Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  “Ready enough. Oliver will be with me,” I said. “Robin, Izzy ended her call to Nick with ‘Love you’.”

  “Big deal. I tell the barista I love him when he has my morning latte waiting for me every day at the Coffee Bean. I love Nick, too. Just not the way you do. And I will continue to love Nick until we have to off him for mistreating you—which will be never. Don’t assume the worst. You forget Dave and Nick talk every day. If something iffy were up, Dave would tell me.”

  “He would? How did you crack through his code of silence so soon?”

  “Brownies and lingerie. Not necessarily in that order. Very effective.”

  I stopped for the red light at Van Nuys Boulevard, smiling. I knew whatever happened, Robin would be there for me. “Okay. I’m calmer now. Breakdown is on official delay until after I talk to Nick.”

  “It could be worse. He could up and propose. Then what would you do?”

  “Thank you. You now have managed to thoroughly distract me again. If Nick asks, you’ll be the second person to hear my answer.”

  “I’ll expect an update on the Isabella call tonight at the party. Dave and I are going gift shopping for your dad this afternoon. What did you get him?”

  “A baseball autographed by the Cubs—Jarret got it for me. I don’t like being indebted to him, but I know how much Dad will love the ball. Besides, I don’t have time to squeeze in a shopping trip between my arrest and breakup.”

  “Don’t even joke about that. Where is my objective friend? What did you do with her?” Robin said. “Accept the ball. Please. Jarret owes you after getting you involved in his mess.”

  The intersection light turned green. “I have to go. You’re the best, Robin.”

  A block west of the boulevard, I turned into the driveway next to Oliver’s office building and parked in the empty lot. I checked my phone. One unanswered call from Nick, no message. A small red dot on the e-mail app signaled one new message. I opened the inbox and read:

  Sorry I missed your call. Got your message—we can talk later. Be strong with Carla. I love you. Nick.

  I tucked the phone in my purse with a sigh. Later.

  Oliver pulled into the lot in a dusty black Prius and parked in the space next to mine. He lowered his passenger window, waving a cigar at me. “Let’s go.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said, watching him snuff the tip in the ashtray as I got in. “You drive a low-emission car but pollute the interior—the air you breathe—with cigar smoke?”

  “Go figure.” He brushed ashes off his legs and the coat of his tan suit, then shifted the car into gear. “Anything I should know since the last time we talked, Liz Cooper?”

  “I had dinner with Jarret last night.”

  “What’s with you? I told you not to go. Can’t you stay away from the guy?”

  “No—I mean, yes. I can.” While we sped west on Victory Boulevard, I told him about Forrest’s scene at the restaurant and my conversation with Jarret at dinner. Oliver kept his eyes fixed on the road, turning north onto Reseda Boulevard as I segued into the new info on Kyle, from the devil video to my steroid discovery.

  “Geez,” he said. “Are you one of those people who can’t sit still? My youngest son always pokes around things, too. The kid is in constant motion. But he’s nine. What do they call it? Hyper…”

  “The common term would be childhood. And in extreme cases, a developmental disorder called ADHD. No, I’m not impulsive or hyperactive.” I grimaced, irked by his lack of interest in my compelling new information. “You wanted other suspects for Carla.”

  “I wanted the names on her suspect list. Do you pay your taxes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why the hell are you doing Pratt’s job for her?”

  I crossed my arms. “Are you serious? She’d like to arrest me.”

  “You done? Because now I’m going to tell you what you’re NOT going to do in the interview. And this time, if you want me to remain your lawyer, you’ll listen. No twitching, fidgeting, volunteering, or lying. Stifle headshakes and nods. No snide comments or any comments blaming the victim or the people you think are suspects. Don’t answer any questions without looking at me for permission first. Got that?”

  “Got it. Do I need your permission to cough or sneeze?”

  He let my comment pass without a flicker of reaction. “Everything you say will be recorded. If she tries to provoke you, don’t react, defend, or comment.”

  “Do you give all your murder suspects this speech?”

  “Only the ones who are innocent.” Oliver turned onto Vanowen, made a U-turn in the middle of the block and parked in front of the modern two-story West Valley Community Police Station. He switched off the ignition, then swung around to face me. “From now on, no more rogue investigations, Liz. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He opened his car door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before lunch.”

  The butterflies hit my stomach on the elevator ride from the spacious tiled lobby to the detective waiting room on the second floor. Oliver and I entered the empty reception area, a small lobby with six black metal chairs and a window to the street below. I took a seat facing the “WEST VALLEY DETECTIVE BUREAU” sign over the sliding glass reception window, my gaze flitting from the Wanted posters on the adjacent corkboard to the nearby exit.

  While Oliver approached the officer behind the glass, I looked at my watch. We were on time. Checked it again. Same time. Oliver sat down next to me, tapping his thumbs to a silent beat. Two minutes, which felt like two hours later, a door next to the reception window opened and Carla beckoned us inside.

  Oliver patted my knee encouragingly. “You’re gonna do great.”

  We filed behind Carla past three gray cubicles down a small hall opening toward a massive room on the left with signs—“ROBBERY,” “GANGS,” “JUVENILE,” and “HOMICIDE”—hanging above clusters of empty desks.

  She opened a door into a small conference room furnished with a cherry-laminated table and eight padded chairs. Oliver rolled out a chair for me and I sat, spine straight, conscious not to swivel or fidget.

  Carla took a seat across the table with what appeared to be an eight-by-ten frame enveloped in a plastic cover, facedown in front of her. “I appreciate you arranging your busy schedules to come here this morning. Would you like some coffee or water before we begin?”

  “No, thanks. We’re good,” Oliver said.

  “Then let’s get started so we can enjoy the rest of the weekend. As you know, I’m investigating Mrs. Huber’s homicide and I have a few unanswered questions that I hope Dr. Cooper can clear up for me. How are you today, Liz?”

  “I’m—”

  Oliver nudged my knee.

  I smiled at her to signify my good health and carefree attitude. The picture of calm—if she didn’t notice my quivering upper lip.

  “Great,” she said. “I don’t think this will take long. I understand you weren’t at your office last week. Why?”

  At Oliver’s nod I said, “I took the week off to finish unpacking while the plumbers were at my house.”

  “And to spend time with Mrs. Huber?”

  “No. I had no idea she would be in town.”

  “Yet Mrs. Huber told several witnesses she came to visit you. Can you explain why?”

  “She lied.”

  Carla took out a notebook and flipped through the pages. A prop, I knew from Dad and Dave, to buy time or make me uncomfortable. She stopped on a page. “The morning of Mrs. Huber’s death, her husband called you, looking for her. According to Mr. Huber, you told him you hadn’t seen his wife since the prior morning. But here’s where I’m confused—Kyle Stanger heard you and the victim argue the night before at the Dodger game.” Carla closed her pad and stared at me. “So why did you lie to Mr. Huber?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Air hummed through the vent in the conference room ceiling as I turned to Oliver for permission to answer Carla’s question. He met my eyes with a cautio
us nod.

  “I assumed Laycee and Kyle were on a date at Dodger Stadium,” I said. “Telling Forrest I saw her at the game would invite questions I didn’t want to answer. Frankly, I didn’t want to put myself in the middle of the Huber’s marriage problems.”

  Carla let out a dramatic sigh. “Smart move. Mr. Stanger, however, claims they attended an ATTAGIRL network business function together at the stadium. And then Laycee ended up spending the night with your ex-husband. Boy, she really got around, didn’t she?” Carla flashed me an exaggerated, let’s-get-down-and-talk-trash-about-that-floozy look.

  No kidding. If Oliver hadn’t warned me against attacking Laycee’s character, I might have thrown up my hands in hearty agreement. Alerted by Carla’s theatrical segue from inquisitive pro to my new bestest friend, I turned to Oliver again. He stared at his hands, laced in front of him on the table. No permission. No comment.

  “Are you right- or left-handed?” Carla said.

  “I’m right-handed,” I said. Oliver cleared his throat.

  Her brow furrowed. “Let’s go over your movements from the time you left the stadium Tuesday night until your conversation with Mr. Huber the following morning.”

  “You already took a statement from Liz. Is this necessary?” Oliver said.

  “Dr. Cooper’s statement only covered Wednesday morning until she met her plumber at her home. I want an extended account of her hours before and after,” Carla said.

  Oliver gave me a nod, holding my eyes long enough to convey Go ahead with discretion. I pondered a moment and then launched into details about Tuesday night, editing out the romp with Nick in my backyard, and then continuing through Wednesday morning. I ended with my breakfast at Aroma and Forrest’s call.

  Carla scribbled notes on her pad then turned over the plastic envelope and slid it across the table at me. “Do you recognize this?”

  The clear envelope encased a framed copy of Jarret’s and my wedding picture with the glass shattered into a web of cracks.

  Once again, I glanced at Oliver. On his nod, I answered, “It’s my wedding picture.”

  “And?”

  Checking with Oliver was monotonous, but we got a rhythm going. If he looked at me I would answer; if he didn’t look, I didn’t talk. This time he looked.

  “The glass on the frame is broken. What else do you want me to say? I haven’t looked at my wedding pictures for a long time. It was another life, Carla.”

  “Smashed. You can see the glass on the frame had been smashed.” Carla frowned. “I mean, if I walked in my ex’s bedroom and saw the woman who ended my marriage sprawled naked on his bed with my wedding photo there on the nightstand next to her? Who wouldn’t be furious enough, in the heat of the moment, to destroy the woman and the photo?” She squinted at me. “It’s almost like they had sex right in front of you—for spite. Laycee stole your husband, ruined your marriage, and then came back for more. Is that why you killed her?”

  Heat flushed through my body. I inhaled, exhaled slowly, then with all the dignity I could gather said, “I didn’t kill Laycee.”

  “Move on, Detective,” Oliver said.

  Carla stood the frame in the center of the table. “This was beneath the bed where the victim was found. How did it get there?”

  Oliver touched my hand, stopping me from answering, then said to Carla, “You wouldn’t be showing us this if her fingerprints were on the glass or the frame. How would Liz know who moved it? She already stated she didn’t go into the bedroom that morning.”

  “I’d like Liz to answer anyway,” Carla said calmly.

  “She already addressed your question,” Oliver said. “Move on.”

  The ensuing series of questions and answers bounced like a three-way Ping-Pong game. Carla asked me, I looked at Oliver, and he either nodded permission or answered for me.

  “When was the last time you were in Jarret’s bedroom?” Carla said.

  “I honestly don’t remember,” I said. “Years ago.”

  “Why did your marriage end?”

  “Their divorce decree stated the reason,” Oliver said. “Irreconcilable differences.”

  Bravo to Ollie for doing his homework.

  “Did your differences involve your husband’s infidelity?” she said.

  “Don’t answer, Liz.” Oliver leaned across the table. “I have some questions for you, Detective. Do you have evidence that places my client in the bedroom with the victim? Fingerprints? Hair samples? No? Do you have any questions for Liz about your other suspects?”

  Carla set her elbow on the table, watching him with her chin resting on her palm.

  Oliver pushed his chair back. “Then I think we’re done for today. I’m hungry. If I don’t eat, my blood sugar will drop and I’ll get cranky. We’re free to leave, right?”

  “Yes,” Carla said in a clipped tone.

  “Good.” He opened the door for me and said, “Liz, I need a few minutes alone with Detective Pratt. Wait for me downstairs, will ya?”

  As I exited, I tugged at his sleeve and led him into the hall with me. In a whisper, I said, “What about Kyle and the information I gave you on the symbol? Carla needs to—”

  “Hear it from me. The less you say, the better,” he said. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  I handed him the DVD of Billy’s movie then left without argument. Freedom was a short elevator ride away.

  Instead of waiting in the lobby, I paced the small concrete plaza out front, letting fresh air soothe the remnants of my nerves. I dialed Nick, then remembered Isabella’s message and my heart clunked into my stomach. I hung up before the first ring.

  Oliver blew out of the station door in a whirl—loosening his tie, taking off his suit coat, and pulling out his keys. He cocked his head for me to follow, and we walked at a brisk pace to the curb.

  As soon as we settled into his car I said, “What do you think? How did we do?”

  “Pratt’s got nothin’. I grade her a one and a half on her third-degree—hungry to make an arrest and she’s a loose cannon.” He checked over his shoulder then pulled into the heavy traffic on Vanowen. “When I brought up Schelz’s daughter, she brushed me off. Then I put her on Stanger’s trail with the information on the drugs and the symbol.”

  “You didn’t tell her I—”

  “Got the information? No. I let her assume McCormick did the investigation. I left you out of it.” He looked over at me. “And you should stay out of it.”

  “What if Nick locates Margaret Smith in McHenry, or the woman who gave Schelz’s pamphlet to Weisel shows up at the liquor store again?”

  “You call me and I’ll get McCormick to do the follow-up.”

  “Then what’s next?” I said. “Will Carla leave me alone now? Do I get my box of books back?”

  “Cool it on the books. You’ll get them back at the end of the investigation unless the killer smeared fingerprints all over the box. Now? We wait. Pratt may want to see you again. I think the pressure is off for this weekend. Go home. Have some fun. You did good. She gave up more information than she got.”

  “Right—the photo,” I said. “When Carla showed me the frame, I didn’t stop to think about why it was broken. Jealousy? Envy? Spite? Why would the killer smash my wedding picture? I don’t get the connection.”

  “Pratt thinks she made one—Laycee broke up your marriage.”

  “My marriage faltered long before Laycee crawled into bed with Jarret. She was a catalyst but not the cause.”

  Oliver dropped me off at my car with instructions to call if I heard from Carla again, and warning me to give up playing detective for the rest of the weekend. No problem—assuming Carla backed off for the moment.

  I cranked up my air conditioner and turned the local rock station on loud in an effort to block negative thoughts of a confrontation with Nick. Nicky. Didn’t work. Despite the blaring music, I spent the drive home creating scenarios between Nick and Isabella. The ugly knot of traffic I fought through the Valley to Studio C
ity gave me plenty of time to torture myself.

  By the time I pulled up behind an old compact and Nick’s SUV parked at the curb in front of my house, I had set myself up for an invitation to their wedding. At least one thing was going right—Stan’s white truck sat parked in the driveway. I didn’t hear the squeal of a drill blasting through the closed windows on the second floor but the plumber was somewhere inside working.

  I climbed my porch steps with trepidation, opened the door, and crossed the foyer to the living room. I stopped short. A plump, pie-faced, twentyish Latina in an oversized UCLA T-shirt nestled in the corner of my couch, talking on her cell phone.

  She brushed an explosion of black frizzy hair off her face and broke into an open smile. “Liz?”

  “Yes. And you are?” I glanced past her into the den. Nick sat at my desk with his back to us.

  “I’ll call you back,” the girl said into the phone. She unwrapped her tight-clad legs, rolled off the sofa, and rose to greet me. In heels, she might clear five feet in height; in her flip-flops, the top of her head barely reached my chin. She tilted her head back to look up at me, her eyes sparkling. “I’m Isabella. I’m so happy I finally got to meet you. Nicky told me many, many wonderful things about you.”

  Her little hand pumped mine with enthusiasm. A string of clichés rolled through my mind: “Love is blind,” “Love conquers all.” Maybe she was a genius. Or—

  “You’re free. You escaped the wrath of Pratt.” Nick rushed from the den with his arms spread wide and rocked me in a warm embrace. “I thought about you all morning. Why didn’t you call as soon as you left the station?”

  “I couldn’t wait to get home.” Not a lie, just subject to interpretation. I glanced past him into the den. Seriously, where did he hide the statuesque sex-bomb I drove myself into distraction over?

  “I see you met Izzy,” he said.

  “I did.” I managed an uncertain grin. “What a…nice surprise.”

  “I recruited her help to make calls to McHenry about Margaret,” he said.

  “Did you find her?” I said, happy to escape utter confusion for a moment.