They’d been to her school, talked to her professors. What would Fitz think of her now? She shook her head. “It wasn’t me. Lots of people could do that.”
“What were you researching?” Pereski said suddenly.
Sophie frowned. “What?”
“At the library and on the internet. We’ve asked to get the transcripts for the times you were connected but that could take a while. The library said you were looking up old yearbooks. What’s that about?”
Thinking fast, Sophie managed to lie without missing a beat and didn’t feel so guilty about it this time, as it was clear she was fighting for her life, or at least, her freedom and reputation.
“I’ve been considering period costumes for our wedding, Roger’s and mine. I was looking into some of the fashion from the 1920s.”
Luckily, her research would indicate exactly that if he was telling the truth and they did get the internet transcripts.
“I see. And you had to go all the way up to Harvard to do that? That’s some pretty specialized research. I guess maybe it was convenient seeing that you’d been to Alan Bledsoe’s earlier in the morning?”
“Yes, actually, that’s it exactly,” Sophie said, not rising to the bait.
“Why were you there?”
“He asked me to come. He called me, which I can also prove—I think the message is still on my machine at home—and he said he wanted to meet me, to talk about what happened with Patrice.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little odd, that the husband of a murder victim would call the primary suspect for a chat? Unless, maybe, you’re working together? Maybe you have a little something going on behind Patrice and Roger’s back? I mean, you lived there once, right? Maybe you and Alan discovered a secret attraction when you were recuperating under his roof.”
Sophie couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Are you joking? He’s thirty years older than me.”
“And wealthy. Smart. A good looking guy, you know? As much as I notice that kind of thing, you understand. We’ve talked to him, too. He was pretty anxious to find that receipt, and you know, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he was a little cagey as well. Maybe protecting his relationship with you?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t even believe you’d said that seriously. Patrice was the one who took care of me back then. Alan didn’t even want me around, but he didn’t have much say in the matter.”
“So there was resentment between you?”
“No. There was nothing between us, then or now.”
“Okay, I can see where this would be awkward for you with Roger around, but what about this Mason guy? What were you doing with him?”
Sophie smiled, feeling reckless. “If you must know, we were ghost-hunting.”
Matt’s eyebrows flew up. “Excuse me?”
“He’s a ghost-hunter. I watched one of his investigations. Into a haunting. He’s a PhD with a bestselling book, and he believes in ghosts, so you know, maybe he’s out of his mind, too,” she said sarcastically.
She got a perverse little twist of pleasure in seeing Matt stumped at her response when he’d probably expected her to be defensive. Apparently he didn’t check out Dr. Mason’s side job, and thought she’d been seeing him clinically or romantically.
He didn’t like being caught up short, though, and reached under the table. Then he got up, walked around and sat on the edge, towering over her. He leaned in so close she could smell what he had for dinner.
“I shut the mike off, Sophie. It’s just you and me, and no one can hear. I want you to tell me what you’ve been up to, and I want you to stop dicking around with stories about ghost-hunters or whatever else. You’re in some serious shit, and I’m not letting up on you, so you might as well come clean. Roger can’t help you. Hell, he’s almost convinced you’re guilty. You’re on your own here, lady, and you’d better start realizing it.”
The bit about Roger not believing her hit a little too sharply, but she wasn’t going to show Pereski any weakness. She leaned in closer, almost nose to nose.
“You think I did something? Prove it.”
“Don’t mess with me, Sophie, or you will be sorry. Maybe you have Roger wrapped around your sexy little finger, but I could give a rat’s ass what happens to you. You’ve always been a little weird, just like your weirdo family, and frankly, I always thought that Roger could do better.”
She simply stared, though her insides were churning.
“The more you run, the harder I’ll come after you. You will be caught.” His eyes had turned dark and small, sweat beading on his brow. Something feral snarled in her mind, pushing her to attack rather than retreat.
“Really, Matt? You look a little desperate, to me. You have two murders and no solid leads except for me, and you don’t have anything solid on me, either, do you?”
“We have you at the scene of the first crime, we have the receipt.”
“But that’s not enough, is it? I bet you’re getting some serious heat to solve these murders, and you’re coming up short.” She leaned in so that from behind Matt, where people looked through the window, they couldn’t see her face. “You know why you’re failing to find the killer? Because you’re so focused on me you can’t see past your nose to find the real one. You’re wasting time trying to put together a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit.”
“Don’t try beating me at my own game girlie. Let me tell you something. Even smart criminals trip up. You miss something, you forget a detail, and that’s all I need. You got cocky leaving that receipt behind. When we find the necklaces, or the murder weapon, or whatever little thing you forgot to cover up, I’m going to nail you so hard you won’t know what hit you. Until then, you’re not going to be able to pee without one of my guys watching you, you can count on that.”
She pushed back, stood up. “I guess that means you don’t have enough to hold me on right now, and I’m free to leave?” She looked at the mirror pointedly.
He didn’t say anything, but that was an answer. She stopped at the door.
“You watch me Matt. You keep a close eye, because then, the next time someone’s killed, I’ll have my alibi all set, one you can’t poke holes in. And another dead person will be on your conscience.”
“Is that a threat Sophie?”
“You take it any way you want. But I’ll tell you what else. I’ve played your little game. I’ve refused to talk to the papers or the media, and I’ve waited for you to do the right thing by Patrice and find her killer. But you pull me in here one more time for nothing and I’ll book interviews with all of them, and I’ll put you front and center. See what your boss thinks about that,” she told him point blank, not caring if he had lied about the microphones being off or not. “Maybe I will get a lawyer and bring suit against you and the department. This is hurting my reputation and my business,” she added for good measure, though she had no idea if she could actually do that.
Not waiting for him to dismiss her this time, she walked out and didn’t look back.
Chapter Seven
A fine mist was falling, appropriate for such a sad day. Sophie’s mind was bleary from being up all night, too wound up after the events at the police station to sleepand too unfocused to do anything else. Mags was driving, always preferring her car to public transport, and there was no train station close by anyway. Still, going back over it all was giving Sophie a headache.
“I can’t believe Roger would do that. What a prick.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she agreed half-heartedly, dispirited and still angry at Roger, but also hating to talk about him that way. Except to his face, maybe. “He was trying to protect me from Matt, but. . .it’s a mess.”
“You don’t have to be guilty to incriminate yourself, and he knows it. Especially if they’re gunning for you, and it sounds like they are.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if I could stay busy.”
“School’s out, huh?”
“Yeah. Fitz called me this morning and told me th
e department requested I drop the rest of the semester until this is cleared up. Pereski went drilling through all of the profs and some of the students, and they weren’t too happy about that. It’ll set me back an entire term,” she said miserably.
It all seemed to be repeating itself. While she didn’t have many friends at the college, she was too busy with the store and Roger for much of a social life, she still felt like she was a part of things there. Normal, good things.
She liked her teachers, and she was closing the loop that she’d left hanging open after high school. She couldn’t go back then, and now this had been taken away from her too. Only temporarily, she comforted herself. She wasn’t giving up this time.
“They can’t let you do the work at home?”
“Not at this point, and some of it you just have to be there, you know? Not to mention I’m so distracted. I never even set up the midterm project. I’ll make it up later, I guess.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I know how you feel. I hate having the store closed, but there’s no way to get near it with all the damned reporters,” Margaret grumped. Sophie sighed, remembering she wasn’t the only one suffering the repercussions of this situation.
Sophie stepped out of the car and popped open the black umbrella that she’d picked up on the way, turning her thoughts to Patrice. Luckily, the press had been stopped behind a large gate at the entrance, and hadn’t recognized her through the foggy windows, though Margaret’s black hat helped disguise her somewhat, as well.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Margaret asked as they parked and stepped out, a few curious passers-by looking twice, murmuring amongst themselves.
“I’m here for Patrice. She was always there for me.”
“I can understand that, I just don’t know if they will,” she nodded the group of people all gathering in a black cloud by the doors.
“I don’t care about them.”
The family mausoleum looked more like a Greek temple made of glass and marble. As Sophie walked up the polished marble stairs toward the recessed glass doors framed in gold, she stood for a moment taking in the huge glass doors encased between Greek Revival pillars. Three sides of the building were thick glass—she noticed discreet security stickers in the lower corners—and only the back wall, where ashes were kept, was solid black marble separated into compartments with gold lettering on the front. Every view looked down over trees and gardens. There was even a pond where a few swans paddled peacefully.
“So this is how the rich die,” she said more to herself than anyone, thinking of the small markers that were planted over her father and aunt’s nondescript graves in a small cemetery north of the city.
“It’s beautiful, I suppose, but it’s too cold and hard for my taste,” Margaret added. “So how did things go last night with Dr. Mason?” Margaret added when she didn’t respond.
“It was. . .interesting. We didn’t have much chance to talk. We’re meeting later, after I get out of here.”
Moving inside, Sophie didn’t say anything else about Gabe Mason. A sophisticated woman in a broad-rimmed black hat peered down her nose as she walked from the lobby into the main area. Sophie’s own funeral wear was limited to a knee-length black skirt—not only off the rack, but off the rack at the student consignment shop—and a black cashmere sweater that had been a luxurious eighteenth birthday present.
It didn’t hit her until that moment that she’d never actually been to a funeral before. She’d never made it to her family’s burials, as she was in and out of surgeries, and hardly able to travel, though Patrice had taken her to the gravesites as often as possible once she’d started getting better.
Looking at the sea of shapely calves in designer stockings and shoes, she ignored the staring and whispered comments, making her way to a seat at the back where Stewart held chairs for them. Several men, sedately dressed, whom she guessed were some kind of private security, lurked. Looking around, Sophie realized the jewels people wore could probably buy and sell her store several times over.
It made her think of the missing necklaces. Patrice hadn’t mentioned any particular concerns, but Sophie figured they had to be worth a lot if she was planning to donate the funds from their sale. Who else would have known that she’d chosen to get rid of them, aside of Sophie, Alan, and Stewart, who had also talked to Mags about it, and Patrice could have mentioned it to anyone in passing. The jewelry store owners, of course. . .and anyone who any of them had told. But why kill for them?
Sophie noted that Roger and Pereski came in together, huddling closer to the back doors. Keeping an eye on her as promised, no doubt.
“Trouble in paradise?” Stewart asked with a nod toward Roger, noting that she was avoiding Roger’s direct gaze like the plague.
“I don’t want to get into it. All of this craziness has us both on edge,” Sophie said under her breath, but couldn’t stop herself from looking back in Roger’s direction.
He was exhausted as she was, looking stern and serious. He wouldn’t understand why she was here, and Pereski, God only knew what he was thinking. Wasn’t there something about killers showing up at the funerals of their victims? The service began and they all turned their attention to the front.
Sophie watched the faces around her as the speakers each took their turn. Some women patted their cheeks with delicate white hankies, and the men’s expressions ranged from solemn to bored.
Sophie refocused on a tall, slim woman who rose to speak. She wore a nice black dress, though no diamonds were glittering around her neck or wrists, and she looked rather. . .basic. Normal, with her plain, severely cropped brown hair and lack of make-up on pale skin. How did she blend into this high-society crowd?
She took the podium and looked around the room, focusing particularly on Alan Bledsoe for a moment, introducing herself as Penny Wilde, the founder of Heritage First, a non-profit that saved historic structures in and around the Boston area. Apparently Patrice had been a friend and a huge supporter of the cause.
In fact, several of the speakers were connected to her various charitable efforts, people whom she’d given money, or with whom she worked to raise money. Didn’t Patrice have any regular friends she had lunch with who liked her for herself? The thought made Sophie profoundly sad. Her own eyes welled up, and she rubbed at them. Margaret patted her hand and pushed a tissue into her palm.
Sophie reached into her own small bag and retrieved the paper and pencil she usually carried with her, writing down the woman’s name, the charity, and wrote down the same for the other three or four people who’d spoken.
“What are you doing?” Stewart whispered.
“Taking some notes. The police have stopped looking at anyone but me, and I can’t work or go to school, so I suppose finding someone else for them to look at will keep me busy. There are plenty of candidates here,” Sophie said.
“Good idea,” Stewart said, looking around the room as well. “You know, you might want to talk to Penny. They were close for years, but Patrice had mentioned some bad feelings between them recently, though she never got too specific.”
Sophie watched as Penny Wilde walked back to her seat beside Alan, and the two exchanged some quiet words as the priest took the front again.
“They look chummy,” she said to Margaret, who looked and nodded.
Sophie trained her eyes on the pair as the priest’smonologue went on. And on. People went through rituals of standing, sitting, crossing themselves and murmuring things in chorus, including Roger, until he disappeared from his spot at the door, appearing behind her, squatting down so his face was even with her ear.
“You could go through the motions, you know, out of respect,” he said under his breath, good Catholic boy that he was, as everyone around them stood.
“Is it respectful to go through the motions, Rog?” she countered, staying seated and wondering for a moment if they were talking about religion or something else.
“I don’t think you’re guilty, babe
, and I know you got the wrong idea about yesterday, but I was-”
“I know, okay? This isn’t the place,” Sophie said, not wanting to deal with Roger right now.
The service appeared to finally be over as the urn that was holding Patrice’s ashes was committed to the vault. A blanket of silence lifted and the chat that had filled the room before started again. As if by magic, a small bar appeared in the lobby area as Alan announced a short reception. His eyes traveled over the crowd and flared with indignation—or was it worry?—when he saw her. She met him eye to eye, tipping her chin up. She didn’t know if it was his reluctance to start a scene, or that he saw Roger standing behind her, but he backed down first, turning his attention to the other attendants. Sophie took it as a victory.
* * *
Sophie held a plastic glass of warm soda, barely touched, while she stood with Stewart, trying to make conversation. Mags was working the crowd, and Roger talked to a red-faced Pereski, who was watching her like a hawk. She could only imagine what they were arguing about.
“So Mags was saying business is good,” Sophie ventured as she tried to match faces with the names she’d scribbled and thinking of ways to break into conversations with people who hardly took any notice of her.
“I’m doing quite well, yes.”
“You know, not to be rude, but I don’t understand the difference between, say, a trained psychologist and a life coach?”
Stewart brightened, obviously happy to talk about his work.
“Well, they have two different kinds of training, and very different goals. While psychologists deal with illness and problems, life coaches function more positively, to help people figure out what they need, how to stay focused on their goals. I provide support and encouragement all along the way. My approach is very customized. Several of my clients are here, but I can’t really talk about them as I am often their confidant, as well.”
Past Tense Page 11