Deadly Intent

by Camy Tang

  Before the officer could move away, she leaned over to look inside the box and stared at the crumpled pink napkin from her favorite San José Victorian tea shop. With small circles of blood. Encased in an evidence bag.

  “Where did you find that napkin?” she demanded.

  “Miss Grant—”

  “No, please answer me. Where did you find that?”

  Detective Carter hesitated, then finally answered, “In Ms. Fischer’s hand.”

  “No.”

  “Miss Grant?”

  She tore her eyes away. “That napkin was in my office trash can. The night after Jessica was found.”

  She cast her mind back to that night—to Devon dabbing at his bleeding hand. “Don’t you remember? We called you here after the stranger came by. He cut Devon Knightley’s hand. I gave Devon that napkin. You saw it.”

  Detective Carter stared hard at the wall for a moment, then he replied, “Yes, I remember. He threw it in your office trash can.”

  “I think that’s the same napkin. It’s from a San José tea shop—three hours south of Sonoma. I went there a few weeks ago.” She gestured forcefully at the bagged napkin in the box. “That will have Devon Knightley’s blood on it.”

  But why had it been in Eloise Fischer’s hand?

  Had someone planted that napkin on Eloise? Anyone could have easily taken it from Naomi’s trash can.

  Especially since only a few days ago, she’d thought someone had rummaged through her office.

  And whoever took the napkin would never have known the blood wasn’t Naomi’s.

  Devon had gone back to his office and so he didn’t hear about the second murder until Naomi called him late in the evening. What a day for him not to have been there for her.

  He arrived early the next morning and met her at the spa as she’d asked him to.

  She let him in the front door. Mauve half moons sagged under her eyes, and her hair, while neat, was limp. He reached for her, but she pulled away from him.

  He understood, yet he felt as if she’d lashed out at him.

  The entrance foyer echoed as they crossed to the receptionists’ desk. Her step was sharp, purposeful. She punched into the keyboard with unnecessary force.

  “The spa is closed?” He regretted the question as soon as he’d asked it. Of course it was closed after a murder. The empty parking lot, the lack of valets, the lack of therapists and aestheticians—all testaments to that fact.

  She had paled, but her face remained impassive. “Dad went ballistic. He didn’t want me to be here today.”

  “Why did you want to be here?”

  “Because I can’t just stand here and do nothing!” Her voice rang out in the empty foyer with a harsh echo.

  She turned back to the computer. “I’m cross-checking the appointments to see who had been at the spa yesterday before two o’clock.”

  “Why two?”

  “I heard someone—the coroner, I think—say that Eloise had been killed about two or three hours before. That puts her time of death before two o’clock.”

  She sounded so clinical, detached. As if women died in her spa every day of the week. “Naomi.”

  She looked up at him, but with a mouth firm and defiant, and eyes a bit wild. “Another woman died on my watch. And, Devon, whoever rifled through my office planted a napkin on—”

  “Someone rifled through your office? When?” His jaw tightened reflexively.

  She batted her hand in the air. “A few days ago. At least, I thought so, but I didn’t have proof. But, Devon.” She captured his attention with her burning gaze. “That bloody napkin. That stupid pink napkin was in Eloise’s hand.”

  His gut tightened and burned at the same time. “The napkin with my blood on it.”

  “But don’t you see? No one taking the napkin would have known the blood was yours. They would have assumed it was mine.”

  The burning in his gut ignited. “They planted it on Eloise’s body?”

  “I think so.” She turned back to the computer. “Will you help me compare clients from yesterday and when Jessica was murdered?”

  The overlapping clients were mercifully few—three.

  “Keiko Uzaki was in a ninety-minute massage from twelve-thirty to two.”

  Devon checked her off the short list.

  “Ron Hunt was in a massage and seaweed wrap from twelve to two.”

  Another check.

  Suddenly Naomi stilled.

  “Naomi?” he said.

  “The only one left is Gloria Reynolds.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I never told you—I talked to Eloise Fischer the day the spa reopened. She said that Jessica had argued with Gloria Reynolds the day she was killed. Gloria’s a Tamarind member. I never got a chance to speak to her after Jessica’s murder. Her personality is a bit cold. She gets facials, pedicures, manicures, but never massages.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Actually…” She turned back to the computer. “I’m not sure.”

  They searched her name on the Internet, but there were too many results for Gloria Reynolds. “Narrow it to where she lives—San Francisco?”

  “Sonoma.” She inputted the search words. “There.” She clicked on an article.

  He read, “‘Gloria Alexandra Reynolds visited Sakamoto High School yesterday to speak to the students about women in the workplace.’”

  “Wait. Gloria Alexandra?”

  He read it again. “Yes. So?”

  “Do you remember what Jessica said? Before she died?”

  A name. “Andrea.”

  “What if she was saying ‘Alexandra’?”

  “But why would she call Gloria Reynolds by her middle name?”

  “Well, she went by her full name for this press release. Maybe some people call her by her middle name.”

  It was a lead. What else did they have?

  Naomi clicked on another article. “This one’s better. Her husband is Donald Reynolds, and Gloria is vice president of sales for his company. He’s in the diamond business.”

  Diamonds again. “My ex-wife was a lot of things, but she knew gemstones as well as any jeweler.”

  A small crease appeared between Naomi’s brows. “I didn’t know that. Maybe that’s what Jessica argued with Gloria about.” Naomi frowned deeply. “Eloise’s ruby pendant was stolen yesterday.”

  “And Gloria Reynolds was at the spa the same day as both murders?” Devon asked.

  “She had a facial at eleven, and she had a pedicure at two, so she would have been in the Tamarind Lounge in between her appointments.”

  “Or murdering Eloise Fischer.”

  “Devon, that’s a little crass.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Naomi studied a few more articles, then inhaled sharply.

  “What is it?”

  She clicked onto a blog. The owner ranted about Donald Reynolds’s shady business practices, hinting at criminal activity. As they continued searching, they saw more blogs. More accusations. More rumors.

  Naomi sat back in the chair. “Several people have mentioned that the Reynoldses have some financial problems right now.”

  “But stealing necklaces? They wouldn’t pay the mortgage on a house in San Francisco, much less bolster a diamond business.”

  “And Jessica’s necklace wasn’t especially valuable?”

  “Aside from being expensive, it wasn’t rare. My father bought it from Tiffany’s for my mother for an anniversary present. How about Eloise’s pendant?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe the necklaces are red herrings. Maybe the intent was to kill Jessica and Eloise.”

  “But they weren’t even friends. Eloise knew Jessica’s mother—that’s it—and from the way she said it, I don’t think they were particularly good friends. Eloise liked to embellish the truth to make herself look more important.”

  “There has to be a connection between them.”

  She
gestured to a photo on the computer screen. “Gloria Reynolds.”

  “Do you think she knew Eloise Fischer?”

  “I’m sure she knew her—they were both Tamarind members—but know her well? I don’t know.”

  He sighed. Too many tenuous connections, nothing solid. Nothing that led anywhere.

  Naomi closed her eyes, took a deep breath. He watched her face as the lines around her mouth smoothed a little.

  “Dear Jesus, please help us.”

  He’d never heard her pray before. It surprised him, but it also fueled his frustration. What had God done but make things worse and worse for her?

  Her eyes were still closed, and she spoke as if she’d read his mind. “Aunt Becca is saying to just trust God, that He’s got everything under His control. But I can’t help thinking…” Her voice caught. She pressed her lips together.

  Where was God?

  She opened her eyes and straightened her back at the same time. “I’m tired of being afraid. I need to take charge of what’s happening. Let’s go find Gloria Reynolds.”

  THIRTEEN

  “What do you mean, let you take the lead?” Naomi’s eyes spit nails at Devon.

  They paused a few feet from the front door of the Reynoldses’ Sonoma home, shaded by a pompous portico. He kept his voice pitched low. “I know you’re the spa owner’s daughter—”

  “Which is exactly why I should be the one talking, not you. Gloria doesn’t even know you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “She obviously knows you quite well. She supposedly doesn’t know me. There’s still a chance she’s involved in those attacks on me.”

  Naomi shook her head, but there was less belligerence in her tone when she answered him. “There’s still no proof about the connection between Jessica and the attempts on your life. Especially now that Eloise has been killed—you didn’t know her at all.”

  “It’s simple. If Gloria doesn’t know me, she shouldn’t react differently when she sees me for the first time. If she does react, I’ll know she’s involved in the attacks on me, and it’ll be easy to just make an excuse and get us out of the house.”

  “That’s assuming she answers her front door. She could have a butler or a maid.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll come up with some other story so that we can see her—but she’s going to see me before she sees you.”

  “Well, once we’re inside—”

  “You’re still going to let me take the lead.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  She made an exasperated noise. “This is ridiculous. Why wouldn’t I talk to Gloria?”

  “Your taking over the spa is relatively recent. Do you really think she’s going to see you as anyone besides a massage therapist?”

  “My father owns that spa,” she said through teeth gritted in frustration.

  “And Jessica was one of your dedicated clients, and Gloria had an argument with her. Do you think she’s going to confess to you what she argued about? Wouldn’t she be more likely to be lulled into telling me, a stranger?”

  “Assuming she doesn’t know you.”

  “That’ll be easy to find out.”

  “She might be a good actress.”

  “Not that good, if she was dumb enough to argue publicly with a woman she was going to murder.”

  Naomi’s mouth pinched, but she didn’t respond to his logic.

  He’d made a career out of skillfully reading patients’ body language. If he didn’t know the truth behind an injury, or the extent of someone’s pain, he might make a bad decision. He was confident he’d at least be able to know if Gloria Reynolds recognized him or not.

  And, not to be arrogant, but he was reasonably sure he could charm Gloria Reynolds more than Naomi could, given her present state of nervous stress.

  They knocked on the door, which was answered by a short, stout Hispanic woman. Her dour expression didn’t bode well, so he adopted a calm, professional demeanor. “Good morning. May we please speak with Mrs. Gloria Reynolds?”

  “Who is calling?”

  “Augustus Grant sent us.” He could sense Naomi fuming beside him, but he ignored her. He didn’t want to mention Naomi, but he also didn’t want to mention his own name before Gloria saw him.

  “I will see if she is available.”

  He placed a hand against the closing door. “May we come inside while we wait?”

  The maid hesitated, then opened the door wider. “Please wait in the foyer.”

  The house had magnificent proportions and excellent echoes. He heard light, snappy footsteps from the luxurious rooms to his right even before the servant headed in that direction to intercept her employer.

  The room was a parlor, richly furnished, with a doorway leading off it from the far side. When Gloria Reynolds entered, he had a clear view of her, and vice versa.

  Her eyes flickered over him—appreciative of his figure and demeanor, he could tell, but no recognition. She shifted to Naomi, and the eyes cooled a fraction.

  He’d been right to insist on taking the lead. Naomi didn’t trigger any good associations with Gloria, considering the two murders in the spa within the past week.

  “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. I am Dr. Devon Knightley, and you know Miss Grant.” He walked forward, hand extended, his footsteps sinking into muted silence in the luxurious rug on the hardwood floor.

  She took his hand coolly, automatically. This wasn’t a woman to be charmed by a handsome face, and he certainly wasn’t a movie star. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “I’m a colleague of Augustus Grant.”

  Her smile warmed slightly. She was an informed businesswoman, then. Because even though Joy Luck Life was a service-oriented business, it was also common knowledge that, in combination with risky but intelligent investments and keen business savvy, Augustus grossed more than most high-tech industries in this area, and his name carried weight as well as respect.

  “As you know, Augustus has been recovering from a small stroke the past few months.”

  “Yes. We were very sorry to hear that.” Gloria gestured for them to be seated in one of the stiff, stuffy chairs in the parlor. Devon recognized what type of room this was. This was a place she left her husband’s business associates to cool their heels, a place she entertained women from clubs and groups whom she didn’t like but wanted to impress, a place for visits lasting only fifteen minutes or, at most, half an hour.

  He needed her to forget her surroundings so she’d show a crack in her armor. “We are here as his representatives to personally apologize for the events that have transpired in the past week at the spa, and to reassure you that these matters are being dealt with by the police.”

  Gloria handled the situation with cool elegance. “Yes, such shocking events.” She said it in the same manner she would if she were making a restaurant reservation.

  “I understand you knew Eloise Fischer. You must have been terribly upset.” He pitched his concern mildly, not too much charm.

  She responded as he’d hoped—falling into his conversational gambit. “We knew each other in passing, but not well.”

  “Oh? Other Tamarind members mentioned that you were friends.”

  Confusion clouded her eyes. “No, not friends.”

  “Ah. I must have mistaken Eloise Fischer for Jessica Ortiz. You were friends with Jessica instead?”

  At the name, color glowed in her cheeks. “Jessica Ortiz? I wasn’t especially close to her, either.”

  “You didn’t do business with her? Jessica Ortiz was known to be an expert in gemstones, especially diamonds.” That was stretching the truth a bit—he didn’t know if anyone else fully knew about Jessica’s taste, knowledge and instinct.

  A spasm passed across Gloria’s throat.

  He had her full attention now. No side glances to Naomi. All her energy was focused on the lie he’d caught her in, on hiding from him what he wanted to pull out of her. “Pe
rhaps it was your husband who did business with Ms. Ortiz, then.”

  Distaste flickered across her face, and then was gone. “Perhaps.”

  Apparently, Mr. Reynolds disliked Jessica more than Gloria did. Devon wondered why. Had Jessica said or done something to jeopardize his business?

  “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I had always thought Jessica Ortiz was prejudiced against your husband for some reason,” Devon said.

  She jumped on it. “She was. Spreading lies about his gemstones for no reason whatsoever, demanding her money back. Don’t give any credence to what you’ve heard. He is still one of the finest judges of diamonds on the West Coast.”

  “Of course. Why would anyone pay attention to a flighty woman like that? After all, between your husband and Ms. Ortiz, there’s no question about whom people would believe.”

  Her shoulders never truly relaxed, but the silk of her blouse eased into softer folds as she sat back. “And who did you hear these rumors from?”

  “Other Tamarind members.” He hoped Naomi would forgive him for maligning the spa’s clients.

  Gloria sniffed. “They’re silly housewives who haven’t the ability to even understand their husbands’ businesses.”

  “Eloise Fischer did put on airs, I understand.”

  “That woman couldn’t find her way out of a lighted room. Although…” She collected herself. “I do feel sorry for her family. She was apparently a kind mother to her children, from what I understand.”

  “Do you know her family well?”

  “Oh no, I hardly knew her at all. I could barely stand chatting with her.”

  Her facial expressions and body language told him she wasn’t lying. She really hadn’t known Eloise Fischer well. “Ms. Fischer never inquired about your husband’s jewels? I thought she supposedly had an extensive collection.”

  “Eloise Fischer? Her only valuable stone was a ruby pendant, and even that was hardly mentionable.” She eyed him, a bit like a hawk who was trying to decide what to do about a rat. “You listen to a great deal of rumor, Dr. Knightley.”

  He pasted on a neutral smile and spread his hands wide. “I hear too many things in my profession and in my association with Augustus, especially about the businesses of notable business owners.”