Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

“You’re not catching me out.” Gayla pointed a speckled finger at Brian. “MacGuffin: object of vital importance to the story’s characters, but ultimately meaningless. It’s a distraction, anything that takes your eye off the real action. I’ve told you before, you rent too many Hitchcock movies, Robo.”

  “Alfred H. was the master,” he retorted. “Keely reminds me of the character played by Cary Grant in ‘North by Northwest.’ Nobody believes she’s been framed, her life’s in danger…”

  Gayla shook her head vehemently. Her head throbbed and she’d never liked Hitchcock. “Framed? Life doesn’t imitate art, Robo. Nobody’s gaslighting our heroine. I don’t subscribe to the philosophy that everything can be reduced to the dark and light sides of human nature—life ain’t that simple. Get your head out of the cinematic clouds. Think. What’s our MacGuffin?”

  “The videotape.” Brian never lost his temper, a valuable asset in their partnership. “The one O’Brien claims will show Flo talking to Summers in the hallway. So maybe we go with scenario number one. Cast Summers in the role of the victim’s companion.”

  “If the tripod proves to be the weapon, the killer could easily have been a woman.” Gayla peeled paint from her wrist and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. “Leverage increases velocity and force. I wonder whether Ms. O’Brien plays softball.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having her swing for my fences.” Brian gave an impish smile. “Her initials spell K.O., as in knockout.”

  They watched Billings, the department’s best SOC man, dust the desk for prints. The stocky, balding man held up a music box. Gayla recognized the figurine topping it as Jemima Puddle-Duck.

  “Ghoulishly appropriate, huh?” Del waggled the music maker. “I mean, what with that lady’s goose being cooked.”

  “That’s a duck, Del, not a goose. You need to study the section of your manual covering barnyard fowl.” Gayla consulted her notes. “Robo, did you find out whether the security cards for Lakewood Estates can be copied?”

  “Yeah.” Brian paged through his own notebook. “According to Sentra Guard, the company that supplies them to the residents, the cards can’t be duplicated.”

  “So either the guard let the bad guys in or else the perps used a borrowed security card.”

  “They could have stolen one.”

  Gayla idly slapped the notebook on her knee. “How many replacement cards have been issued within the past six months?”

  “The guy I talked to gave me a line of bull about special safeguards in place to keep cards from floating all over the landscape, but I’d bet the farm that anybody with an ounce of determination could get their hands on one.”

  Gayla ran her fingers through her close-cropped curls. “So our shutterbug’s still the prime candidate for the inside contact. She had possession of a card, knowledge of the reception timetable, familiarity with the Postwaite mansion lay-out, and her whereabouts were unaccounted for at the crucial time.”

  Noticing a paint smear on her ankle, Gayla made a mental note to supply a sample to Billings in case she’d shed any flecks near the body. “Now she discovers Flo—who’s been crucifying her in print—lying dead in her studio. Looks bad for our gal, doesn’t it?”

  “Looks like a set-up to me,” Brian protested. “The body was still warm when we got here, the blood wasn’t even tacky. Summers and O’Brien claim they were together all evening.”

  “Doing what? Playing tackle football? Mattress tag?” Gayla pushed herself to her feet and stretched. “Mr. Max took at least one hard shot to the forehead and O’Brien’s knees look like she’s been crawling on the floor.”

  Hands on hips, Gayla surveyed the reception area, her eyes narrowed. “I can picture them in here—talking, arguing, tempers flaring. Perhaps all three were in on the robberies and what we have is the result of a falling out of thieves. Let’s see if spreading a little dissension in the ranks will take care of the mutual alibi and split up our cozy twosome. Divide and conquer, Robo. That’s our plan of attack.”

  He tossed her a snappy salute. “Lights, camera, action!”

  Keely huddled on the couch beside Max. A relentless chill crept up from her fingers and toes, spread into her torso. Her head felt balloon light; her brain had temporarily shut down. How did you recover from your first glimpse of violent death?

  Flo was dead. Her graceful poses permanently altered into an awkward sprawl, her ethereal beauty forever marred. Keely recalled her dream of rose petals turning into drops of blood and drew a shuddering breath.

  Detective Dawson loomed like a dormant volcano behind his diminutive partner. Gifford had taken up residence in a reception room chair. The woman talked and Max answered, but bursts of static inside Keely’s head distorted their words into gibberish.

  She tried again to force her brain to process the rejected information. There was a dead body in her studio. Her haven had been transformed into a horror.

  “Ms. O’Brien?”

  Keely’s brain finally locked onto the correct wave length and Gifford’s voice came through loud and clear. “Are you all right, Ms. O’Brien?”

  Keely nodded. All right? She had to be. Survival instinct told her this wasn’t the time to admit to weakness.

  “Dave Jelke sent me a copy of his report. Someone spray painted a nasty message on your car and julienned your tires.”

  Keely wondered how much she’d missed while drifting in the fog of shock. She was acutely conscious of Max’s presence, less than an arm’s length away. The discovery of Flo’s body had shattered the fragile rapport between them.

  At least Max couldn’t be blamed for Flo’s death. He’d never been out of Keely’s sight. Someone else had entered the studio and killed the publisher.

  “—we checked Summers’s van and found a meat cleaver wrapped in plastic stored under the front seat.”

  Max started to say something, but Dawson held up a beefy hand. “Speak only when you’re spoken to, mister.”

  Keely was grateful this interrogation wasn’t being conducted within view of Flo’s crumpled, pathetic body. “We believe that cleaver was the one used to slash my tires.” Keely described the vandalism and their visit to Doug’s apartment.

  “You intimidated him into confessing he stole the wallets and he, in turn, gave Summers that goose egg.”

  Keely nodded. Her lips remained stubbornly dry, no matter how many times she moistened them.

  Gifford jotted something in a notebook. An irregularly shaped pink splotch marked the back of her slim, brown hand.

  Maybe it’s their version of a Rorschach test, Keely thought giddily. She focused on the spot until it turned into a woman’s pale, contorted face and a spreading red stain—

  “We found a shattered camera and broken lenses outside.” Gifford tossed the statement into Keely’s lap and sat back, her sleek features vulpine as she waited for a response.

  “I’m assuming they’re mine. The Postwaites’ chauffeur was supposed to deliver my equipment cases.” Keely moved to the next level of shock, and voiced the suspicion that Jackson had taken the videotape.

  Gifford continued to ask questions and Keely answered them with robotic calm. At irregular intervals, flash bulbs exploded in searing white flashes in the adjacent studio. Those walls had seen countless similar flashes, the same careful attention to detail. Only tonight no time was wasted in coaxing a smile, or in directing the subject into a more flattering pose.

  Out of the blue, Keely remembered a quote from a book on daguerreotypes: The dead made the best subjects for practitioners of this fledgling science of photography. For obvious reasons, death portraits were never blurry.

  A technician had asked Keely’s permission to use her key and fill lights, flooding the studio with harsh light and transforming Flo’s limp body from flesh and blood into a cardboard cut-out. She bit back an hysterical giggle. No need for fast speed film when your subject could hold a pose like that…

  Keely described her visit to Flo’s office, the notes,
and the telephone call.

  Gayla prompted, “Give us your exact movements after you arrived at the studio.”

  Keely dredged up the words, wrestled them like stones buried in mud. “I ran inside, calling Ida’s name. The lights were on in the reception area, the studio dark. I noticed the tripod lying in the doorway. I knelt to pick it up and saw her shoe.” Keely bit her lip. “Her face looked lopsided,” she blurted. “Blood like a shadow. The shadow of death…”

  Max leaned forward. “What was the weapon?”

  Gifford’s clever fox face was intent. “You’ve an unfortunate habit of picking up items used for assault, Ms. O’Brien.”

  As the significance of the statement sank in, Keely’s knees and elbows liquefied. A thousand bees invaded her head. “It was the tripod—?”

  “We found blood and hair on its head. Apparently she was struck by someone using a baseball-style swing.”

  Bile fountained up in Keely’s throat and she almost vomited on the rug at her feet. The relentless lights continued to flash, imprinting her retinas with bursts of unbearable brightness even through closed eyelids.

  The lights couldn’t blot out the inner vision of a bat arcing through the air, a picture tube shattering into innumerable pieces.

  “I think Keely’s had enough.”

  Keely threw Max a grateful look for his intervention. His face had a bluish cast and his eyes were half closed against the intrusion of light, but his voice was firm. “Keely and I alibi each other. We were together all evening.”

  “A woman’s been murdered, Mr. Summers.” Gayla might have been chatting with a friend over coffee. “I want Ms. O’Brien’s assurance that she didn’t walk in on Flo searching for the videotape. I want to hear from her own lips that they didn’t quarrel. That she didn’t pick up a tripod and lash out at the victim for threatening to destroy her livelihood.”

  “I didn’t.” Keely nervously smoothed back her hair, aware of the dampness along her hairline. No wonder they called this “sweating the truth” out of a suspect. “I was with Max—Flo was lying on the floor when I walked in.”

  “Were you with her every minute, Mr. Summers? Did she have time to strike a blow before you followed her inside?”

  Max started to shake his head, thought better of it. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Dawson leaned forward, the volcano rumbling to life. “Doesn’t take long to kill somebody. She was hit only once, but once was enough.”

  “She was lying on the floor when I walked in,” Keely repeated doggedly.

  Keely knew Max couldn’t have killed Flo. He’d been with her the entire time. How ironic—the tables had turned and now she was the one under suspicion.

  “Why aren’t you looking for Jackson?” she demanded. “He was here tonight—the broken lenses and camera prove that! Perhaps he killed her—”

  “Mr. Summers, according to your account, Ms. O’Brien found the meat cleaver in Welch’s gym bag. Did you actually witness the discovery?” Gifford segued back to her see-saw method of interrogation.

  Keely glanced at Max. The composure under fire that she’d envied was nowhere in evidence tonight. He looked like a man suffering from the mother of all headaches.

  Sweating profusely, his face shiny and slick in the bursts of white-hot light from the adjacent room, Max touched his temple gingerly. “I wasn’t noticing much at that point, but Keely told me she found it there.”

  “Ms. O’Brien!” Keely couldn’t help flinching. “Did it occur to you that Summers and Welch were acting a charade for your benefit? That Welch defaced your car on Summers’s orders?”

  “No—”

  “You don’t believe he had anything to do with the vandalism. He doesn’t believe you struck the fatal blow to Ms. Netherton. The two of you are very trusting for a couple who met a few weeks ago. At the scene of another violent crime.”

  Keely shifted uneasily. She couldn’t shake the feeling of unreality. The sitting area of the reception room seemed claustrophobically cluttered with people and furniture. On the walls, Keely’s portrait gallery watched the unfolding tableau with blank unconcern.

  “Let me sum this up for you, Ms. O’Brien.” Gayla leaned forward, her brown face incongruously marked by pink freckles. “You report receiving threatening notes, but they’re missing from the desk where you hid them. I’ve only got your word that the victim tried to buy the tape from you. You claim to have received an intimidating phone call. You were the only witness to the vandalism of your car. No proof exists that anything you claim actually happened.”

  Keely understood why prisoners under prolonged interrogation caved in and confessed to crimes they hadn’t committed. She was ready to say anything to hush that relentless voice and end this ordeal.

  “Your story’s full of holes, Ms. O’Brien. Remember, a woman’s dead.”

  Keely stared at the gurney trundling past Ida’s desk, mesmerized by the sight of the body bag. It was an obscenity, a plastic cocoon for the dead.

  “What about Jackson? Doug Welch?” Max’s voice cut into Keely’s morbid reflections. “Are you going to look for those two goons or have you decided to pin everything on Keely?”

  Gayla’s silver spiral earrings glittered. “Let’s suppose Flo’s death was the result of a joint effort.”

  “Don’t say anything else without a lawyer, Keely.” Max’s voice was harsh. “I don’t intend to.”

  “I didn’t kill Flo. I don’t even know what she was doing here!” Keely repeated wretchedly.

  “Let’s assume that part of your story is true. Flo tried to buy the tape. Despite threats, you wouldn’t sell. Maybe she concluded you weren’t going to hand over the tape and decided to help herself.” Gayla stood up. “Come with me, please.”

  Keely needed Dawson’s assistance to get to her feet. She thanked him automatically, wondering if Marie Antoinette had been polite to the guards helping her onto the guillotine platform. Gifford led the way to the room where Keely stored negatives and videotapes. The light was already on inside and Keely gasped. The narrow space had been trashed, the contents of file cabinets and shelves strewn across the floor. Proof shots mingled with contact sheets and negatives; correspondence and bills were crumpled and torn, videotapes scattered.

  Keely picked up one in each hand, stared blindly at the labels. Her business reputation torn to shreds, a dead woman had just been removed from her studio, and now months of work lay at her feet in hopeless confusion.

  With a despairing cry, she flung the tapes away from her. The cases crashed into the wall and clattered to the floor. The impact echoed in the confined space and Keely was belatedly aware of the silent observer in the room.

  She’d picked the worst possible time to demonstrate a lack of self-control. I’m having a nervous breakdown, Keely thought in despair. It started in Doug’s vile apartment—

  “Do you have a grip now, Ms. O’Brien?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t usually lose control. Seeing this mess on top of everything else…”

  “Tell me about the videotapes.”

  “They cover the period of a year.” Keely nudged a stack of tapes with her toe. They toppled with a clatter. “Each is labelled with the date the footage was taken.”

  “You can’t tell if any are missing?”

  “Not until they’ve been put in date order and crosschecked against this year’s work schedule.”

  Gifford slipped her notebook into the pocket of her dark red blazer. “That’s a job I suggest you start as soon as I give you the go-ahead. Make a list of what’s missing, if anything.”

  Keely’s self-protective instincts belatedly surfaced. “Am I being charged? I’ve told you everything. Before I answer any more questions, I want to speak to a lawyer.”

  “That’s your privilege, Ms. O’Brien.” Gayla gestured toward the door. “After you, please.”

  Keely ended up back on the couch beside Max. His head lolled against the cushions, but he mustered the energy to squeeze her han
d in reassurance. She tried to smile, but a terrible lassitude dragged at the corners of her mouth.

  Dawson and Gifford stood in the doorway, conferring quietly. Keely surveyed the room, wondering if it was the last place she’d see before the inside of a jail cell. The peonies still glowed in a crimson halo above the crystal vase on Ida’s desk, their beauty undisturbed by the intruder. Brave red symbols of courage and determination.

  Max murmured, “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

  “I don’t think that’s a possibility.” Keely’s voice was brittle. “Unless they have private rooms at the county jail. I think I’m going to be charged with murder.”

  “Do you have an attorney? Someone you could call?”

  To her despairing ears, it sounded as if Max had decided to wash his hands of her. Keely’s pulse throbbed in her temples and she pulled away from the comfort of his touch. Did he believe she’d murdered Flo prior to meeting him at the Seetons’ house?

  She could think of no one to call. The only attorney she knew had drawn up her business agreements several years ago and he was a specialist in contract law.

  Staring dully at the linked hands in her lap, she felt a pang at the thought of being abandoned by Max. Why should she condemn him for a lack of faith when at every chance she’d demonstrated her readiness to believe the worst of him?

  Everything would have turned out differently if she’d taken refuge with Ida after the disastrous session at Mimi’s.

  “We can make popcorn and watch my shopping club,” Ida had urged in issuing her invitation. “Tonight’s Jewelry Jamboree.”

  Now Keely would welcome an evening spent watching an endless parade of glittering gemstones. Blood-red rubies like the one Flo wore on her right hand—

  “Her rings!” Keely exclaimed. “She wasn’t wearing her rings!”

  Gifford looked up, her attention caught. “Rings?”

  “Flo’s rings! Diamonds in white gold on the left hand. An enormous emerald cut ruby on the right.”

  The detective’s brow furrowed. “I noticed them when I interviewed her at the Postwaites. She always wear them?”