“Then she knifes him in the back by tricking him into committing a felony. Nice. For five G’s.”
“Do the police have any evidence that Diane actually got the twenty-five thousand dollars?” I asked.
“Yup. Cal told them where to find his five thousand, and they found the remaining twenty thousand in Diane’s house.”
“Really? I would have thought she would have used it to pay for the trip to Indonesia.”
“She charged the trip,” Wes said, “and the bills haven’t come due yet.”
“And it’s hard to stash cash in a bank. You can’t just open an account and keep depositing amounts under the ten-thousand-dollar reporting threshold because that’s a crime, too. It’s called ‘structuring.’”
Wes stared at me for a moment. “And you know this … how?”
I laughed. “No, I’m not trying to hide cash. I just know things. I read a lot. Any fingerprints?”
“Uh-huh. They’ve got Diane dead to rights on the money. Both Ava and Jean’s fingerprints are all over the bills—along with Diane’s. Not Cal’s, though, which will help him at trial time.”
“Why aren’t his prints on his cut?”
“Diane put the money in an envelope—he never even opened it.”
“That’s good, because I wouldn’t put it past Diane to try to put the murders on Cal.”
“She already is,” Wes said. “She took the story he told the police and turned it around, saying he was the one who found the lamp at a garage sale, and she was helping him out.”
“But the bulk of the money was found at her place.”
“She was holding it for him. The five thousand he kept was—she said with a straight face—walking-around money.”
“What a witch!”
“She’s some piece of work, all right. So you think Diane went to Ava’s house demanding a bigger cut, and when Ava refused, she grabbed the frying pan and killed her?”
“It’s logical. I doubt we’ll ever know for sure, since the last I heard, Diane isn’t talking and there’s no forensic evidence.” I laid my fork down and looked straight at Wes. “I thought there was a chance Edwin killed Ava.”
“So did I.”
“We were wrong, showing that anyone can use facts to prove the truth they want to believe.”
“People do it all the time.”
“Usually not on purpose—I hope.” The waitress refilled our coffee cups. “What else have you learned?”
“They found a professional makeup kit and a bunch of wigs and eyeglasses. Strands of Diane’s own hair are in the wigs and wig caps, including the ones used by the fake Ava, the gal who gave her name as Orson as she passed through the Grey Gull condo complex security booth, and the one she used at the Austin Arms. They also found the Gucci horsebit loafers and Picasso bracelet Diane wore when she was the fake Ava in Jean’s closet. Evidently, Jean lent them to her. There’s something I don’t get. I understand why Ava and Jean needed someone to pretend to be Ava—the real Ava was out of the country making certain Edwin didn’t muck up her plans. What I don’t understand is why they chose Diane.”
“Really? I think Diane was a smart choice—she was both a good friend and a talented actress.” I sipped some coffee. “Cal was a good choice, too. Neither one of them has a criminal record, so they’d never be on the cops’ radar. Another smart thing they did—both Jean and Diane planted suggestions that Edwin was violent, exaggerating so the police would think he had a motive. Sylvia told the truth as she knew it. Jean and Diane used facts to tell a lie. Sophistry.”
“Why didn’t Jean report Ava’s actual scheme as soon as Ava was killed?” Wes asked. “After all, that Ava intended to steal the lamp to fund a new life because she was having another man’s baby gives Edwin one heck of a motive.”
“At a guess, because Jean was the buyer of record of the reproduction Tiffany lamp, so any revelation she made about Ava’s intentions would implicate herself. Plus, Jean would have had to reveal the rest of the plan, and that would incriminate Diane and Cal, and she had to know that Cal at least would have turned on her without blinking. It’s one thing to keep a secret about what Cal thought was a white lie designed to help his sister. It’s another to keep that secret when doing so means you go to jail, especially when your cut is a measly five thousand dollars.”
“It was all about money.”
“It’s more complicated than that. I think it was about living your dream. Diane longed for travel, for adventures, for grand passion. Money was merely the means to that end. The lamp was her ticket out.”
“What do you long for?”
“Community. I want to fit in. To belong.”
“Don’t you feel as if you belong?”
“Sometimes. How about you? What do you long for?”
Wes grinned, a cocky one. “A Pulitzer.”
“I believe in you, Wes. You’ll get there.”
“You do? You believe in me?”
“Yes.” I patted the back of his hand. “I really do, Wes. I really do.”
* * *
I gave Wes two killer quotes for his proposal, one about how Cal had been betrayed by Diane, his newfound family, the other about Diane’s longing for adventure and love. I knew they’d resonate with Wes, the Drop a Dime editor, and the publications’ readers because I’ve learned over the years that facts are far less compelling than emotions. Steer toward the pain and you reach the truth.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Ellis called as I was driving to work and asked me to stop by the station. As soon as I sat down at the guest table, he placed a photograph in front of me.
“Do you recognize this person?” he asked.
I was staring at the fake Ava. The hair and glasses were the same as in the other photos and in the sketch, but this time everything was right.
“This is the fake Ava,” I said. “Bryan did an incredible job.” I raised my eyes to his face. “How did you get Diane to pose for the photo?”
“We didn’t. We used an image from the theater’s Web site.”
“Clever.” I slid the photo back toward him. “With my ID, you can prove Diane perpetrated a fraud. Can you get her for murder?”
“Looks that way. The ADA is going to try her for Jean’s murder first since that’s the strongest case. It’s all about the weapon. Diane bought it at a gun show in Augusta, Maine, last month. She charged it, so there’s no question of ownership. She had it with her at the Austin Arms, so we have it in her possession. The bullets match those that killed Jean.”
“That sounds pretty cut and dried. She doesn’t have an alibi, does she?”
“Nope. And our canvass turned up a neighbor who saw a woman place a cardboard box of the right shape and size in her trunk and drive away. She can’t ID her, but we have the car. Her description of the vehicle matches the white Impala they recorded at the security gate, which just happens to be the kind of car Diane rented that morning.”
“Was Diane’s own car in the shop?”
“Nope.”
“Is the witness reliable?”
“She’s old, but sharp as a tack, from what I hear.”
“We saw her at the crime scene,” I said. “An older woman stood just outside the police line watching you work. She was with a young woman, a girl, really.”
“I remember her.”
I gazed out the window toward the dunes. “Diane killed Jean to steal the genuine Tiffany lamp.”
“Which makes it a capital crime. And let’s not forget that Diane tried to kill you, too.”
“Yeah … that’s not something I’ll forget anytime soon. Objectively, I understand why she did it. She and Jean couldn’t let me appraise the replica lamp. If I did, their entire plan would unravel. I suspect the break-in was Jean’s idea. Probably Jean offered Diane a huge chunk of money to do it, maybe as much as half the proceeds of the sale.”
Ellis nodded. “That’s what I think, too. Better to have us investigate a brazen theft than discover a mot
ive for murder.”
“Diane saw her travel dreams draw closer. Her intention was to smash a window, knowing that would trip the alarm, figuring she could get in and out with the lamp in the two or three minutes she had before the police arrived. Desperate times require desperate acts. Then she saw me and shot at me. She still would have tried to recover the replica lamp—but Eric arrived, and then sirens sounded, and the whole idea was foiled.”
Scuffling noises came through the open door, followed by shouts and angry voices, a babble of protest. I turned to see what was going on. Ellis rose at the first sounds and strode to the lobby. I followed, standing just inside the office. I could see and hear but was away from the skirmish.
A gaggle of reporters was queued up along one wall. Wes was among the several who were trying to move forward, to work their way closer to the reception desk and the internal corridors that led to the interrogation rooms and jail cells.
Detective Brownley stood facing them, her hand raised like a traffic cop, telling them, “Stay back. You heard me—stay back. You cannot block the door or access to the hallways.”
No one seemed to be listening to her. Daryl came out from behind the reception counter on the run just as Ellis charged into the melee.
“That’s it!” Ellis boomed.
I wasn’t surprised that the fracas died down on the spot. The power and authority Ellis brought to those two words would have stopped a charging elephant in its tracks.
“Stay back or stay outside. Your choice.”
“Chief,” Wes said, pivoting on a dime, “ADA Navarro announced he’ll be indicting Diane Hawkins for the murder of Jean Cooper. What about Ava Towson?”
Officer Meade appeared from the corridor on the left, her hand grasping Diane’s arm. Diane wore a red sheath with a black and red striped bolero jacket and black pumps. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. Her chin was up. Her hair was styled as I’d seen it at the library, chic and modern. She seemed poised and confident. As soon as she saw the reporters, she raised her chin a bit higher and angled her head to the right, presenting, I gathered, her best side. Cameras flashed. Questions were shouted and ignored. Ellis stood facing them, keeping them at bay.
Detective Brownley took her other arm, and the two women marched Diane past the gauntlet. As they passed Ellis’s door, Diane saw me and stopped.
“You should have died,” she said.
“I almost did.”
The detective propelled her out the door, with the reporters following close behind.
Ellis walked toward me. I backed up.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Did you see her eyes when she saw me? She’s filled with hate.” I sat back down at the guest table. “I feel so bad for Cal—with a sister like that.”
“He’ll be okay.”
“How can you say that? She got him in six kinds of trouble.”
“He’s going to walk.”
“Really? How so?”
“Cal is eager to testify against Diane and clear his own name.”
“He negotiated a plea deal.”
A corner of Ellis’s mouth lifted. “At first, he agreed to plead guilty to criminal impersonation. You know that statute, right? That’s what they use to prosecute identity theft. He would have served a year. But then he got a lawyer who put the kibosh on that deal. They were at it most of the night, negotiating the terms. Cal is getting full immunity on all charges relating to the theft in return for his testimony. Even the record of his arrest will be expunged.”
“Oh, that’s terrific news, Ellis. Who’s his lawyer?”
“Max Bixby.”
“You’re a good guy, Ellis.”
“Me? What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”
“I can’t imagine.”
Footsteps echoed from the lobby. I skewed around to peek and saw Phil Wilcox striding across the lobby to the reception desk. A short bald man in a dark blue suit followed a pace behind him.
“That’s Phil Wilcox,” I said. “Is he Ava’s baby’s father?”
“It looks that way. We’re trying to persuade him to take a paternity test.”
“Why would he?”
“To help the ADA make his case. Ava’s pregnancy is crucial to proving motive.”
“You’d have to be very civic-minded to put yourself through that.”
“The press are already onto him. Wes found the hotel room where he took Ava—he charged it.”
“I feel terrible for his wife.”
“Who’s already left him.”
“Who can blame her?”
“Not me. His dad fired him, too. From what I hear, he’ll be filing for personal bankruptcy protection within days.”
“What about Edwin? Does he know?”
“Edwin gave us a blood sample, and he’s been ruled out as the father—and yes, he knows.”
“What a mess.” I stood up, preparing to leave. “I’m really glad about Cal.”
Ellis smiled. “Me, too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I got into work just before ten. Cara was preparing our mailing list for a midsummer promotional flyer. Sasha was on the phone thanking someone for something. Eric, Cara told me, was polishing furniture, and Gretchen was changing Hank and Angela’s water. I poured myself a cup of coffee.
“That was a nice call,” Sasha said. “A man named Dylan Locke returned Fred’s call. Since Fred isn’t in yet, I took it. He’s Ferdinand Locke’s grandson, and he has all of his grandfather’s papers. Among the dozen love letters Aunt Louise wrote Ferdy—which is what she called him—is one where she thanks him for the desk.”
“Way to go, Fred!” I said, giving a small air pump. “He’s going to be over the moon!”
“Dylan will be scanning in the letter and e-mailing it to us today.”
“Great. Did you hear from Frank? What did he think of the Peabody? How was his clam chowder?”
Sasha’s cheeks grew rosy. “He loved both.”
“If you talk to him again, give him my regards,” I said, turning toward the front door in response to the wind chimes jingling.
Edwin stepped into the office. With one quick glance he took in the office and my staff. “Do you have a minute?” he asked me.
“Of course. Let’s go to my private office. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Upstairs, Edwin perched on the edge of the love seat. I sat in the wing chair and waited for him to speak.
“I wanted to say good-bye and thank you.”
“You’re leaving for London.”
“Yes. Chief Hunter called on me last evening. He gave me a comprehensive update.”
“It’s all pretty shocking.”
“Shock wears off and life goes on.” He tapped the love seat’s arm with his index finger. “Chief Hunter asked me why I was staying at the guesthouse. I inferred that he thought I was having an affair. I assured him I wasn’t. On the off chance you might think the same thing, I want to repeat my assurance.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.”
“I want the respect of people I admire. You are in that category.”
“Thank you, Edwin. I’m honored by that.”
“The woman staying there is Uma Young, a consultant specializing in helping hospitals expand their fund-raising efforts.”
“I’d heard her name was Coco Tully.”
“Coco is a nickname. Tully is her married name, which she doesn’t use in business. Her full, legal name is Uma Corcoran Young Tully. In her personal life, she’s known as Coco Tully. Professionally, she goes by Uma Young.”
“Her husband is a lawyer, and they just relocated to Los Angeles.”
Edwin’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”
“I was curious about her. I should apologize to you about that, for intruding in your business.”
“Did you consider whether I stole the Tiffany lamp myself?”
“Not seriously.”
<
br /> “The police did.”
“They have to look at everything, I guess. They asked me if I stole it, too.”
“A waste of time and resources,” Edwin said, his voice laden with contempt. “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I brought Ms. Young in to help Ava’s pet charity.”
“So not only were you not having an affair with her—”
“Or with anyone,” he said, interrupting me.
“Or with anyone … you were trying to help Ava succeed.”
“Grief is a funny thing,” he said, meeting my eyes. “I had just authorized you to sell everything in the house. I was grieving more than I wanted to admit, not just for my wife, but for the loss of … I guess you would call it … a dream.”
“After we met, you went to the guesthouse to ask Ms. Young to stay and help the hospital, as a kind of tribute to Ava.”
“Yes.” He paused for several moments. “I felt sick, really ill, as if only then did the reality set in. I went upstairs to lie down for a few minutes. I don’t recall ever feeling so weary. I slept for ten hours and stayed for days. I was just so damn sad.” He stood up. “If you’re ever in London, I hope you’ll contact me.”
I thanked him and walked him out.
Outside, he turned back, reached into an inside pocket, and handed me a sheet of paper. I unfolded it. It was the authorization form, signed.
“Oh, Edwin … thank you.”
He nodded once and resumed his march to London.
I stood on the stoop watching until the long black limo turned the corner and was lost behind the trees. I wondered what would have happened had Ava told Edwin the truth, whether he would have stuck to the prenup, or whether he would have tried to work something out with her.
* * *
Upstairs again, I scanned in the signed authorization form and e-mailed it to Timothy. I inserted a happy face emoticon in the e-mail, figuring that one icon said it all.
I called Max.
“I hear you got a killer deal for Cal Miller, and I wanted to tell you that I think it’s wonderful. The poor kid.”
“Any deal that might or might not be in the works has not yet been officially announced.”
“Understood. So what was that rattling sound?”
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