by Maggie Bruce
Which was right where the casino would be built. No wonder she was so against the whole idea. She was protecting her backyard. Literally.
“The casino would change everything, wouldn’t it? It’s such a complicated issue, so many points on both sides.” Playing the innocent wasn’t my strongest suit, but I hoped Trisha Stern didn’t know me well enough to recognize a change in my tone.
She was still smiling when she said, “Two sides to every question. It does look like enough people are against it that it won’t go through. The people who want that casino are really only halfhearted about it. No match for how passionate the rest of us are about seeing it doesn’t happen. They aren’t well organized, they just spout theories about taxes and justice.”
Not well organized now that Marjorie was dead.
“See you next time,” I said. A glimmer of suspicion flitted into my mind and then floated away. No, Trisha Stern wouldn’t go to any length to protect her new life. No way.
She hefted her blue nylon bag onto her shoulder and waited until Neil made his way back to the sofa. When he was settled in, she patted his arm. “You’re really doing great. Don’t forget to do those healing visualizations.”
I watched her walk to her car. Where was Trisha Stern the day that Marjorie was killed? What about her husband and the other families who bordered the ten acre plot just outside of town?
But I didn’t have time to add to my mental list of questions. The spot Trisha’s car had occupied was hardly cool when Seth Selinsky’s silver pickup truck took its place. He carried a stack of magazines and a bakery box, and wore neat grey slacks, a black and white checked shirt, and a soft, satisfied smile.
“I know, you were in the neighborhood.” I stepped aside to let him come in, not even trying to hide my pleasure in seeing him.
As he passed, he lingered in front of me. “Mmm, you smell good. Better, even, than these butter cookies. No, I made this trip to bring you and your brother some cookies and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You’re not only cute and a good cook but also a gentleman. Even a scholar, when it comes to mortgages. I’ll make some coffee and introduce you. Not in that order.”
Seth put the white box on the kitchen counter and followed me to the living room. Shiny and relaxed, Neil had taken up his usual spot on the sofa and was tapping away on his computer. Seth walked over to my brother, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, Seth Selinsky. Sorry about the leg. Tough break. Your first at bat, man. A two and three count.”
Neil shut the cover of his laptop and pointed to the chair on the other side of the coffee table. “You ever play?”
What happened to perfectly nice and articulate men that made them talk in half sentences? I stood back, watching my brother and the man I was dating circle each other conversationally. For all that my presence mattered, I could have been a doorknob. Amused, I went to the kitchen and got the coffee started, loaded a tray with cups, saucers, plates, cookies, napkins. If this happened all the time, I’d probably be annoyed. For now, their little game tickled me.
When I carried the tray into the living room, the conversation hadn’t gotten very far.
“Sure, I was on the disabled list for two weeks. But that was in college. It’s different for you.” Seth’s lean legs stuck out into the middle of my living room floor, a sight that made me smile despite myself.
I deposited the tray on the coffee table and kissed the top of Neil’s head. “See? Your fans find you wherever you are.”
Neil grinned at Seth and then raised his eyebrow at me. “Your fan, you mean. You think Seth really came to see me? We’ve been talking baseball. Among other things.”
I made the family gesture, index fingers making a backward circular motion to signify eye-rolling. “I’m much too mature to be goaded into asking what other things,” I said as I lowered myself to the chair across from Seth.
“Good,” he said. “Then we don’t have to give up our secrets. Listen, I stopped by with a business proposition.”
Neil did a Groucho Marx with his eyebrows and an imaginary cigar.
“Rick Luney says you’re quick, smart and always hit the mark for him. Well, for me, too, but he’s talking about the business writing you’ve done for him. I need a new brochure for MidHudson Mortgage. We’re trying to carve out a bigger piece of the second home market. If I can let people know we’re here, and just what we can do for them that their city mortgage broker can’t, then I think I can double my client list.”
I needed to find another gallery to carry my gourds, and I needed someone to help me get my garden started, and I needed to figure out a way to make sure my friends continued to talk to each other despite their political differences, but I definitely did not need another freelance writing job. I was working four days a week already, with jobs lined up through June. Besides, what would working for Seth do to our not-quite relationship? And what would saying no mean?
I was about to find out.
“I’m flattered. And I’m also loaded right now. So many writing clients I can hardly keep up. I wouldn’t be doing either of us any good if I took on your brochure before July. I’m sure you want to take advantage of the spring and summer influx of city folks. I can recommend a couple of other writers, though, people whose work I know and who I think would do a great job for you.”
Seth’s brown eyes clouded. His genial expression didn’t change, but it seemed like he was holding his breath. Whether he was having a temper tantrum or waiting for me to change my mind, I couldn’t tell. This was the first time I’d seen him show a petulant side. Finally he said, “That works, I guess. Are any of them as pretty and as smart as you are?”
“One fellow I know is probably prettier and more tuned to city things but I’m smarter. And then there’s my mentor, who describes herself as “Rubenesque.” She’s one of the brightest people I know.” Maybe I’d gotten too defensive too quickly. Seth’s smile still beamed in my direction. When I glanced over at Neil, he seemed to be enjoying the sparring match. “Besides, you probably don’t want a murder suspect to have a hand in your brochure.”
Neil’s eyes widened and Seth’s laugh filled the room.
“I’m sorry.” Seth’s grin was replaced by a thoughtful frown. “You think you’re a serious suspect in Marjorie’s murder? That’s crazy. She was the focal point for the pro-casino group. What Marjorie did that nobody else bothered to do was to organize. She knew the power she’d wield if she had the backing of prominent businesspeople and town opinion-makers. ‘Consortium.’ That’s her word. Mine is ‘gang.’ And if Castro and Murphy are smart, that’s where they’ll put their energies. Looking at people who would feel threatened if Marjorie succeeded.”
Neil was suddenly alert, his attention apparently ignited by the fire in Seth’s voice. “So you really think that whoever killed that woman was against the casino? People would get that hot about a place to have a little entertainment?”
“Some of these people.” I rubbed a finger along the soap-stone elephant my brother Charlie had brought me from Tanzania. “At least that’s how it sounded at that meeting when somebody got hot enough to throw a rock that hit Susan just above her eye.”
“It’s about protecting their safe, quiet little corner of the world.” Seth reached for his coffee cup, took a tentative sip, and set it back on the coaster. “You learn a lot when you’re in the business of helping people buy a house. Sometimes feeling in control is more important than money, sex, career, whatever. Walden Corners—they don’t want anything about it to change unless they say it should.”
“And that’s worth killing to protect? If Marjorie’s out of the picture does that mean the support for the casino will fall apart?” Neil winced in pain as he dropped his leg to the floor and reached for his crutches. “Hold that answer. I’ll be right back. You guys go ahead, solve the world’s problems, clean the windows, and build stronger levees in Louisiana. I should be back by the time you’re finished.”
&nb
sp; Without a word, Seth stood beside Neil and offered his arm. This time, Neil was either tired enough or weak enough to accept. I gathered the empty cups and plates and took them into the kitchen. The rhythmic thunk-plunk of Neil’s forward progress faded as he made his way to the bathroom.
I was about to sweep the crumbs into the garbage when I felt Seth’s strong arms draw me to him. He kissed the side of my neck before he said, “I miss you.”
I turned so I could look into his eyes. “Me, too. But it can’t be helped, at least not for now. He’s getting stronger, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone for more than an hour. So we’ll have to satisfy other appetites for a while. You want to whip up dinner next Wednesday? I’ll make dessert.”
“A threesome?” He smiled as he said it, and kissed the top of my head.
“I was thinking more along the lines of four. Why don’t you bring Ron? I know your son is a sports nut. He’d probably get a kick out of meeting a professional baseball player. And Neil would love to have an adoring audience.”
“Not exactly what comes to mind when I think about spending time with you, but actually it’s a great idea. You can do dessert. Your brother eat falafel and baba ganoush?”
A new culinary adventure—I’d encouraged Seth to indulge his love for cooking, but until now the menu had been creative versions of standard fare.
“You know anyone from Brooklyn who doesn’t? That sounds like fun. But I don’t know how to make baklava. Isn’t that the thing to go with Middle Eastern food?”
“Where’s your vision, your pioneering spirit? Dare to eat pie! I’ll see you at seven.”
I was very glad that he was still standing in the doorway when the phone rang, for two reasons. His kiss was delicious and the warmth that rushed through my body left no room for anxiety. And, second, he was the voice of reason when Michele Castro told me her news.
Chapter 10
“Good, you’re there. The report just came in. That rifle is the murder weapon. And the lab says the prints on the rifle aren’t yours,” she said.
I sank back against the kitchen counter in relief. My smile must have been big enough to light the dark side of the moon, and I allowed myself a tiny whoop of pleasure. “I told you I never touched it.”
“There’s something else. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Right away, I knew that the something wasn’t going to make me open another bottle of champagne. “What?” I asked, trying to submerge the feeling of dread that kept bobbing to the surface.
“Just don’t go anywhere.” And then the line went dead.
Seth’s eyes were full of questions I wasn’t ready to answer. With trembling fingers I dialed B. H. Hovanian’s number.
“He’s in court,” a male voice informed me. “Can’t reach him for at least twenty minutes. He’ll phone you as soon as he gets out. Cross my heart.”
I hung up and met Seth’s worried gaze. “Castro is on her way here. She says my prints weren’t on the rifle but that there’s—her words—something else.”
Neil appeared in the kitchen doorway. “What’s this? You getting carted away?”
“Maybe.” My mind wouldn’t get still and my body twitched at the thought of jail. “But not likely. This is America, not some dark, wooded Eastern European country that Kafka created. Not me—I’m not letting my imagination run away with me. Whatever Michele Castro thinks she has, it has nothing to do with me. Even so, I wish that lawyer would call.”
“I know a couple of real estate attorneys,” Seth suggested with his teasing smile. “But you rest easy, Lili. If it’s under a million, I can post bail.”
“You may be sorry you said that. Listen, you guys go back in the living room. I need to catch my breath here.” Seth might have been joking, but a second visit and that warning tone in Michele Castro’s voice made me wonder whether I’d have to take him up on his offer. To calm myself, I washed the dishes, letting the warm water and the mindlessness of the task soothe me.
It’s nothing, I told myself. It couldn’t be anything because I had nothing to do with Marjorie Mellon or her murder. My prints weren’t on the rifle. They might say that I’d worn gloves, but I hoped the sheriff ’s department would be sensible and say case closed, at least the one that had me at the center of it.
It didn’t sound as though Michele Castro was about to do that.
By the time I finished wiping down the counters, the sound of a car in my driveway announced Castro’s arrival.
I walked into the living room, where Neil reached for my hand, squeezing it hard enough to break the spell of my worry. “It’s gonna be fine. You didn’t do anything, so what could happen?”
Seth stood behind me and placed both hands on my shoulders. “It’s just some routine thing, I’m sure. You’ll see, some detail she wants to check out with you.”
The knock was firm and brisk. I inhaled, nodded to myself, and then opened the wood door but left the screen door closed, latched so that nobody could simply pull it open. On the other side of the screen stood Michele Castro. A burly uniformed officer with a suety complexion and a shirt that was straining to hold back his girth stood behind her.
The sight of him did stop the breath in my chest for a second.
But I didn’t wobble and faint, and I did not invite them in. This wasn’t a social call requiring that I offer them pleasantries and cookies. I glanced at my watch. Ten more minutes until that lawyer would be out of court—and I could get some rational, informed advice.
“You want to talk to me,” I said.
Castro’s green eyes narrowed, peering first at me and then over my shoulder into the living room. “I need to come in. We need to come inside.”
“Why?” I felt Seth’s presence behind me, heard Neil thumping to the door. My backup—that didn’t exactly put us on equal footing, but it gave my spine a little extra steel.
The steel melted the next second when Michele Castro whipped out a paper and pressed it against the screen. I glanced at the document, my heart sinking. A search warrant, signed by a Judge Michaels. Why hadn’t Hovanian called so that I could ask him what was going on? As the daughter of a former NYPD detective, I knew enough to realize that unless some i wasn’t dotted or a t crossed definitively, these officers of the law had the right to come into my home—again—and search through my belongings. What I didn’t understand was what they hoped to find in a second search.
“Hey, I’m Neil Marino.” My brother waved and flashed a smile at Castro. “Nice to meet you.”
She smiled back, her eyes lingering on him before she squared her shoulders as she remembered what she was doing on my front porch. “Look, I’m sorry to disturb you all, but I’ve got a job to do here. I need to come inside.”
“Would you mind telling us what this is about? From what my sister told me, you already searched her home. Pretty thoroughly, too.”
I had to hand it to my brother—he made his question sound like he was bestowing high praise for a job well done instead of challenging the necessity for yet another search.
This time, Castro’s response was pure cop. “Sorry, this is an ongoing investigation. I need to see all of your computers, Ms. Marino. And your printers, too.”
It was a good thing so many people were crowded in the doorway, because her words made me dizzy. My computers and printers? What in the world would she want with them? I looked at the warrant still pressed against the screen. Letters danced on the page. No, it couldn’t really say that they could confiscate my computer and my printer. I tapped Neil’s shoulder, pointed to the line in question, gathered my thoughts.
“I need them.” Even I could hear that my voice was strained and high, and I struggled to lower it. Calm. I had to stay calm. “I only have one computer and it contains confidential client files. My livelihood depends on it. And all the personal things—my banking and a journal and lots of other things that are private. My printer doesn’t have anything on it. What do you want that for?
You can’t just come in here and take them away.”
She pointed to the lines that told me she could.
“Look, I can read. But I’m not letting you in here until I speak to my attorney. This is ridiculous, you know it is. You already checked the rifle, you didn’t find anything, and you know I had nothing to do with Marjorie’s murder. So this constitutes harassment, and it interferes with my right to earn a livelihood, and it’s an invasion of my privacy.” Each word made Castro’s eyes darker and her mouth tighter, but I was not about to let her steamroll her way over my life. “So I’m going to ask you to wait out there, and I’ll call my attorney, and then I’ll follow his advice. Whatever it is.”
Whenever it was that I actually reached him. I stepped back into the living room, aware that Seth had taken my place at the screen door. “Hey, Michele,” he said, his voice warm and friendly. “You can understand, right, how upsetting this is. Maybe if you could tell her why you—”
“Seth, you know I can’t. It’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
Just then the phone rang, and I ran the rest of the way to the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.
“I have three minutes,” the voice on the other end said. “Speak.”
I was glad my folksy country lawyer stereotype had already been shattered. “Michele Castro is standing on my porch with a paper that looks like a search warrant. It says she can take my computer and my printer. Judge Michaels signed it. Do I have to give it to her?”
“Yes. But why does she want it? I know, she didn’t tell you. I’ll be out of here in ten minutes and I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll be in touch. Give her what the warrant says. Don’t give her a hard time over this.”