie was in a travel crate secured in the back seat.
We were returning to the Larchmont neighborhood, which was even more imposing as twilight settled in. The stately homes, with too many rooms to all be occupied and lit at once, grinned out at us with gap-toothed, jack-o-lantern faces.
Our rental car was tailed by two police detectives in an unmarked car.
We reached the Kensington home and parked in the driveway again.
“I could wait here in the car, with the dog,” I said.
“You've got the photos,” Derek said.
“I'm sure you could do the whole thing.” I rubbed my sweating palms on my skirt.
“Abby, you'll regret it if you miss the best part.” Derek stepped out of the passenger side and retrieved his dog from the crate.
The best part? I stayed in the car, breathing deeply. The best part about being a temp was clocking out at the end of the day and leaving your work behind. I'd been officially off the clock for three hours, yet here I was, at the Kensington residence. Waiting in the car would be safer, but I would miss what Derek called the best part. Plus I still had the photos in my purse.
I pushed the door open and ran to catch up.
The sprinkler system switched on with a sinister hiss just as I reached the home's front steps. The two homicide detectives, a man and a woman, came up behind us and quietly stood, waiting. Chewie the beagle was, once again, resting comfortably in the crook of Derek's left arm.
He knocked on the door.
I stopped breathing as the gravity of the situation hit me hard. This wasn't a joke or a dare. We were there to serve a warrant and seize evidence.
In the ten hours that had passed since we were last there, we'd spent most of our time at the police station. Even rush warrants take time. I'd been surprised by how courteous the detectives had been to us. The name Derek Diamond had cachet with local law enforcement, even though he hadn't been to Norfolk in seventeen years.
The door opened. Mitzi Kensington wore the same stylish black blouse and trousers she'd worn that morning. Her face was blotchy, and her small blue eyes were makeup free. Her blonde hair had kinks on one side, like she'd been napping.
She looked at us, and then over our shoulders at the suit-wearing detectives, who were holding their badges up high enough for her to see clearly.
The female detective said, “Ms. Kensington, we're here to follow up on some details from your husband's homicide. We have a warrant to search the premises.”
Mitzi Kensington said robotically, “Very well, then. Come inside quickly, before the neighbors see.”
The detective asked, “Ma'am, is there anyone else in the home?”
Mitzi plodded toward the kitchen stiffly. “No,” she said softly. “Just me and the skeletons in the closet.” She opened one door of her large refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine. “That's a joke,” she said to the group of us. “Skeletons in the closet. Get it?”
The detective offered her a copy of the warrant, but she refused to touch it. She sniffed the air, just once, and began opening the wine.
Derek conferred with the detectives in hushed tones, and then the three of them were gone. I was alone in the kitchen with Mitzi Kensington. This was exactly why I should have waited in the car.
She looked me up and down and proclaimed, “By the way your hand is trembling, I'm guessing I'm not the only one who could use a drink right about now.”
“Sorry about barging in on you like this,” I said.
She pulled out two glasses and splashed white wine into both of them. As she handed me mine, she raised an eyebrow and asked, “You are legal?”
Totally legal. I'm Legally Blonde. I squeaked out, “I'm twenty-five. Thanks for the wine.”
Her tiny blue eyes were piercing. “So, who are you, exactly?”
The wine was warm, but not unpleasant. “I'm Derek's secretary. I only started working for him on Monday. Yesterday.”
“You should quit. Any man who asks you to lie is not worth having around.” She took a sip of her wine and leaned back on the counter next to her sink. She looked comfortable, like she'd leaned there a thousand times while entertaining another rich lady or two in the palatial kitchen.
“It's a temporary position,” I said. “I only have to last until Friday.”
She snorted. “I knew it was too good to be true. After you left, Chad and Megan did some internet searches. The website your boss gave me was a fake. We thought maybe you were casing the place for a future break-in, or that you were reporters. I didn't think you'd be tramping back through here again with that little fleabag and a couple of cops.” She looked me in the eyes as she sipped her wine.
I didn't say anything. I did glance around for sharp objects within Mitzi's reach. Derek had assured me I was absolutely safe alone with the woman, but his words wouldn't do much to protect me against a meat cleaver.
Mitzi grabbed the bottle and refilled her glass. “Fine, the dog's not a fleabag,” she said with a sigh.
“I wasn't offended,” I said.
“I actually love dogs, especially beagles. You probably think I'm a monster.”
“I think you're the victim of a violent crime,” I said, which was what Derek had instructed me to say.
“A victim.” She scowled.
A door opened and closed somewhere else in the house.
I glanced in the direction the others had gone. “Don't you want to know what they're looking for?”
“Not really, but tell me anyway,” she said with a tired sigh. “Clearly that's what you want to do.”
Want to? No. But I was expected to do something. Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I reached into my purse, pulled out the photos, and set them on the kitchen counter.
“These are shoe prints from the back of the house,” I said. “It was muddy the night of the, um, incident. The police have a warrant to seize the same shoes that made these prints.”
I pointed to the photos that had been provided by the lead detective on the homicide. In the picture were indentations of pointed triangles offset by round, deep indentations. Based on the depth of the round holes, the shoes were a size seven with three-inch heels.
“You're looking for shoes?” Mitzi made a scoffing sound. “Good luck. If they want out of here before dawn, they'll need more than two cops to pack up my entire collection.”
I set out the next photograph, the one I'd kept in my purse. This was a selfie Mitzi and her daughter had taken during their return flight and posted to Instagram upon landing. Mitzi's shoes were visible in the picture. The pumps had a distinctive coral, black, and white design.
The detectives in charge of the homicide investigation had dismissed the triangular prints as insignificant, but they hadn't thought to check Megan Kensington's Instagram account. Derek had explained to me that social media accounts were the new phone records of investigations—always revealing more about users than they intended.
Mitzi's mouth formed a perfect O as she stared at the stylish selfie and saw the truth revealed.
“Mrs. Kensington, they're looking for these Louboutins,” I said. “And they're probably stained with mud and grass now, even though they're perfectly new in this photo taken just a few hours before you arrived home.”
Mitzi blinked at the pictures and began to sway. I knew that motion from hot summer days at track meets. She w
as going to faint. I grabbed her elbow and steadied her. She clung to my arm like a drowning woman, her thin fingers digging into my forearm.
“He was dead when I got home,” she said, gasping. “I didn't have anything to do with it.”
“But you did something,” I said. “You went outside for some reason. Did you go out to throw a rock through the window by the back door? Did you stage the scene to look like a robbery?”
“No!” She pulled away from me and stepped back slowly. I could still feel the ghost of her grip on my arm. “Of course not,” she gasped. “No! It wasn't me. It was her.”
“Her? Do you mean your daughter? Megan?”
“No!” She lunged forward, grabbed the wine bottle as well as the glossy photos, and lumbered awkwardly out of the kitchen. The lights flicked on in the adjoining dining room. I heard her sigh and slump noisily into a chair.
Alone in the kitchen, I took a moment to breathe deeply.
Derek had boosted my confidence, praising me for thinking of testing the driving route to the airport. He kept saying I had a “naturally inquisitive mind.” I'd believed him enough to practically interrogate a woman in her own kitchen.
The nervous tremble in my hand was gone, which didn't surprise me. I'd always gotten nervous before a race, but as soon as the first starter pistol fired, I would become serene. A running machine. An engine.
I'd been working for Derek Diamond fewer than forty-eight hours, and here I was, back in engine mode. What would I be doing next?
* * *
“Are they arresting her?” I asked Derek in a hushed tone.
He gave me a knowing look. “Not if they're smart, they won't.”
We were standing together in Mitzi Kensington's kitchen. She was on the other side of the wall, in the dining room, sipping sparkling water and evading questions from the two detectives.
Derek had already located the grass-stained Louboutin shoes on our first visit to the house. The investigators had easily packed them up for lab testing and evidence. Now they were talking to Mitzi, and they hadn't even escorted us off the premises, so we were standing in the kitchen, listening in. Cheap and dirty detective work, indeed.
Girl in the Shadows (Cozy Mystery) (Diamond Files Mysteries Book 1) Page 4