by Sofie Kelly
“What did she tell you?”
Emme played with the hem of her shirt again. “I told her I didn’t want to talk to Derrick. She said she’d text her date and say something came up and we’d go home, but he walked in at that moment. Miranda said I insisted we stay.” She shrugged. “That makes sense. She’d been doing so much for me, and I wanted her to give this date a try. Miranda said the guy turned out to be nice. He suggested they get something to eat nearby, and he even invited me to join them. Since Miranda was okay with him, I turned them down. Miranda said we all left together. They walked down the street to a nearby restaurant, and I got my phone out to order an Uber.”
I looked up at the ceiling for a moment. There weren’t any answers up there. “So you didn’t order a ride, or if you did, you didn’t use it. You went back inside to talk to Derrick.”
Emme shook her head. “I must have, but why don’t I remember and why doesn’t he? Several people saw me with Derrick. It was definitely me. I was wearing my green jacket and I had my hair up. And apparently I was drinking. I don’t drink, Kathleen. I’d just finished doing some public service announcements encouraging people not to drink and drive and saying it was possible to have fun and not drink.” She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “When the photos showed up online, people called me a hypocrite. I was dropped from the campaign. Elliot ended our relationship, and one of the schools I’d applied to rescinded the offer to audition. They’d just started a new Don’t Drink and Drive program. The whole thing was a mess.”
Derrick put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him. “That’s kind of why I’m here,” Emme said. “I don’t know what to do. It really wasn’t any kind of a romance with Elliot, but he was my cheering section as far as going back to school and he was getting me ready for all the academic stuff like the French placement test.” She blew out a breath. “I didn’t even finish my first year when I went to college at eighteen. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”
Derrick kissed the top of her head. “That’s crap,” he said. “You can do anything.”
As I watched the two of them, I didn’t see any indicators that they were lying: Both of them held my gaze; neither one of them stumbled over their words. But I couldn’t think of a good reason for anyone to go to so much trouble to set them up for a few embarrassing photos, either.
“It seems like a lot of trouble to go to just to hurt Emme,” I said.
Derrick shrugged. “Maybe the idea was just to stir up a little controversy and sell some pictures. Emme’s a big deal in Chicago. She was doing that public service campaign and then bang! There are photos of the good girl drunk in a club with her tongue down the bad boy’s throat.” He raised an eyebrow. “Less than twenty-four hours later those pictures were all over the Good Night Chicago website, and a day after that they were on three other websites and the so-called entertainment section of the newspaper.”
“You suspect the photographer?”
“You’re damn right I do.” Derrick’s face was flushed and anger flashed in his dark eyes.
“We tried to track him down but we got nowhere,” Emme said, lifting her head. “Nora even went to see our lawyer, but the copyright on the photographs was owned by some paper company and there was no way to force any of the places that used them to tell us who took them.” She gestured with one hand. “Nora said we were just making it worse, drawing more attention to the pictures by trying to find out who took them.”
Emme’s sister had probably been right.
“It had to be money, at least as far as the photographer was concerned,” Derrick said. “It’s the only motive that makes any sense.”
“But why would some random photographer want to kill me or Miranda?” Emme asked, picking at the pink nail polish on her left thumb. “There’s no money in that.” She looked at me again. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. I don’t know who would want to hurt either one of us.”
“I’m sorry you even have to think about it,” I said.
I pushed away from the wall. There were a pen and a pad of paper with the motel’s name at the top in red letters on the small table next to me along with the takeout, which had to be cold by now. I wrote down my cell number. “If you think of anything, please call me,” I said. “Or if there’s anything you need.”
Emme got to her feet. “I’ll send you a text so you have my number.” She looked at her chipped nail polish. “There is one thing you can do for me.”
I gave her an encouraging smile. “Sure. What is it?”
“I know I can’t hide forever, but I need more time to figure things out, to decide what I’m going to do. I don’t . . . I don’t want anyone—not Ruby, not even my sister—to know where I am.”
Or whom she was with, I was guessing.
“I won’t say anything to Ruby or anyone else,” I said. “But the police do need to talk to you.”
“I should have thought about that,” she said, still picking at the polish on her thumb. “I’ll call them right away.”
I picked up the pen again and wrote the number for the Mayville Heights police department on the pad below mine. “Ask for Detective Gordon.” I looked over at Derrick. “It was just luck that I happened to see you at the diner. You got rid of the beard and your hair’s darker, but I recognized you. Be careful. I found you. So could anyone else.”
I left them then, walked across the small motel parking lot and climbed into the truck. I closed my eyes for a moment, leaned back against the seat and let out a long breath. Then I looked over at the door to the motel room. My gut was telling me that Derrick wasn’t the bad guy.
So who was?
chapter 10
I headed home with no more answers than when I’d left. Hercules was sitting on the blue Adirondack chair in the backyard again.
“Are you coming in?” I asked, pausing with one foot on the back stairs. He looked around the yard. Scanning for his archenemy, the grackle, I wondered?
“Mrrr,” he said. He made no move to jump down from the chair, so I took that as a no.
I found Owen in the kitchen sitting on one of the chairs at the table. I stared at him for a moment. He looked back at me with a slightly guilty expression, it seemed to me.
Did I want to make an issue over this? No, I decided. “I’m going to put my shoes over here,” I said, gesturing at the mat under the coat hooks.
I turned and made a production number of taking off my blue Keds and tucking the laces inside each shoe, and when I turned back around Owen was sitting on the floor next to the chrome chair, innocently washing his face.
“Wise choice,” I said as I moved past him.
* * *
Marcus called about half an hour later as I was collecting the towels to put in the washer. “Emme Finley called me,” he said. “She said you gave her my number.”
“I know you had more questions for her,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the tub.
“I did. And she’d received a few nasty e-mails from unhappy fans. I wanted to see those.”
“I don’t think Derrick Clifton had anything to do with Miranda’s death,” I said. At my feet Owen looked at me, head cocked to one side—it seemed to me—in curiosity. “Later,” I mouthed, feeling just a little silly, although it wasn’t really any sillier than me sharing the photo Maggie had texted of the dress she’d gotten for Roma’s shower. Owen had given it an enthusiastic meow of approval.
“I know,” Marcus said.
I frowned even though he couldn’t see me. “Wait a minute, how do you know?” I asked.
“How do you know?” he countered.
“From watching him with Emme. He’s crazy about her and he’d never do anything to hurt her, so he couldn’t have killed Miranda.” I reached over my head and pulled down a towel I’d left over the shower rod to dry. “I know that’s not exactly evidence. It’s just an observati
on.”
“It’s not nothing, either,” he said. “And yes, I know it took me a long time to understand that.”
I smiled. “So what do you have?”
“A couple of credible witnesses who put Derrick up at The Brick at the time of the murder.” The Brick offered cheap beer and loud music.
Owen poked the pile of towels with a paw. I shook my head at him. As usual he acted like he had no idea what I was objecting to and poked them again.
“Stop doing that,” I said sharply.
He turned with a “Who, me?” look on his furry face.
“Stop doing what?” Marcus asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Owen.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Trying to knock over a pile of towels.”
“Maybe he’s trying to encourage you.”
Owen had given up on the towels and had jumped onto the back of the toilet tank. I saw him eye the toilet paper roll. “Try that and it’ll be a very long time before there’s another funky chicken in your life,” I warned.
The cat’s whiskers twitched as though he were weighing the merits of ignoring my warning.
“Sorry,” I said to Marcus. “I was talking to Owen again. So what do you think he’s encouraging me to do exactly? Do more laundry?”
“Maybe he’s telling you to keep poking around to see what you can find out.”
I laughed. “Or maybe he’s thinking he can steal a towel for his kitty lair in the basement.” Maggie said Owen must have been a pack rat in a past life.
Marcus laughed as well. “Or that,” he said.
“I should get this laundry in the washer,” I said. “I still need to get ready for work.”
“Have a good day,” Marcus said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“You too,” I said. I ended the call and reached for Owen just as his paw was about to send the roll of toilet paper unrolling onto the floor. “What part of ‘don’t do that’ are you having trouble with?” I asked.
He made grumbling noises low in his throat. I stepped over the towels and set him in the hall. He made a point of not looking at me as he headed for the bedroom.
I collected the towels and headed downstairs. Hercules was in the kitchen. There were some bits of dried grass stuck to his ear. “Ear,” I said, pointing at his head.
He immediately swiped a paw over his furry black ear. Problem was, it was the wrong ear.
“Other one,” I said.
To my amusement he switched paws and washed his other ear.
Hercules trailed me as I went down the basement steps to the washer. He jumped up onto the dryer as I started the machine and added soap and fabric softener. I found myself relating my visit with Emme and Derrick to him. I talked to the cats about things all the time, rationalizing it by saying that hearing myself talk out loud helped me figure things out. And that was true. It was also true that I was fairly sure both of them understood exactly what I was talking about.
“If neither Emme nor Miranda had enemies, then who killed Miranda?” I said.
Hercules looked up from nosing one of my wool dryer balls across the top of the machine. I think he would have shrugged if he could. He didn’t have any ideas, either.
“Maybe it was just a random act of violence.”
He wrinkled his whiskers at me and dropped his head to nudge the ball again.
I started stuffing towels in the washer. “It doesn’t feel right to me, either,” I said.
I closed the lid of the washer, picked up Hercules and went back upstairs to get a cup of coffee and then remembered that I had no coffeepot. I leaned against the counter, and Hercules licked my chin in sympathy.
“You know, I think we’re right about Miranda’s death. It wasn’t random. There haven’t been any problems along the Riverwalk other than the occasional drunk trying to climb a tree. So what we have to do is figure out who wanted one of those two women dead.”
Hercules made a face and shook his head.
“I guess I’ll start with Ruby. Maybe she can tell me who Emme and possibly Miranda spent time with since they got here.” I pulled my phone out and sent Ruby a text to see if we could meet. Less than a minute later I got one back. Ruby replied that she had just finished a practice and invited me to stop at the theater in about an hour. She was working on a new version of the final concert program for the rest of the morning.
I finished getting ready for work, put the towels in the dryer, grabbed my messenger bag and set out fresh water and a few sardine crackers for the boys. Hercules came out to the porch and sat on the bench by the window. I scratched the top of his head and told him I’d see him later.
I headed down Mountain Road and decided my first stop was going to be Eric’s. I knew Ruby liked their iced tea. Claire was working. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “What can I get you?”
I smiled back at her. “A large iced tea, please,” I said.
Claire’s eyes narrowed. She cocked her head to one side. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with the real Kathleen?”
I laughed. “It’s not for me. It’s for Ruby.”
She smiled. “That makes more sense. How about our peach iced tea, then? It has peach syrup and peach puree.”
I nodded. “Umm, yes. I think Ruby would like that.”
Brady Chapman—Maggie’s . . . I didn’t really know how to describe their relationship—was at a table by the window with an older man I didn’t recognize. He raised a hand in hello to me, then caught Claire’s eye and pointed at his cup. She nodded. “Just let me get Brady a refill and then I’ll get that iced tea,” she said.
“Go ahead,” I said, taking a seat at the counter.
Claire grabbed the pot and headed over to Brady’s table. She filled both men’s mugs. Brady said something to her and she smiled. On the way back to the counter she stopped to top off the cup of another customer, a man eating alone. He was rangy with dirty blond hair combed back from his face and longish sideburns. He was sporting a scruff of facial hair that looked more like he hadn’t shaved in a few days than anything intentional. Something about his body language—the tilt of his chin, the way he shifted his body toward Claire, invading her space, and how his eyes lingered on more than her face—sent a cold finger across the back of my neck.
The man said something to her I couldn’t hear. She straightened and said something back, and I saw a flash of annoyance on her face. He put his hand on Claire’s backside and smirked at her. She smacked it away and took a step back from the table. He grabbed her arm.
From the corner of my eye I saw the door to the kitchen open. Eric came out, glanced at me and smiled. Then he scanned the room. He sized up the situation at once and was at the table before anything else could happen.
Eric Cullen wasn’t a big man, but he had presence and he was deceptively strong. I’d once seen him handle an intoxicated and belligerent customer during the Winterfest dinner at the community center, getting the drunk—who had cuffed a kid across the back of the head—out to the parking lot and keeping him restrained until the police arrived. Now he grabbed the customer by the elbow.
The man clenched his teeth. Whatever Eric was doing hurt. “Keep your hands to yourself,” Eric said.
“Hey, we’re just talking.” He had a sullen edge to his voice.
“The conversation is over,” Eric said. He didn’t raise his voice, but no one who was in the restaurant had any trouble hearing him. Brady had been watching Eric. He got to his feet.
The man let go of Claire’s arm.
“You all right?” Eric asked.
She nodded and took a couple of steps back. She put the arm he’d been holding against her abdomen, and I could see the skin was twisted and red.
“You’re done,” Eric said to the customer, letting go of his el
bow.
The man looked at his half-eaten plate of food. “What? Because I was making a little conversation?” He looked at Claire. “Loosen up a little, sweetheart.”
“Get out of my restaurant,” Eric said. Even someone who didn’t understand the English language couldn’t have missed the threat behind the words.
I hoped the guy wouldn’t be stupid enough to challenge Eric. It would end badly, I knew. But not for Eric.
The man made a sour face, mouth twisted to one side. “Screw you,” he said. “Your food sucks anyway.” He slid out of his seat and made his way to the door. Once he was outside I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Eric said something to Claire and she nodded. He caught Brady’s eye and the men exchanged a look. It was a guy thing. Probably the same look two cavemen had exchanged after one had successfully run off a saber-toothed tiger or a mastodon.
Eric looked around the room. “Coffee’s on the house,” he said with a smile. He picked up the pot Claire had been holding, and they both came back to the counter. He grabbed a fresh pot and shook his head as he passed me. “It’s not even Monday,” he said.
“Are you all right?’ I asked Claire.
She nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She rubbed her arm. It was still red. The man hadn’t just grabbed her arm; he’d twisted as well. I fished in my bag and pulled out a tiny jar of salve Maggie and Rebecca had made when I’d scraped my leg. “Try a little of this,” I said. “It’s one of Rebecca’s herbal creams.”
She took the container, unscrewed the top and smoothed some of the cream on her arm. It smelled faintly of lavender. “Thanks,” Claire said. “I’ll just go wash my hands and get your iced tea.” She headed for the kitchen.
Eric came back then. His pot was almost empty. “You may as well take the last of this,” he said. “Like I said, it’s on the house.” He grabbed a take-out cup, poured the coffee and added cream and two spoonfuls of sugar.