Flo sat on the edge of a damask covered chair, staring into the cold depths of the unlit fireplace. The furrow between her elegant brows suggested complex calculations. When her name was called, she didn’t deign to glance in Keely’s direction, but rose and sailed out of the room like a queen.
Rose, flanked protectively by her husband and daughter, slumped on a settee. Her face was ashen and old. At intervals, convulsive shudders racked her body. Clarence, on the other hand, looked like a pressure gauge about to blow into the red zone. After a few muttered comments, he surged to his feet and stalked over to browbeat the policeman stationed at the door.
“I demand to talk to someone about the despicable treatment accorded to my family and guests!”
“I’m sorry, sir, for any inconvenience—”
“Inconvenience? My house has been violated and turned upside down, my wife reduced to tears—”
“Dad!” Dorothea tugged on her father’s arm. “They’re just doing their job. Please, come sit down.”
Rose sat alone. Unable to resist the pathos of the figure huddled in the brocade gown, Keely knelt beside her.
“I’m so sorry, Rose.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Clarence won’t let me have even a small glass of brandy.”
Hearing the desperate note, Keely’s heart sank. During the wedding preparations, her relationship with Rose had changed to friendship, with the breakthrough to confidant coming at the art gallery where Rose had commissioned the satin table sculptures.
Rose had refused the wine offered by the obsequious staff. She’d explained, “After Clarence’s promotion, the only way I functioned as a hostess was with the aid of a stiff drink. Soon I needed ‘help’ all day, every day—and ended up in a clinic. Haven’t touched a drop in years, but I’m scared, Keely. Coping with these details makes my throat as dry as a good martini.”
A throaty chuckle. “You see? I still think like a drunk!”
Remembering that valiant laughter, Keely took Rose’s trembling hands in hers. “A drink won’t help. You’ll just want another. And another.”
“A band—a brass band!—ran berserk through my dining room! Poor Dorothea. I wanted things to be so lovely—everyone will be talking about this fiasco for months—”
“Your friends will understand,” Keely soothed.
“I wish Clarence and I had never left our little apartment in Oklahoma. Life was simpler. My neighbors and I played canasta every Monday and I scrubbed my own floors. Clarence and I used to go bowling with Winona and her daddy on Saturday nights.
“I’ve become a snob, the type of person I despise!” Rose sighed. “Keely, I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t put Winona at our table tonight because I was afraid she might embarrass me.”
“I think that would have been a certainty,” Keely said dryly. “But at least I got the pleasure of meeting her. Rose, trust me. Drinking won’t bring back those days in Oklahoma.”
“My foolish pride.” Rose dabbed at her eyes. “Dorothea didn’t want a spectacular reception, but I insisted. I got married by a justice of the peace in my sister’s best dress and I wanted my daughter to have something more.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
Rose wrung her hands. “I saw you carrying your video camera. I don’t want anyone to see my guests chased like a flock of chickens, or Winona throwing cake—cake!—at those awful men—”
She broke off, convulsed by sobs, and Keely put her arms around the stricken woman. “Rose, it’s okay. My camera wasn’t on.”
“It wasn’t?” Keely saw the dreadful specter of thirst retreat, just a little, in the woman’s eyes.
“No one will ever see what happened,” Keely promised recklessly. “Just don’t take that first drink—”
She broke off as she was pushed away by Dorothea. “I’ll take care of her—she’s my mother!”
The two women stared at each other over Rose’s sagging form until Keely walked stiffly back to her chair. The group dwindled rapidly. Keely was the last person to be summoned to an audience in the study.
Her stomach shriveled to the size of a prune, she entered with what she hoped was a confident step. Her facade of assurance was overset by the sight of Max seated facing the desk. A freckle-faced man who could crush beer kegs with his bare hands loomed like a miniature mountain against the wall.
The woman behind the desk nodded at the vacant chair. “Have a seat. I’m Detective Gayla Gifford and this is my partner, Brian Dawson. I presume you know Mr. Summers.”
Keely obeyed. The detective had mocha colored skin, the cheek bones of a magazine cover model, and gently slanted eyes. Her denim skirt and blue blouse projected a no-nonsense attitude at odds with her exotic looks, while the bright yellow stars dangling from her earlobes hinted at a vibrant personality.
Beside Keely, Max assumed a relaxed posture, his right ankle resting on his left knee. The toe of his polished black shoe protruded into her peripheral vision.
She felt like an actress shoved on stage without a script. After the band leader’s identification, Max had to be a prime suspect for setting up the diversion. But his meeting with Flo might have been a harmless exchange, unconnected with the theft. If only they could talk privately!
She didn’t think Anna Marie’s nephew would be involved in anything criminal. Judging by the treatment the Postwaites had received, however, community position didn’t mean much to Detective Gifford. The shoe intruding into Keely’s field of vision remained motionless; she felt an irrational twinge of vexation. For a man in the hot seat, Max seemed entirely too relaxed.
Gifford got straight to the point. “The two of you possess an unfortunate knack—or should I say ‘gift’—for being at the scene of trouble.”
“Knack or gift, we’re here to cooperate.” Max sounded almost cheerful. “What would you like to know?”
Her look made it clear she didn’t appreciate wise guys. “Benjamin Bartlett claims you paid him to ‘shake up this snoozefest’ with his band.”
“I never saw Mr. Bartlett before in my life.” Max remained unruffled. “He tried to squirm out from under by implicating someone else, namely me.”
“I see.” The detective’s eyes were hard and bright as polished stones. “Ms. O’Brien, according to witnesses, you left during the ruckus in the dining room. Why?”
Keely hesitated. “I wanted to see what Flo Netherton was up to,” probably wasn’t a good idea. “I was looking for a telephone,” she said finally. “To call the police.”
“Curious, isn’t it? You and Mr. Summers’s first impulses were to rush out and call the police. I wish all citizens were as civic-minded.” Gifford turned to Max. “I want to know every step you took both inside and outside this house.”
The detective’s see-saw method of interrogation unsettled Keely. Leaning forward, she recognized the sketched diagram lying at Gifford’s elbow as the mansion’s layout. As Max talked, Dawson bent over it, marking the caterer’s route with a broken line.
Max stated he’d hurried out to his van to call the police. Before returning to the dining room, he’d checked on the other Feast of Italy van and his employees in the kitchen. Not a word about a side trip to meet Flo Netherton.
Keely, stung by the omission, stiffened.
Detective Gifford said quickly, “Care to add anything, Ms. O’Brien?”
“That’s not true.” The words slipped out before Keely could stop them.
Snapping upright, Max lost his air of insouciance and whipped around to stare at Keely. “What?”
“Are you disputing his statement, Ms. O’Brien?”
“I saw—” Keely hesitated.
Looking for support, she saw Mount Dawson had straightened, the pen reduced to the size of a toothpick in his meaty hand. Too late, Keely realized just what she’d gotten into by speaking up. If the videotape she’d hidden was blank, she’d be challenging Max’s version without proof. It would look as if she’d tried to cast suspicion on an innocen
t man to save herself.
And what of her promise to Rose that no one would ever see the footage shot in the dining room? Tongue-tied with indecision, Keely felt the icy tendrils of panic curl around her insides.
“We’ll get back to the question of Mr. Summers’s veracity.” Gayla’s tone made it clear the subject wasn’t closed. “Let’s first discuss a discrepancy in your statement, Ms. O’Brien.”
Keely’s stomach flip-flopped.
“You turned over two videotapes. According to your preliminary statement, one was used for the ceremony and the other for the reception. Yet a witness reports seeing you insert a fresh tape before you went in to dinner.”
Jackson! It took all of the self-control Keely could muster not to fidget in her chair. The snake had taken his revenge for her rebuff in the gift salon. If Keely revealed the tape’s location, she’d also have to explain why she felt threatened enough to hide it. She looked helplessly at Max, who stared back.
He’d completely recovered his Agent 007 calm, too cool for a man whose truthfulness had just been challenged. Why was Max lying? A meeting with Flo didn’t tie him to the robbery…
“As a breed, Ms. O’Brien, cops don’t get much respect.”
Gifford’s emphasis on the last word triggered a recording of Aretha belting out her signature tune inside Keely’s head. Like Alice, she’d fallen down the rabbit hole—this entire evening must be a dream. But instead of the comical Dormouse and Red Queen, her Wonderland contained Winona as a pink piglet wallowing in icing and Flo, a lady turned tigress.
Keely closed her eyes. Opened them.
Gifford hadn’t dissolved into the mists of a nightmare. “Folks cherish the stereotype of the police as all brawn and no brains. We’re crude, rude, and just plain D-U-M.”
Keely’s persecutor slapped her pen against her palm. Tick. Tick. Tick. “But even a stupid cop can count. You used three tapes, but only turned over two. Your video camera’s empty—we checked. People reported seeing you with the camera in your hands during the confusion. You were also carrying it when you returned from your little excursion. Where’s the third tape?”
Keely found it difficult to breathe. “I think I can clear this up, but first, may I talk privately with Rose Postwaite?”
“You left the dining room. Not to look for a telephone but to dispose of that videotape. Where is it?”
Keely’s thoughts tumbled like clothes in a dryer. First Flo was frantic to get her hands on the tape and now Detective Gifford. Why was a glimpse of high society enacting slapstick comedy so important? Rose trusted Keely implicitly—betrayal might send her running for the false comfort of the bottle.
In Lake Hope, Flo Netherton had sources everywhere and more influence than a Washington lobbyist. Flo’s purchase of the newspaper had brought a tabloid tone to the publication. Videotapes could be copied. Would a visual record of the Postwaites’ humiliation be safe in police custody?
“Withholding evidence carries a substantial penalty, Ms. O’Brien. Where’s that tape?”
Looking into Gifford’s unblinking eyes, Keely decided she could live with guilt. Guilt was mother’s milk to her. She knew the taste, the scent, the texture of it. She could probably even lecture Lady MacBeth on the subject.
With her gaze fixed on the hands clenched in her lap, Keely described seeing Max and Flo, the confrontation with the columnist, and her subsequent demand for the tape. By the time she finished, Max was breathing hard.
Gayla glanced at her partner who shook his head. “We’ve searched the lower floor. No tape’s turned up.”
Max tried to interrupt, but Gifford raised her hand. “Wait your turn, sir. Ms. O’Brien, where is that tape?”
“I told you—I hid it in the jardinière.”
“Why would Flo Netherton want it?”
“I don’t know. I thought her request and her behavior were bizarre, to say the least. She seemed desperate.” Keely licked dry lips. “I was afraid she planned to use the dining room footage to embarrass the Postwaite family.”
“Why would she do that?” This from Dawson.
“Ask her!” Keely snapped, losing control.
She regretted her response when Gifford said mildly, “Why don’t you trust Ms. Netherton?”
“Flo referred to Rose, who’s a recovering alcoholic, as a woman who’d sell her soul for a bottle of cheap booze. Flo’s columns are composed chiefly of rumors, innuendo, and venomous slams padded in purple prose.” Keely felt very tired. “I suppose that’s why people can’t wait to read what she has to say.”
“Did Flo have the opportunity to retrieve the tape?”
Keely shook her head wearily. “I don’t think she saw me hide it and she was in my sight until she was taken out of the drawing room to be interviewed.”
Gifford turned to Max. “Mr. Summers, were you in that hallway and if so, why?”
Silence. Keely risked a glance at Max. No more Mr. Cool. The fingers tapping the arms of his chair betrayed his agitation.
Gifford prodded, “Do you have an explanation, Mr. Summers? Was it an accidental encounter, a lovers’ tryst, or did Flo Netherton need an emergency catering consultation?”
“I can only say that Ms. O’Brien,” Max spat out Keely’s name, “must have been hallucinating. Check the 911 tape. That’s my voice reporting a home invasion. I was not lurking in any corridor with Flo Netherton. I stand by my original statement.”
Judging by the expression on Max’s face, he’d prefer to be standing on Keely’s throat, but he settled for glaring at her.
“You have a cellular phone, Mr. Summers,” Gayla pointed out. “I’m afraid you’ll have difficulty proving you were actually in your van when you made that call. You could have been anywhere. In the kitchen where you stopped to establish your presence, outside, or…”
She paused. The words “overseeing the robbery” hung in the air.
“The fact that your whereabouts are unaccounted for during a crucial time forces us to take a second look at you.” Gayla shook her head and the yellow stars swung in orbit.
Five minutes ago Keely had found the room unbearably stuffy. Now she shivered uncontrollably.
Max sounded shaken. “What did Flo say? Did she claim to have slipped out to meet me?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Summers. Ms. Netherton claims to have spent the entire time in question in the bathroom.” Gayla smiled sweetly. “Apparently, something she ate disagreed with her.”
Keely emerged into night air balmy and heavy with the sweet perfume of star jasmine. The climbing shrub’s dark green leaves blended into the entryway’s shadowed walls, leaving only the pale clusters of the blossoms visible.
She drew a breath, savoring her release from the tension of the study. Then she froze, her heart pounding. Her car was parked only a few feet from the door.
A man leaned against the vehicle’s right front fender, smoking. He looked up and the radiance cast by the flood lights illuminated Jackson’s face.
“Why did you move my car?” Keely demanded.
“Haven’t you heard? I’ve been promoted to parking valet. Keys are in the ignition.” Jackson surveyed Keely insolently. “So the lady detective’s letting you go. Bet her hubby’s afraid to step out of line. A woman packing handcuffs and a pistol is one dangerous female.”
Keely’s stomach could have churned butter. Max was still detained with Gifford and Dawson, but Keely knew she remained a suspect.
No amount of questioning could make her produce what she didn’t have or change her story. Innocent until proven guilty, she reminded herself and marched past the chauffeur.
Jackson’s mocking voice stopped her as her hand gripped the car’s door handle. “Things look bad for your friend.” He flicked away his cigarette, which landed at her feet. “Being fingered for hiring the band, I mean.”
As if hypnotized, Keely watched a narrow column of smoke curl up from the glowing end of the tube. Friends didn’t accuse friends of lying in front of a pair of po
lice detectives. Friends trusted each other.
But she owed Max Summers nothing. Keely hadn’t been the one playing fast and loose with the truth tonight.
Chapter 8
Max rubbed burning eyes and watched as Keely stooped to pick up the newspaper outside her front door. She walked around the house to a screened-in side porch where a discreet sign marked the entrance of Key Shot Studio.
His sleepy brain prodded him into action. Jumping out of his Bronco, Max hurried up the walk. He found Keely, keys in her hand, staring blindly at the closed door.
Max’s voice was rougher than he intended. “We need to talk.”
The key ring dropped with an irritable jangle as Keely spun around. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t look so shocked.” Max crouched to scoop the keys off the wedding bell welcome mat. “I’m still a free man. May I come in?”
Without waiting for permission, he inserted the largest key into the lock. Pushing the door open, he strode in, nearly treading on an envelope lying just inside the door.
Keely followed. Picking up the envelope, she tossed it, along with the newspaper, onto a desk. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.
Max made a deliberate survey of his surroundings. The reception/conference area, intimate in its proportions, contained a conversational grouping of a couch and chairs in muted pastels; sample wedding albums were presented on a glass coffee table. One wall held a row of portraits framed in a variety of woods.
He turned to his reluctant hostess. “I never figured you’d be working out of your home.”
“I use the outer entrance to keep my personal and professional lives separate.” Keely’s voice was brittle. “Coffee? I can guarantee that mine isn’t flavored with tire scraps.”
Max’s facial muscles ached from the effort of controlling them. He hadn’t slept and knew he looked it. “I didn’t come for refreshments, but to ask why you lied to the police.”
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 6