A Scrying Shame

by Donna White Glaser

  “Then what did you argue about?”

  Riann’s face reddened. “Because she was such a little hypocrite.” She shook her head. “I mean, she went on all of those TV shows and acted like she still believed in all of our Rich Bitch stuff, but underneath? After all that, she goes and decides to marry for love. Okay, fine. She made a shitload of money off the first stupid book, so great. Why not marry Chad? What do I care? I mean, good for her, right?”

  Arie nodded, but Riann was too engrossed in her tirade to pay any attention.

  “But it was like she forgot what the world is like for the rest of us, you know? She started making these nasty little remarks, and I was supposed to pretend I didn’t know what she was really saying. She did it in front of Richard, and she knew how risky that was. She could’ve blown the whole thing for me. She treated Wyatt like crap, too, because he was basically trying to get by the same way she always said she would. I mean, she wrote a whole book about finding a rich husband, and all of a sudden, she’s acting like she’s so much better than me.

  “And then . . .” Riann’s voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “After all that bullshit about marrying for love, you know what she did?”

  Riann stared at Arie.

  Almost afraid to breathe, Arie shook her head.

  “She starts running around on him. On Chad. Chad is . . . he’s amazing. I mean, he’s handsome, and he’s nice. He’s not what I would call rich-rich, but he comes from money. You know what I mean? Plus, he loved her. It was, like, so obvious. Everybody could see it.”

  “That’s what you argued about?” Arie asked. “Marissa was cheating on—”

  “It must be nice,” Riann continued, “to have all that money and everything you always wanted without having to . . . she got everything she ever wanted. She was even writing another book about why women want rich guys. Only this time, she was getting all psychological and shit. I mean, come on! Who doesn’t want to be rich? What does that have to do with your childhood? Why did she have to go digging all that stuff up?”

  “Stuff about her childhood?”

  The struggle to tell or not tell warred for a long moment on Riann’s face. “And mine, too, damn it. She . . . she kept something of mine from when we were kids. Something that was private. And she wanted to use that for examples. So, yeah, that’s what we were arguing about. She just . . . she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Riann, did you—” A movement in the doorway caught Arie’s eye.

  Dick stood there.

  For a heartbeat, Riann looked dazed as she struggled with the abrupt transition from rant to reality. She snapped her mouth shut and put on her “happy” face.

  “Hello, sweetheart. Are you almost ready?” Dick came farther into the living room.

  “I, um . . . I think so.” Turning to Arie, Riann said brightly, “We’re finished here, right?”

  “Well—”

  Riann crossed the room and kissed Dick on the cheek. She linked her arm through his and rubbed her breast against his shoulder.

  Dick’s turn for a dazed expression. His seemed happier, though.

  “Riann?” Arie said.

  Dick reached up to and covered Riann’s hand with his own, which strategically placed his wrinkled old knuckles directly on her nipple. Arie looked away, but not before she saw him put those knuckles to use. Riann squealed.

  “Um, Riann?” Arie tried.

  Giggling, although to Arie’s ears, it seemed strained, Riann shifted away from Dick. “I’m sorry, Arie. But we’ll have to pick this up later.”

  “But maybe we should—”

  “She said later,” Dick broke in, apparently irritated at Arie’s nipplous interuptus. He turned and shuffled out of the living room.

  “Riann . . .?” Arie tried again, but the woman was already heading out the door.

  “Don’t worry,” Riann said over her shoulder. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Although Arie had discovered what Riann and Marissa were arguing about, she still hadn’t gotten Riann to admit her part in setting Brant up. Even if she told Connor—Detective O’Shea, that is—it still wasn’t enough. If Dick hadn’t walked in, she might have had a chance to find out precisely how Brant had been set up.

  She had to figure out how to talk to Riann without Dick walking in and grabbing body parts.

  Arie tried to time her arrival at the gym for right after Riann’s workout session with her trainer, but traffic had backed up during rush hour, and she was later than she would have liked. Afraid she’d missed her chance, she waited until the desk attendant was distracted and darted for the women’s locker room.

  She was in luck.

  Not only was Riann still there, but given that it was the dinner hour, the room had emptied of other people. The smell of chlorine slammed into Arie’s nose, making her heart race.

  Chlorine? Something about the smell . . .

  Riann must have just showered. She was wrapped in a big fluffy pink towel, and another was turbaned on her head. When Arie walked had in, the other woman had her back to the door, tugging futilely on a padlock of locker 247. On the bench across the way sat an orange Prada gym bag that Arie had seen in Riann’s office. A different locker just above the bag stood open. A series of little water puddles trailed across the tiled floor from the bench to where Riann stood.

  “Riann?”

  The half-naked woman squealed and spun away from the locker so fast her turban unraveled.

  “Holy shit! You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  Clutching her towel, Riann returned to her gym bag, tugged the zipper open, and pulled out a pair of lacy black underwear.

  The chlorine was giving Arie a headache. She glanced over at locker 247—the one that Riann been messing with. If that wasn’t her locker, why—?

  “I said, what the hell are you doing here?” Abandoning modesty, Riann dropped her towel on the bench and began pulling her clothes on. Her still-damp body caused her leggings to twist around her calf. She yanked so hard she almost pulled her own feet out from under her.

  Riann flopped down on the bench. “Son of a bitch. I broke a nail.”

  “I’m sorry for bothering you here, but I’m really worried.”

  “Look, I already told you about the argument. I told her she couldn’t use my . . . Anyway, she didn’t like it, but it’s not like our friendship hadn’t survived worse. Whatever. Tell the universe I said I’m sorry, okay? And now it can leave me alone.”

  “I wish it were that easy. But I don’t think it’s the argument alone that’s blocking your opportunities. There’s the part about interfering with the investigation. I think that’s the part Marissa is maddest about.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Riann muttered. Arie couldn’t see her face because she was pulling her shirt over her head.

  “Yes, you do. You and Kelli have been lying to Detective O’Shea about that pink ring. That means the real killer—”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. That stupid ring again? All I said was that I’d seen it on Marissa that day.”

  “I thought you told him it was missing?”

  “No, Kelli said that. Look. What’s the big deal? Marissa was wearing it that day. She put it on after that creeper started up with her again. I guess he’d given it to her back when they were together. Cheap asshole. Can you blame me for telling the cops her ex was stalking her?”

  “But Marissa didn’t think Brant was stalking her, or you wouldn’t have argued with her about cheating on Chad. And why did you lie about the ring? You’re talking about ruining a man’s life!”

  Riann’s eyes narrowed. “Why does this matter so much to you?”

  Arie tasted the sharp tang of chlorine that permeated the room. It made her want to gag. And then she got it. Chlorine—not bleach. It was chlorine she had smelled in the vision.

  Arie stared again at locker 247. It was a p
adlock, not a combination lock. The key. In a daze, she turned back to Riann. “That’s Marissa’s, isn’t it?”

  “What you talking about?” Riann’s voice came out in a raspy whisper.

  “That’s Marissa’s locker. Why were you trying to get in? What’s inside?”

  Riann stood, fists clenched. “I suppose you saw that, too. You know what? You see too much. Get out of here.”

  “Riann—”

  “Get. Out.”

  Keeping her eyes on Riann, Arie slowly backed toward the locker room door.

  Arie’s hands shook so hard she could barely start the car. She was afraid to drive, but she knew she had no time to spare. Now that Riann knew that Arie knew about the locker, she wouldn’t content herself with leaving it alone. Arie had to get the key and get back to the gym before Riann could figure out some way of opening that locker.

  What was in it? Arie thought she knew. She scrabbled in her purse for her cell phone. At the next red light, she dialed O’Shea’s number. It went to voice mail, and she hung up. She should have left him a message, she knew, but her thoughts raced too fast for her to figure out what to say in a message. She’d try again when she got to Grumpa’s.

  As soon as she pulled into the driveway, she slammed the car into park and leaped out. Grumpa was in the kitchen, trying to open a can of tomato soup and cussing at the can opener.

  “I’m starving here,” Grumpa yelled as she bolted past him.

  “I can’t right now, Grumpa!”

  The key was tucked away in her jewelry box, right where she’d left it. Arie stuffed it in her pocket and hurried back the way she came. Grumpa was still struggling with the can and opener, but Arie kept going.

  “Sorry!”

  She thought she heard him holler something in return, but it didn’t register. As soon as her butt hit the seat, she called O’Shea again. This time, he answered.

  “What can I do for you, Arie?”

  O’Shea’s voice sounded as smooth and rich as hot cocoa with whipped cream. Arie wanted to snuggle up with it, but she knew that what she had to tell the detective would probably end that potential once and for all.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” she said.

  “Oh, boy. That never bodes well. Just say it.”

  “Tell me, was Marissa writing another book?”

  “Why?”

  “She was, wasn’t she? I think that might have been why she was murdered. To keep her from publishing it. And I think I know where Marissa hid it.”

  “First, tell me where it is,” O’Shea said. “We’ll leave the part about how the hell you know about any of this for later.”

  “Marissa has a locker at her gym. The problem is Riann knows about it, too. It’s padlocked, but I think she’s trying to figure out how to get in.”

  “Which gym?”

  “Elite Fitness, over on South Street. I’ll meet you there.”

  “There’s no need for that,” O’Shea said. “You’ve been too involved—”

  “I have the key.”

  Through the strained silence, Arie thought she could hear O’Shea grinding his teeth again. He was going to have serious dental issues if he didn’t curb that habit.

  “Look, when I was cleaning, I dropped the knife behind her—”

  “Not now,” O’Shea interrupted. “Meet me there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Arie made it across town in record time, but O’Shea was still there before her. As she hurried up the sidewalk to meet him, she couldn’t help tallying up the multiple body language cues he gave off. Hands fisted on his hips, eyebrows furrowed, and eyes glaring with a blue flame—it didn’t take a psychic to see how angry he was.

  “I can explain,” Arie said.

  Instead of answering, the detective spun on his heel and strode into the fitness center. When Arie turned toward the women’s locker room, O’Shea grabbed her arm.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “But she could be—”

  “We need a search warrant. One’s on the way. In the meantime, I need to talk to the manager.” He led the way to the front desk.

  The svelte blonde at the counter caught sight of O’Shea from twenty feet away and powered up a glittering display of white teeth and twinkling eyes before he got there. The tight red yoga pants and clinging white tank top were a walking billboard for the benefits of regular exercise.

  Arie hated her on sight.

  “Welcome to Elite Fitness. I’m Becky. What can I do for you today?”

  She spoke directly to O’Shea in a wispy Marilyn Monroe-lisp and managed to turn the pronoun into a sex offer. She didn’t even flick a glance at Arie standing next to him.

  “I’m looking for the manager,” O’Shea replied. “Would that be you?”

  Becky had what appeared to be a neck spasm and tossed her hair. “‘Fraid not. But if you’re interested in working out with us, I’m sure I can meet your needs.” She leaned on the counter and used her elbows to create a cleavage press.

  Arie snorted.

  O’Shea shot her an amused look then turned back to blonde. “The manager?”

  The blonde pouted. “Okay, but don’t go away. I’ll be right back.” Her taut butt cheeks bobbed like apples as she strode into a back hall, presumably toward the center’s offices.

  “We’ll be right here,” Arie called to her back. “Both of us.” It was possible her voice sounded a little irritated.

  O’Shea’s grin confirmed it. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that you’ll catch more flies with honey?”

  “It looks like you’re more interested in catching honey than flies.”

  O’Shea laughed out loud. “Don’t you believe it. Besides”—his eyes glided over Arie’s curves—“she’s not my type.”

  He turned away before Arie’s fiery blush reduced her to a pile of ash.

  The manager—a tall Ichabod Crane type who had obviously been hired for business savvy rather than any fitness knowledge—arrived at the same time as a uniformed officer with the warrant. After a brief introduction and even briefer explanation, O’Shea had Kevin Speck, the flustered manager, lead the way to the women’s locker room. To Arie’s annoyance, Becky tagged along.

  As soon as they walked through the door and Arie caught sight of locker 247, her heart sank.

  The hasp had been sawed through on the padlock, and it dangled uselessly from the lock plate.

  “It must have been Riann,” Arie blurted.

  “Oh, my.” The manager paled almost as white as the tiled floors. “I didn’t approve that.”

  O’Shea pulled a pair of disposable gloves out of his jacket pocket and after donning them, pulled the lock off and placed it in an evidence bag. He swung the door open, revealing what everybody already expected to see: nothing.

  O’Shea turned a cop-face to Arie.

  “It must have been Riann.” Even to her own ears, Arie’s voice sounded quivery and guilty.

  O’Shea turned to the manager. “If you didn’t open this, who did?”

  Speck shrugged, but a line of sweat had beaded across his forehead.

  “You’re in charge here, right?” O’ Shea snapped.

  “Well, yes, but I can’t be everywhere.”

  “This is a homicide case,” O’Shea said. “Somebody cut off this lock without, as you just pointed out, your approval. Let’s start with this. Who has access to a bolt cutter?”

  “Anybody could bring a bolt cutter in here. There’s nothing to suggest it was a staff member.”

  O’Shea looked around Speck to Becky, standing behind her boss. He gave her a slow, sexy smile and waited.

  “Clancy,” she said.

  Speck spun to face her. “Becky! This doesn’t concern you.”

  The blonde dimpled at O’Shea. “It’s a police matter. I’m supposed to give my full cooperation. Right, Detective?”

  “Get back to the desk, Becky,” Speck said.

  The blonde rolled her eyes. As she turned to leav
e, she flashed the thumb-to-ear, pinky-to-mouth sign and mouthed “call me” to O’Shea.

  He winked, then turned back to the manager.

  “Find Clancy. Bring him to me.”

  Speck clearly wasn’t pleased about having his tiny office commandeered, but he must have known better than to object. Clancy, the center’s “maintenance engineer,” looked like someone whose workout regimen consisted entirely of lifting potato chips to his mouth. If he’d taken the job at the fitness center hoping to tone up through osmosis, it hadn’t worked. He started off the interview strong, but he quickly lost stamina and caved as soon as O’Shea threatened to take him to the station for questioning.

  “How was I supposed to know? She said it was her locker.”

  “You know you’re supposed to get clearance from me before something like that,” Speck said peevishly. “There are procedures—”

  “How much?” O’Shea asked.

  Clancy’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes darted around the room. “I don’t know what—”

  “How much?”

  The janitor swallowed. “Look, she said it was her—”

  O’Shea snapped his notebook shut, rose, and pulled out a shiny pair of handcuffs. “Stand up.”

  “Fifty,” Clancy squeaked. “Fifty bucks. But I swear. She said it was her locker.”

  O’Shea slid the notebook back out. “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know,” Clancy said.

  O’Shea sighed and shook his head.

  “I really don’t! But I can describe her. She’s got that reddish hair but not too red, and she’s real pretty. Kind of snotty, though. And, uh, kind of tall, but not too tall.”

  “That sounds like Riann,” Arie said.

  “Oh, come on,” Speck broke in. “That could be any number of our members.”

  “If that’s true,” O’Shea said, “we’re going to be here awhile. I’ll need to interview each and every one of the women who came in today. I assume you keep some kind of record?”

  Speck’s mouth dropped open. “Every one of . . .?”

  O’Shea stared blankly at the manager.

  “You know, now that I think about it, I think it must have been Riann Foster,” Speck said.