Flipped Out

by Jennie Bentley

  And all right, yes, there was the chance that she’d actually killed Tony. Derek seemed to think she hadn’t, and I found it hard to reconcile it in my own mind, as well, but with what we knew right now, it seemed awfully possible. Which went some way to mitigating any glee I felt. Along with the fact that, if she hadn’t killed him, she’d just lost her fiancé.

  So I focused hard and managed to sound sympathetic when I added, “Is there anything we can do for you?”

  “Get me out of here?” Melissa suggested and threw herself petulantly back down on the bed. Derek offered me the room’s only chair, but I declined. He sat, and that left me the choice of sitting on his lap, sitting next to Melissa, or standing. I chose to stand.

  “I can’t stay away from the desk too long,” Connor said, heading back to the lift. He added over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. That enough time for you?”

  “Plenty,” Derek said.

  Melissa must have noticed that he was pretty brusque, because she refrained from any comment about his not wanting to spend time with her. Instead, she just smoothed her hair behind one ear with a talon-tipped finger. The diamond sparkled. “What are you doing here, if you’re not coming to get me out?”

  “You lied to me,” Derek said. “I want to know why.”

  Melissa huffed. “I didn’t lie.”

  “You didn’t tell me you’d been at the house on Cabot Street the night Tony was killed.”

  “You didn’t ask,” Melissa said.

  “Oh, I was supposed to ask? Excuse me for not realizing that!”

  They stared at each other.

  “What were you doing there?” I cut in, trying to become the voice of reason.

  Both of them looked at me, as if for a moment they’d both forgotten I was in the room. I arched a brow at Derek, who made a face, before we both turned to Melissa. She rolled her eyes.

  “He asked me to meet him.”

  “When?”

  “He sent me a text.”

  “Why didn’t he just stop by your place?” I asked.

  Melissa shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t talk to him.”

  “Didn’t you think to ask?”

  She huffed. “Have you ever texted anyone, Avery? It’s not really suited for long conversations, OK? He said he was back, he wanted to talk, could I meet him?”

  “And you . . . ?”

  She tossed her head. “I said yes. And drove over there.”

  “To the house on Cabot?”

  She nodded. “It was about eleven thirty. I didn’t want to rush, because I wanted him to know that I wasn’t happy about him going out with Nina, even if he told me they were just old friends and it was her idea. And besides, I thought maybe he was going to tell me that he wanted to break off the engagement, and I wasn’t in any hurry to hear that.”

  Couldn’t blame her there.

  “What happened when you got there?” I wanted to know.

  “We talked for a few minutes. Then I went home.”

  “Try again,” Derek said. “We just found the screwdriver. In a bag in the Dumpster behind my loft. I always thought it was strange that you were there that night. If you’d been in your apartment, you would have been able to look across the street and see that my lights were off.”

  Melissa had turned pale under the perfect makeup. “You found the screwdriver?”

  “Did you think we wouldn’t? It was pretty obvious when you think about it.”

  “So what really happened?” I asked. “That night? Tony texted you, and what?”

  All the bravado had gone out of her, and her voice was low, so I had to step closer to hear. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I knocked on the door. He didn’t answer, but I knew he was there, because his car was parked at the curb. So I tried the door, and it was open. I walked in, and then . . .” She swallowed noisily. “I saw him lying there.”

  “Dead?”

  “Of course dead! You think I would have left him if he wasn’t? I was married to a doctor for five years, Avery, I know how to tell when someone’s dead!”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She deflated. “It’s OK. I checked. He was dead. Stabbed with that stupid screwdriver that I stupidly touched. I just wasn’t thinking, you know? It was sticking out of his chest, and I pulled it out. I was just trying to help!”

  Derek muttered something, probably to the effect that if she’d been married to a doctor for five years, she should have known that it would have been better to leave the screwdriver where it was. Melissa didn’t seem to hear.

  “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?” I wanted to know.

  She looked at me as if she couldn’t believe I had to ask. “I thought they’d say I’d killed him. That he’d told me he wanted to end the engagement and I’d been so upset that I’d grabbed the screwdriver and stabbed him.”

  “So you took the murder weapon and ran?” Derek said. “Christ, Melly . . . !”

  Melissa sniffed and tossed her head.

  “What did you do then?” I wanted to know, and she turned her attention to me.

  “I drove back home. With the screwdriver on the seat next to me. Inside the bakery bag. I’d picked up a coffee and a muffin in the morning. But when I parked, I realized I couldn’t take it upstairs. It had Tony’s blood on it, and Derek’s initials, and what if the police came and searched my place? So I decided to put it in Derek’s truck, after I wiped it clean.”

  Derek sputtered. “My truck? What the hell . . . ! What were you trying to do, make it look like I’d killed him?”

  “Of course not,” Melissa said. “It’s just . . . you have so many tools, I thought you wouldn’t notice that this was the same as the one from the house. All tools look alike, right?”

  Derek look of disgust eloquently expressed his opinion of that question, and of Melissa’s intelligence.

  “Not exactly,” I answered. To a carpenter or a handyman, someone who works with his tools every day, each screwdriver is distinctive and different. If this screwdriver had shown up in Derek’s truck, he would have known right away that it was the screwdriver from the house on Cabot Street. Even if all of Tony’s blood had been wiped away.

  Melissa shrugged. “Well, the truck wasn’t there anyway. So I started to go home again. But then Derek drove up, and I had to say something to explain why I was there. So I tossed the bag with the screwdriver into the Dumpster behind the hardware store. When he asked me what was going on, I told him I was upset about Tony going out with Nina and asked him if he could come upstairs with me for a while.”

  Derek snorted. He was obviously rather outdone with his ex-wife at this point. “Christ, Melissa, you should have just called the police when you found him. It would have been better than running away and taking the murder weapon with you.”

  “Wayne doesn’t like me,” Melissa said. “You don’t, either.”

  Her eyes were filling up with tears, and as she turned to me, they spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “You have to help me, Avery. I know you’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. You have to figure out a way to prove to Wayne that I didn’t do it. Please!”

  16

  Had the circumstances been different, I might have felt rather gratified at that point. Melissa, perfect, fabulous, do-no-wrong Melissa, was in way over her head and begging for my help. My help in keeping her out of the slammer, which made it all the sweeter.

  I couldn’t quite bring myself to enjoy the situation as much as I might, however. Partly because she seemed very sincerely distraught, and partly because I really couldn’t wrap my brain around the fact that she might have killed Tony. Much as I disliked her—and yes, I did, especially after hearing her say that she’d been trying to foist the murder weapon off on my boyfriend!—I couldn’t see her as a murderess. Stupid enough to run away with the murder weapon, sure. Manipulative enough to try to rope Derek into providing an alibi for her. But not crazy enough to stab Tony to death with a screwdriver. At least not over something id
iotic like a dinner date with Nina.

  We walked out of police headquarters shortly after I promised her I’d do my best to exonerate her. Connor came back to ask if we were ready to go, and escorted us upstairs and to the front door. “Everything go OK?” he asked, his face worried.

  “Everything went fine,” I said. Derek’s silence was eloquent.

  I had thought he’d be happy about me saying I’d help Melissa, since he’d been trying to convince me all along that she didn’t do it. He didn’t turn out to be. Happy, I mean. When we were in the truck on our way toward the Waymouth Tavern later, I asked why.

  “You have to ask?” He gave me a look that was somewhere between incredulous and angry.

  “I thought you wanted Melissa out of jail.”

  “I don’t care if she spends the rest of her life in jail,” Derek said in a modified bellow, “especially after she tried to frame me!”

  After a moment, he added, in a calmer voice, “Although I’d feel better if she was actually guilty. And I don’t think she is.”

  “So why aren’t you happy that I’m helping her?”

  He shot me another boy-you’re-stupid look. “There’s a murderer running loose. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Nothing’s happened to me before.” Any of the other times I’d gotten involved in Wayne’s murder cases.

  “Lots of stuff’s happened to you before!”

  Point taken. “But I always came through it OK. I never even got hurt!”

  “Then,” Derek said. “This time you might.”

  “I won’t. I promise. I’ve got you and Mischa to protect me. What could go wrong?”

  “A whole lot,” Derek said.

  “Well, I don’t have a choice. I promised her I’d try.”

  He shook his head, exasperated. “Only you, Avery. You don’t even like her! Why would you go to all this risk and trouble for Melissa?”

  “Because she asked. And because she didn’t do it.” Or so she said. “And because if she didn’t, then someone else did. And if Melissa goes to jail for it, then that someone else gets off.”

  And besides, I liked the idea that Melissa would be indebted to me. You never know when something like that might come in handy.

  “I don’t like it,” Derek said.

  “I’m not going to do anything stupid. I promise. For starters, I’m just going to ask the staff at the Waymouth Tavern whether they noticed Nina and Tony the other night. And after that, and after dinner, I’m going to go online and see if I can find anything about the TV station they worked at in Missouri. If someone from there is sending them both letters saying ‘I know what you did,’ they must have done something.”

  “It would seem that way,” Derek agreed as he pulled the car into a parking space outside the Waymouth Tavern, next to a small, blue Honda. “Looks like Josh is here, too.”

  “Probably having dinner with Fae again.” That wouldn’t make Shannon happy.

  “Stay out of their business,” Derek warned as he helped me down from the car.

  I’d felt pretty icky after going Dumpster diving, and seeing Melissa looking stunning even in jail while I looked like something one of the cats had dragged in had made me even more eager for a shower and clean clothes. I had made Derek stop at Aunt Inga’s house for thirty minutes to let me get clean and changed into something more appropriate for dinner. Part of the appropriate attire was sandals with high heels—perfect for showing off the nail polish I indulge in on my toes!—and I guess he thought I could use some assistance. Little did he know I’d spent my formative years—teens and twenties—wandering around New York City in shoes that were a lot less practical than these. This pair had ankle straps and platform soles, and I was perfectly comfortable getting in and out of the truck in them. That didn’t mean I eschewed the help; I’ll take any excuse to snuggle up to my boyfriend when he offers.

  He helped me down and then held me for a moment, looking down at me. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Avery.”

  “I know. And I appreciate it. I’ll be careful.” After a second, I added, with a grin, “Josh won’t hurt me if I interfere in his love life.”

  “I didn’t mean Josh,” Derek said, into my hair, “and you know that very well.”

  I did. And since it was nice to be wanted and nice to be held, I didn’t try to be funny anymore, and just enjoyed standing there until he let me go and headed for the door to the restaurant, an arm around my shoulders.

  I couldn’t resist keeping an eye out for Josh and Fae on the way to our table by the window, and spied them over in a dark, romantic corner on the very opposite side of the tavern. Josh’s attention was focused on his companion, and all I saw of her was a fall of long, black hair fastened with a couple of sparkly star-shaped clips. Neither of them noticed us going by on the other side of the room.

  “Did you work two nights ago,” I asked the hostess as I slid into my own side of the booth, with a quick glance at her name tag, “Cali?”

  She nodded. “I work Sunday through Thursday. Someone else works Friday and Saturday.”

  “Do you know who Tony Micelli is?”

  Another nod. “He comes in all the time.” And then she corrected herself. “Used to come in all the time.”

  “Monday?”

  “Sure. He had someone with him. Not the fiancée. Someone else. She was a little older, but she was another blonde. I guess he must like those.” She shrugged, tossing her own blond hair.

  “You heard what happened to him, right?”

  She nodded. “Oh, sure. It was on the news last night.”

  “I don’t suppose you noticed anything about him and the blonde? Anything they talked about? Anything in particular that seemed off or wrong? Did they argue, maybe?”

  But Cali shook her head. “I don’t see people for very long,” she said apologetically. “I just seat ’em, you know? And then I leave, and the waiter takes over. I can get the waiter who took care of them on Monday for you, if you want.”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Here are your menus. Someone will be with you shortly.” She bustled off, a Candy lookalike, but in a short, black dress and high heels, and with stick-straight hair down around her shoulders.

  “I can’t believe Wayne’s letting you question people for him,” Derek said, opening his menu. “Next you’ll want to be deputized. You know what you want?”

  I didn’t bother checking the menu. “We’ve been here enough. I’ll probably have what I always have. And it isn’t like I won’t tell Wayne anything I find out, you know.”

  “I know. Crab cakes?”

  “At least I know they’re good.”

  “You don’t have to justify yourself,” Derek said. “I’m having what I always have, too.”

  Burger and fries, in other words. It’s always struck me as funny that he lives here on the craggy coast of Maine, where lovely seafood abounds, and he’ll order a hamburger and French fries when he goes out to dinner. Then again, he goes to the little deli in downtown and has a lobster roll at least once a week, too, so it isn’t like he’s not getting his share of omega-3s.

  “So at least we know that Tony and Nina really were here the other night,” I said.

  “Was there any doubt?” Derek answered.

  “I guess not. Wonder if the waiter noticed anything?”

  “Why don’t you ask?” Derek indicated the white-shirted young man approaching.

  “Hi.” He stopped beside the table. “I’m Grant. Cali said you wanted to talk to me?”

  A stray thought buzzed through my brain for a second, but I didn’t have the time to chase it down. “Hi, Grant. Did you wait on Tony Micelli when he was here on Monday night?”

  Grant, a persnickety-looking blond in his midtwenties, looked from me to Derek and back down the full length of his nose. “Who wants to know?”

  “Actually,” Derek said, “the chief of police does.”

  “You’re not the chie
f of police. I know him.”

  Grant and everyone else in town.

  “No,” I said, with a glance at Derek, who was grinning, “but he sent us. Or rather, when we told him we were coming here, he said to ask.”

  Grant pondered for a moment. “All right,” he said eventually. “Yes, I waited on Tony Micelli the other night. So?”

  “You heard what happened to him, right?”

  “Sure. It’s all over the news.”

  “We . . . I mean, Wayne . . . that is, the chief of police wanted to know whether you’d noticed anything when he was here. Did he say anything that stuck out to you? Did anything happen that was unusual?”

  Grant pondered. “Can’t say it did.”

  A man of few words. I tried to sound as official as I could. “Maybe you could tell me about it? In your own words?”

  Derek smothered a smile, and I grimaced at him across the table.

  “Sure,” Grant said, with an elegant shrug of his narrow shoulders. “They got here around seven thirty, I guess. Tony and a blonde. Not the Realtor, another one. Older. Very well dressed. Out-of-towner. They sat over there.” He pointed to a booth farther up the row.

  “He had the surf and turf, no starch. Watching his weight, I guess. She had the salmon Caesar. And a bottle of wine.”

  “By herself?”

  Grant shrugged. “The bottles aren’t that big.”

  “Did they have dessert?” Derek asked.

  “Black coffee for her,” Grant said. “Cappuccino for him.”

  Sounded like they were both dieting. The curse of working in television, I guess. Tony had to keep trim for the camera, and for Nina, it was probably just habit.

  “Did you hear anything they said?”

  “They stopped talking whenever I got close,” Grant said. “It seemed deliberate. She actually hushed him once. I only caught a few words: ‘never meant for it to happen.’ ”

  “Never meant for what to happen?”

  “No idea,” Grant said, with another shrug. “I told you, I only caught a few words.”

  “Well, did they seem to get along? We’re they arguing? Flirting? Acting like old friends?”