“To sleep with,” Chandra finished. “He’s obviously after Kelli now, and I doubt he gave her a second look before Marissa died. Why does being a male gold digger seem worse than a female one? That’s jacked up, isn’t it? To have a double standard for something that’s already despicable.”
“Because society supposedly has higher expectations for guys.”
“That sucks on multiple levels.”
“Yup,” Arie said. “Anyway, if Wyatt did it, it would be a crime of passion. The only way he’d have a chance at Marissa’s money is if she was alive. Whoever killed her was definitely in a rage, but I think if it was Wyatt, he would have done it when she went back to Chad after their fling.”
“Wait a minute. You said he needed Marissa alive if he was going after the money, but don’t you think he stands a better chance now that Marissa’s out of the way?”
“You mean—”
“Kelli,” Chandra said. “It’s obvious he’s chasing her, even if he can’t really stand her. That kind of shows you what he’ll do for money, doesn’t it? With Marissa, he’d have had love and money. With her getting married, he’s stuck being a man-whore again.”
“He knew about Brant. Kelli knew, and she could certainly have told someone.”
Chandra’s eyes grew big. “Brant?”
Arie grimaced. She hadn’t meant to talk about that—not even with Chandra. With a sigh, she filled her friend in on her visit to her brother’s place in Madison.
While Chandra absorbed the new info, Arie got a much-needed refill. As soon as she sat down, Chandra picked up the list and continued.
“Chad, of course.” She lifted her eyes to Arie’s. “Especially if he found out about your brother, which he probably did. It’s obvious Kelli wants him. I could easily see her throwing her sister under the bus by spilling the beans to Chad.”
“Me, too, but do you think she would risk Plus it would be too obvious if Chad suddenly learned about Brant. Kelli was the only other one who knew they were meeting in her apartment.”
“So did Riann.”
“But Kelli wanted both the money and Chad,” Arie said. “I think she wanted to be Marissa.”
“Well, if she didn’t tell Chad, maybe it really was Riann. She was angry enough over Marissa’s so-called hypocrisy. Either way, Chad found out, confronted her, and then it got ugly.”
Luckily, Guts called Arie and Grady in the next day for another job.
Death was picking up.
The building manager at the new job, a nice lady named Brenda, let Arie and Grady into the apartment through a side door.
“It happened right in the front foyer.” Brenda’s voice was tight and high-pitched. “Mrs. Schults from across the hall heard a terrible crash, but by the time the police got here . . .” She shook her head, apparently deciding to let the grisly details speak for themselves. “I can’t believe such a thing could happen in my building.”
The apartment itself was barely furnished and seemed strangely impersonal. They crossed through the kitchen and then through a small living room. The only item that looked expensive was the sixty-five-inch LED TV mounted on the wall.
Bachelor, probably.
When she walked past the armchair she realized she was right. A jacket hung over the back as though tossed there in passing. The blood-smeared foyer lay beyond, but it was the jacket . . .
Wyatt’s jacket.
Arie recognized it from the night before. She turned to Brenda. “Who . . .?” She swallowed and tried again. “Who lives here?”
“His name was Striker. Wayne, I think. He was a good tenant. Quiet. Always paid on time. I can’t believe someone would kill him right here in his own home.”
Grady pulled out the paperwork, and the building manager turned her attention to it. She stood next to him in the living room, nervously clicking a ballpoint pen, which set Arie’s teeth on edge.
She moved to the edge of the foyer, examining the space as if evaluating it for cleaning. Blood pooled in three spots and had stained a small section of the carpeting beyond.
“How did he die?”
Arie’s voice bounced off the tiles, louder than she’d intended. It startled Brenda, and she dropped the pen. Grady picked it up.
“One of the EMTs said it looked like he was knifed,” Brenda said. “We would’ve heard a gun, I imagine. Or at least, Mrs. Schults would have. She’s sixty if she’s a day, but her hearing is still sharp as a tack. After all, she heard the crash.”
Arie turned her back on the other two, facing the entryway but trying not to look at the blood. Not yet.
This time was different. She knew Wyatt. Not well, of course, but enough that she was entirely freaked out at the thought of seeing his memories through her own eyes. What if she saw herself? What if seeing herself set off some weird fifth-dimension sci-fi event like time traveling or something?
Arie took a deep steadying breath. She was losing it.
Behind her, Grady escorted the building manager back to the side door. As he left, he called over his shoulder, “I’m gettin’ the equipment. Be right back.”
Arie didn’t have time to screw around with hysterics. He’d be back in just a few minutes. She took another deep breath, got down on her knees, and stared into the closest puddle.
She was immediately enveloped in the red haze. Rage shot through her body like an electrical current.
Flash.
Dad is after me. No good running, he’ll . . . it’ll be worse. It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it! Please, don’t! But he’s already swinging. The belt whistles through the air, then cracks across my head and shoulders. I fall down and curl up. It’s better if he can only get my back.
Flash.
“Holy, holy, holy.”
Flash.
The bookshelves rise up above me like a cage, but one I never want to leave. My fingers bump across the spines of the books while my eyes scan the white tab on each, looking for the right combination of letters and numbers. It’s like a code that only secret agents—and librarians—understand. My finger stops. I found it. I pull the book down and open it, looking around to make sure no one is watching, and bury my nose between its pages.
Flash.
Marissa splays across my baby blue sheets like a diamond ring winking at me from a Tiffany’s box. So lovely. She smiles and holds her hand out. As if she needs to ask . . .
Flash.
The doorbell. What the hell? Who’s bugging me at this time at night? I open the door. What do you want? Like I care. Might as well get a beer. This is probably going to take a while. I head for the kitchen. Bam—something punches me in the back. It burns. I spin, but my heart sinks because I already know it’s too late. I can’t believe—an arcing gleam of silver streaks past my eyes, and another punch lands—this time to my throat. It’s . . . it’s a knife. I’m cut. This is crazy. My legs give out, and I fall. A blizzard of strikes. The knife rising and falling—my arms, legs, chest. I try to raise my arms, but they don’t . . . I curl up. Maybe if he can only get at my back . . .
The side door slammed, pulling Arie out of the vision. She scrambled to her feet. Grady walked in carrying two crates with their cleaning equipment in his arms. He set them down on the floor near the entryway.
“At least we don’t have to bother with setting up a clean zone.” He tossed Arie a biohazard suit.
Arie kept her face averted as she pulled it on. To say she was shaken would’ve been an understatement. She doubted she would ever get used to being murdered, even if it was only in her mind.
Luckily, the job itself was pretty straightforward. Grady set to work cutting out the patch of carpet over the spot where Wyatt had died.
“Something wrong?” Grady stared at her.
Arie jumped. “No, nothing.” She grabbed the spray bottle of disinfectant and started squirting.
After the initial shock, Arie felt numb. She concentrated on her job and was careful to not look directly into any of the blood. As expected, it had
turned out to be a quick job. In fact, they had finished and were just packing away their supplies when Grady’s cell phone rang. He’d already degloved, so he answered it.
Arie could tell from Grady’s side of the conversation that it was Guts. Maybe they’d gotten another job already, which would be nice. Instead, Grady turned a quizzical look her way.
“Okay, boss. Sure.” He ended the call. “Guts wants you back at the office.”
“Me? What for?”
Grady shrugged but didn’t meet her eye. “I don’t know. He just said for you to head back. Don’t worry about the rest of this.” He waved his hand at the crates and the contaminated carpet they’d rolled and then duct taped.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I got it. Guts said you were supposed to come right away.”
“Grady? Am I in trouble?” Arie’s heart thumped. This felt like third grade, when she’d been sent to Principal Richter’s office for putting a pine cone on Mary Crossman’s seat. And it had seemed like such a good joke.
He finally faced her. “Look, I really don’t know. He said for you to stop what you’re doing and come into the office. As far as I know, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
It helped, but only a little.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Arie’s confusion lifted as soon as she entered the main office and saw O’Shea leaning on the desk. The fear didn’t go away, though. In fact, it expanded.
“Uh, you can use my office as long as you need.” Guts slid his bulk from behind the desk and exited as quickly as he could.
All the moisture in Arie’s body relocated from her mouth to her kidneys. If she were to die now for the second time, it would either be from dehydration or embarrassment at wetting herself in front of Connor O’Shea.
The detective gestured to the hard-backed chair in front of the desk, the same chair Arie had interviewed in a month or so ago.
Time flies.
“I have a few questions for you.” O’Shea didn’t wait for Arie’s nod before continuing. “Let’s start with last night. What were you doing with Wyatt Striker?”
“We were . . . I guess you could call it a date.”
“A date.” It wasn’t a question. “And how did that happen?”
“What you mean? He asked me out, and I accepted. How else do dates usually happen?”
“I see,” O’Shea said. “Let’s do it this way. How did you meet him?”
Arie swallowed hard. “I . . . uh . . . we met at my job.”
“Your job. You’re telling me you met Striker while you were cleaning Marissa Mason’s apartment?”
Crap.
“Not exactly. I met him working for Riann Foster. I’m her . . . I guess you could call me her assistant. It’s only a couple of hours a week. I—you know, things like scheduling her appointments, helping her arrange things. She’s planning a wedding but . . . her own, I mean. Even though it doesn’t look like Dick is ever going to—”
O’Shea’s face scrunched up like an origami piece sculpted by a five-year-old with absolutely no eye-hand coordination. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I met Wyatt at a party Riann gave.”
“You were a guest?”
“Not exactly.” Although it was thirty years too soon, Arie experienced her first hot flash. Sweat beaded along her hairline, and her armpits felt soggy. No wonder her mother was so crabby. “Riann wanted me there to . . . uh . . .” Oh, double crap. “To give a reading.”
O’Shea crossed his arms and stared at her under lowered brows. Arie stared back.
Finally, he said, “A reading.”
“You repeat things a lot. Is that, like, an interrogation technique?” Arie attempted a laugh.
O’Shea added tight lips to the lowered brows, and Arie’s little let’s-pretend-this-isn’t-serious chuckle died a sad, lonely death.
Oh, well.
“I do psychic readings. That’s how I met Wyatt. I was doing a group reading for Riann Foster’s party.”
To his credit, O’Shea didn’t openly roll his eyes. He did, however, stare up at the ceiling and nod his head in short, little microbursts of exasperation.
“I don’t care what you think.” Arie sat up straight and gave him a regal chin tilt. “Anyhow, that’s how I met him. You can ask Riann.”
“So, after your date. What then?”
“I went home.”
“Alone?”
“No, of course not.”
O’Shea’s look of surprise jolted Arie’s awareness of what he was really asking.
“Oh! Not with him. I mean, I definitely didn’t go home with Wyatt.”
O’Shea’s expression didn’t change.
“I didn’t go home with anyone. But I wasn’t alone. That’s what I meant. I live with Grumpa.”
O’Shea’s face relaxed a tiny bit. “Your grandfather can vouch for your presence? What time did you get home?”
“Uh, I don’t think he can. Vouch for me, I mean.”
The detective sighed.
“Look, he’s eighty-three years old. He goes to bed early.” Sometimes. “If he would have heard me, he probably would have gotten up and yelled at me.”
O’Shea paced the tiny area behind Guts’s desk. As he walked, he twisted his neck from side to side to pop the tension out.
“I’m going to need his name and contact information.”
“Grumpa’s? Why?”
“Maybe he heard you come in, after all.”
“I doubt it. And anyway, you can’t really think I had anything to—”
O’Shea flung up a stop hand. “Let’s take a minute, and look at the situation. You’re hired as the entertainment for a party given by Riann Foster, a murder victim’s best friend. Wyatt Striker asks you out, and is likewise murdered the next day.”
“Oh, come on—”
O’Shea slammed both hands on the desk and leaned over it. “Oh, wait. Let’s not forget that you’re related to a man who has a romantic history with the first murder victim and was apparently stalking her in the days before she was killed.”
“Brant didn’t kill Marissa.”
“How do you know that? Did Marissa’s ghost tell you that from beyond the grave?” He snorted, then rubbed his forehead.
Arie took a deep breath. “Look, I may not know exactly what was going on, but I do know my brother would never hurt anyone. I don’t need to be psychic to know that you’re on the wrong track. And you don’t have to be so rude. Just because you don’t believe—”
“Rude? You really don’t get it, do you? Your brother has been taken in for questioning. And you”—O’Shea pointed a finger at her—“I could easily take you in for obstructing.”
Arie gasped. “Me?”
“Obstructing, or even maybe as an accessory. You literally cleaned up the crime scene. And then I find you showing up at the funeral, going to parties with the deceased’s family and friends, and dating the next guy who shows up dead.”
Arie stared at him with horror, tears welling in her eyes.
“Shit.” O’Shea rubbed his face with both hands, then propped them on his hips. “Look, I need you to understand this isn’t some game. Your brother is already . . . never mind that. But I’d better not find that you’ve been running around muddying up my investigation. If you know anything, you need tell me right now.”
“I know my brother didn’t kill Marissa.”
“Then if you want to help, you’d better make sure he gets a good lawyer. Otherwise, stay away from my case.”
More tears broke loose as soon as Arie made it into her car. She swiped impatiently at them with a tissue she found wedged in the back of her seat. She didn’t have time for a meltdown. She had to get to her parents.
Her dad’s car was gone, but Arie found Evelyn sitting at the kitchen table. The sight of her—no makeup, her face ravaged from crying—scared Arie more than anything else had done. Her mom just sat there, staring out the patio door into the empty back yard.<
br />
“Mom, it’s going to be okay.” Arie sat next to her and gently took her hand.
Evelyn turned reddened eyes to her daughter. “Do you know?”
Arie nodded.
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Arie said. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s at the bank. The lawyer needs a deposit or something, and we have to figure out how to do that bail thing. Do you suppose you could Google it?”
Arie had never seen her mother so bewildered and at a loss about how to manage a situation. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure it out. Are you saying Brant already has a lawyer?”
Evelyn nodded.
“A good one?” With O’Shea’s comments in mind, Arie couldn’t help asking.
“It’s Randy Bradley. From the Elder Board? You must remember him; he married Alexandra Greenman two years ago. She organizes the bake sale every spring.”
“But is he a good lawyer?”
“I already said he was,” Evelyn snapped. “He saw Brant first thing this morning. And then he called your father so we could get right to work on getting the bail money.”
“What did Brant say?”
“We didn’t get to talk to him. But Randy says . . .” Evelyn’s voice trailed away.
“What?”
Evelyn crossed one arm around her stomach and used it to prop the other, which she pressed to her mouth. Tears slid down her cheeks.
“Mom, what did Mr. Bradley say?” Arie reach out and pulled her mom’s hand from her face.
“He said they found something at Brant’s, something they say he took from that girl the night she was . . . it’s ridiculous! Who is this Melissa anyway? Brant never dated anyone like that. We would have known.”
“Her name is Marissa. Was, I mean. And they were engaged. I met her once. But I don’t believe—”
“What do you mean, you met her? This is crazy. Brant doesn’t keep secrets from me. I’m his mother.”
“It was a long time ago. It was a college thing. Did they say what it was that Brant took?”
“He didn’t take anything,” Evelyn said. “Brant doesn’t steal things. And I don’t care what you say. He didn’t have anything to do with that girl or her murder.”
A Scrying Shame Page 17