by Tracy Kiely
Sergeant Beal turned to Frances, as Reggie tried to get her emotions back under control. “And why does this mean that Ms. Ames had nothing to do with Mr. Barrow’s death?”
“Because Michael was alive and well long after the fireworks ended. I saw him myself.”
“And where was this?” Sergeant Beal asked with an edge in her voice.
“Down by the docks. With Ann,” Frances replied.
Sergeant Beal’s eyes swung toward Ann. “Really? Well, that is interesting. I don’t believe you mentioned this in your earlier statement, Ms. Reynolds. Would you care to explain why that was?”
Ann tried to speak but couldn’t seem to find the words. “I…” was all she got out. I moved over and crouched next to where she sat. Taking her hand, I said quietly, “Ann, it’s got to come sometime.”
Ann looked at me and nodded. Looking back at the room, I saw that Frances looked confused and Reggie curious. Only Joe seemed to sense Ann’s deep level of disgust and discomfort. The words still stuck in her throat, so I said what she couldn’t.
“Michael came down to the dock after Joe left and I’d headed for bed. He talked to her a bit about her plans for school, and then he … he told Ann that he was in love with her.” Frances gasped in horror at this. Reggie didn’t move, her face pale with surprise or fury. “When Ann rebuffed him, he…” I paused and looked to Ann, unsure how to continue.
Taking a deep breath she said, “He attacked me. He tried to…” The words stuck in her throat. Ann wrapped her arms around herself. “He attacked me,” she repeated. “He … he caught me by surprise, but once I realized what was happening … well, I fought as hard as I could.”
Joe’s face was like granite and he gripped the arms of his chair. “Did he…?”
Ann shook her head. “No, I stopped him.” I tried to catch Ann’s eye and caution her to stop, but she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were firmly fastened on Joe. “I pushed him away,” she continued, saying the words I feared she’d say. “Michael was so drunk that he lost his balance and fell back. I ran like hell for the house and didn’t stop until I got to my room.” Joe relaxed slightly, but his expression was still murderous. I thought once again that it was a good thing Michael was already dead.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Reggie asked, her eyes wide with horror and shock.
“I was going to,” said Ann. “But then I guess I wanted to pretend it never happened. In the morning Michael was gone and you announced that you’d ended things with him. Then we found out about the embezzlement and it seemed pretty clear that he was out of our lives forever. It was hard enough for you already. I couldn’t see how telling you what he’d done to me would help.”
“Oh, my God, Ann, you poor thing!” cried Frances.
Reggie crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Ann, hugging her tight. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. But why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’d been hurt enough,” Ann said. “I didn’t want to add to it.”
“Oh, Ann. How horrible. I had no idea!”
“It’s okay. How could you have?”
Reggie shook her head sadly. “I don’t know … I just somehow feel responsible. I’m so sorry.”
Ann grabbed Reggie’s hands. “Don’t be. It’s over. I’m fine now. But I’m sorry you had to find out. He hurt a lot of people in his life.”
“Well, at least he can’t hurt either of us anymore,” said Reggie.
“Amen to that,” said Frances.
I would have felt much better about this little family catharsis if it hadn’t been for the way Sergeant Beal gazed at Ann like a hungry cat eyeing a trapped mouse.
Chapter 12
A woman, especially if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.
—Northanger Abbey
“So I take it you fought back against Michael when he attacked you?” Detective Beal said blandly. Joe blanched at her words. However, if Sergeant Beal noticed, she ignored it.
Ann nodded, not picking up on Sergeant Beal’s real meaning. “Yes, I told you. I pushed him back and ran for the house.”
“You must have pushed him pretty hard for him to fall back,” Sergeant Beal said.
Ann finally realized where Sergeant Beal was taking the conversation. Her eyes widened. “I pushed him from me and yes, he fell back, but he wasn’t hurt. He was just drunk and I took him by surprise.”
“By your own account, you just said that you pushed him off of you hard enough that he fell down and that you ran for the house and didn’t look back. How do you know he wasn’t hurt?”
“Because I was there. I saw him fall. It wasn’t the kind of fall that injures people.”
“You’d be surprised the damage a simple bop to the head can produce,” Sergeant Beal continued.
Next to her, Joe said, “Erica…”
“Erica” held up her hand to stop him. “I understand your reluctance to see someone you were once … friends with come under scrutiny like this, Detective. And I know you would hate for it to seem that you were biased in this investigation. But the fact remains that we have a dead man. A dead man who this woman claims she attacked.”
Ann’s jaw dropped open. So did most every one else’s, for that matter.
“Now wait a damn minute!” cried Miles. “She did not say that she ‘attacked’ Michael. She said that she pushed him off of her and he fell back! I don’t know how you got to be a police officer if that’s how you interpret facts. Any fool can see that Ann not only didn’t kill Michael but that she simply didn’t have the strength to do him any real harm. Michael was a big man. Ann is a petite woman. Her pushing him couldn’t have done any real damage.”
“Oh, I would agree with you there. In fact, I don’t see how he could have fallen if it was just a push,” said Sergeant Beal.
“What the hell does that mean?” snapped Ann.
“It means that you were scared and probably mad. Furious, even. Who wouldn’t be? He’s your sister’s fiancé—practically part of the family—and he’s attacking you? No one would blame you if you, let’s say, picked up a tree branch or a log and bashed the guy’s head in,” Sergeant Beal said evenly.
Ann opened her mouth, but it was Miles who spoke. “Don’t say a word, Ann. Not one more damn word. Not until we’ve gotten you a lawyer. This interview is over.” He stood up and marched over to Sergeant Beal. Looking down, he said firmly, “Let me show you out. We’ll be in touch.”
Sergeant Beal didn’t answer or move right away. It was Joe who nudged her into action. “As you wish,” she said, but if it was in response to Miles or Joe, I couldn’t tell. She bent her head to tuck her notebook back into her pocket. As she did so, she missed Joe catching Miles’s eye and pointedly mouthing “Thank you.”
I gave a sigh of relief. At least Joe still believed Ann. I just hoped it was enough.
* * *
Miles was on the phone to his lawyer seconds after the front door shut. The rest of us circled around Ann, not that any of us really knew what to say. It was all so absurd. But it seemed clear to me that in her haste to discredit Ann in front of Joe, Sergeant Beal had squarely put Ann in the position of number one suspect. Not with any of us, or with Joe for that matter, but the rest of the police department might not see it as we did.
“Scott,” I said, “can you get those records for us? The ones listing all the employees from Michael’s time at the company?”
Scott nodded. “Absolutely. Do you think they’ll help?”
I shook my head. “I really don’t know. But we have to do something. We can’t let Sergeant Beal railroad her theory about Ann without a challenge. Maybe the list will provide some other ideas.”
“That woman…” said Ann, “that woman thinks I killed him, doesn’t she?”
“Who cares what she thinks?” I said. “She’s an idiot. The fact is that you didn’t kill Michael and we’re going to prove that.”
Ann looked up at me and
said one word. “How?”
“We’re going to find his killer,” I said. Apparently, I was going to direct the Christmas pageant after all.
Chapter 13
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.
—Emma
After everyone left, I put Ann to bed. She was in a state of semishock. Once she was settled, I called Aunt Winnie and told her the news. She was horrified, of course—both at the fact that Michael had attacked Ann and that she was now suspected of killing him. Peter had much the same reaction. However, knowing me as he did, he was doubly upset because he knew that I was now bound and determined to help prove Ann’s innocence. “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said. “Just promise me not to do anything stupid—at least until I get there.”
“I promise to save the stupid for until you get here,” I said. He didn’t laugh.
When Ann got up the next morning, she was still reeling from Sergeant Beal’s accusation. I tried to talk her out of going to work, but she insisted that it was the very thing she needed to keep her mind off things. We agreed to meet for dinner at six at the Old Ebbitt Grill. As Scott had promised that he would get us the list of past employees this afternoon, we planned to discuss it over dinner.
Work was a blur of meetings and deadlines, but finally, that magical number six appeared on my desk’s digital clock. Actually, it looked like a fishhook as depicted by Salvador Dalí because the display is broken, but I knew how to read it. I leaped up from my desk and went to meet Ann. Located on 15th Street in downtown Washington, the restaurant’s beaux arts façade was once the entrance to the B. F. Keats theater and is something of a D.C. landmark.
As it was a Friday, the bar was packed with the happy hour crowd. Luckily, Ann had made us a reservation and was waiting for me in one of the wooden booths in the main dining room. Sliding onto the green velvet bench, I saw that she had a pile of papers in front of her. “Scott got you the records, I see. Have you looked through them yet?” I asked, as I opened my menu.
Ann nodded. “I think I may have found something, too.” Tapping the top paper, she pointed to a name. “Donny Mancuso.”
I looked at her blankly. “Who’s Donny Mancuso?”
“Reggie’s boyfriend before Michael. In fact, she dumped Donny for Michael. He wasn’t too happy about it, if I remember.”
“And he worked at the company?”
“Yes, but wait, it gets better. He not only worked at the company, he worked on the design of the pool. He might have even been there when it was put in.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s got his own pool business. It’s out in Rockville.”
“Really? This is great!” I said, then caught myself. “Well, not great, but well, you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. It means that the police can focus on someone other than me, and outside the family.”
“Right. Especially when you consider that Donny has his own business. I mean, it takes a fair amount of capital to start something like that. Add in his connection to Michael, and the police will have an interesting suspect. Speaking of the police, what did they say when you told them what you found?”
The waitress appeared to take our order just then, delaying Ann’s answer. Ann ordered the Thai shrimp while I opted for the Niçoise salmon salad. As soon as the waitress left, I returned to the topic at hand. “So,” I said after taking a sip of ice water, “what did the police say about Donny? Did you talk to Joe?”
Ann paused and traced an imaginary design on the crisp linen tablecloth. “No. I didn’t call them yet.”
Something in her voice aroused my darkest suspicions. I put down my glass and stared at her. “But you are going to, right?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. But I want to talk to Donny first.”
I gaped at her, dumbfounded. “Are you crazy? Why on earth would you do that?”
Ann ducked her head. “What if he’s innocent? I mean, I’d hate to throw him to the police for no reason. I know how that feels, after all, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
“But what if he’s the killer?” I yelled. Despite the noise in the dining room, several heads turned our way. “But what if he’s the killer?” I repeated in a calmer voice. “Michael Barrow was murdered and Sergeant Beal wants to pin it on you! Here’s a guy who might have had a grudge against Michael. We’ve got to tell the police about him! Not only did he have a motive; apparently he also had an opportunity to bury the body!”
“I know,” said Ann, “but I’d just feel better about it if I saw him first. Look, I don’t know how to explain it. Donny was a nice guy and Reggie treated him pretty poorly. I doubt he had anything to do with it. I just want to go talk to him first.”
“So because of that you feel you owe him a heads-up on the police investigation?” I sputtered.
“No … yes … I don’t know. I just want to see him.” Her voice was determined. “I’ll tell the police about him, but not until I see him.”
“And when are you planning on seeing him?”
“I thought I’d go tomorrow.”
“Don’t!”
“Don’t what?” she asked.
“Don’t go back to Rockville, what else? Don’t go see Donny!”
“Ha-ha! Very funny. Please, be serious.”
“I am being serious. I don’t like this.”
“Then don’t come with me. But I am going whether you like it or not. However, I would like you to come.”
I sighed. “Fine. Stupid but fine. I’ll go with you, but I want you to promise me that the second we leave, you’ll call Joe and tell him about Donny.”
“Okay, deal. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” I grumbled. “I’m on record as stating that this is a stupid idea. I’m beginning to see why Peter gets so mad sometimes.”
Ann’s eyebrows pulled together. “What are you talking about? What does this have to do with Peter?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled, taking another sip of water.
* * *
The next morning I went downstairs to find Ann in the kitchen, hunched over the paper and drinking coffee. Scarlett was curled up under one of the chairs. Seeing me, Ann pointed at the coffeemaker. Mercifully, she was silent.
After pouring a large cup, adding cream and sugar, and drinking enough to jump-start my brain, I was capable of conversation. “So, any chance a good night’s sleep made you see logic and abandon this absurd idea of going to see Donny Mancuso? A man, by the way, who sounds like an extra from The Sopranos.”
Ann didn’t bother to look up. “Nope.”
I sighed. “Thought so.”
Ann kept reading the paper. Suddenly, she gave a startled gasp.
“What?” I asked.
“Reggie was right,” she said, tapping the paper. “The gossip page has everything about the discovery of Michael’s body and Reggie’s relationship with him.”
I leaned over her shoulder to read. It was the Post’s “Reliable Source” column. “Do they call her a black widow?” I asked.
“No, thank God, but she’s going to freak when she sees this.”
I had just taken another sip of coffee when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” I said to Ann, as I padded down the hallway with Scarlett right behind me. Swinging open the door, I was surprised to see Kit standing on the front steps. She was wearing maternity jeans and a blue polo shirt and a smug smile. In her hands was a large casserole dish. Scarlett was interested in neither and so turned back to return to the kitchen.
“Hey, Kit! I didn’t know you were coming over this morning,” I said in surprise.
“I promised Ann that I would bring her a meal, remember? You aren’t the only cousin who is capable of helping,” she said as she pushed past me into the house.
“I never said I was,” I began.
She ignored me. “And besides, if Ann needs
help organizing Uncle Marty’s things, I’m the one who should be helping her. Everyone knows how disorganized you are.”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Kit wasn’t finished. Shifting the dish in her hands, she smiled slyly at me. “Unless, of course, you aren’t really here to help her organize. The way I look at it, whether or not you are here to help organize, Ann needs real help in that department. So I decided to offer my services.”
I stared at her, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. She was actually so upset Ann had asked me for help and not her that she simply decided to barge in and foist herself on us using what smelled to be chicken piccata as cover. I paused. Kit’s chicken piccata was really good. “But what about Pauly? Who’s watching him?” I asked.
“I hired one of the neighborhood girls to babysit him.”
From the kitchen, Ann called out, “Elizabeth? Who is it?” A second later she appeared in the foyer, coffee cup in hand. Surprise registered on her face when she saw Kit. “Kit! What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
Kit let out a little laugh. “Everything is fine, silly. Didn’t I promise you that I would bring you some food?” Kit held out the glass dish as proof. “I made you my chicken piccata.”
Ann politely accepted the dish. “Oh, Kit, that was very kind of you. But really, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”
Kit brushed this away. “Don’t be silly. It was no trouble at all. Besides, I love to cook.” I shot Kit a pointed look. This love of cooking was certainly news to me, as she had told me just two days ago that cooking dinner had become “a gastric nightmare” for her due to the pregnancy. Gastric nightmare, my ass. Then, as if the idea had just occurred to her, she added, “Hey, Elizabeth was telling me you needed help organizing all of Uncle Marty’s things. I’m actually free today. Why don’t I help? After all, family should come together in times like these,” she said sweetly.