by Wendy Wax
“January eighth was a pretty big night for you.”
“You could say that.”
“You find pictures of Tom in ladies’ lingerie with another woman, and?”
“A letter,” she filled in obligingly.
“From?”
“Our lender, Fidelity National.”
“Indicating?”
Once again she wished for a law degree, but in the end decided the fraud probably was no longer relevant, since Tom was dead and she’d pledged her assets to guarantee the line of credit. “That there was a possible problem with our receivables.”
“And then you found the note from Tom, saying?”
Miranda cleared her throat, embarrassed. “Well, he apologized for some things and told me to ‘Have a nice life.’”
She squirmed in her chair while Blake watched her and waited. She thought she saw a brief flash of sympathy in his eyes, and to her horror her eyes filled with tears and the urge to explain became almost overwhelming. Unloading all the stuff she’d been carrying around would be such a relief; she felt lighter just thinking about it. But she wasn’t Catholic and Blake Summers was no priest.
But maybe she could pull this off, without sending any members of her family to prison. Surely Gran’s involvement was innocent and explainable. She just had to give him enough to make him leave them alone so she could hash this out with Gran.
She averted her gaze and tried to look reluctant. “Somewhere in there my mother called. Because my parents were expecting us for dinner, and when she said my father had seen Tom—” Her mouth clamped shut as she remembered what had happened next. If she told him she’d gone up there, he’d want to know if she’d seen anyone else while she was there, and this would lead to Gran.
She resettled in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. “I’d like to plead the fifth.”
“I told you, you can’t do that.”
“All right, then. No comment.”
“I’m not a reporter, Miranda, I’m a cop. No comment doesn’t cut it.”
“Fine.” The whole confession idea was really stupid anyway. She’d just shut up like she should have from the moment she’d come in here.
They contemplated each other over the desk that separated them. She wanted to believe that the Blake who’d made love to her so beautifully was inside the police chief she was facing. And she really hoped Andie’s doting father was in there, too. She had feelings for this man whether she wanted to or not, damn it, and he was grilling her like a steak.
“So what did you do then? When your mother told you your father had seen Tom—I’m assuming you were going to say up at the lake?”
She remained silent.
“You don’t really expect me to believe you just sat there and did nothing?”
She absolutely was not going to say anything else, no matter what.
“The Miranda Smith I know wouldn’t have taken all that without dishing out a little herself. And I happen to have an eyewitness who saw you coming back down that mountain like a—I believe the expression was ‘bat out of hell.’”
Her shoulders slumped. Very tricky, this guy, baiting her that way. But he didn’t know whom he was up against.
“You’ve been lying and covering for months, Miranda. The time has come to tell the truth.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes. In an incredibly childish gesture, which she hoped she’d live to regret, she put two fingers to her lips and pretended to zip them shut. There was nothing in the world he could do that would make her say another word.
Blake sighed and stood. Taking her by the elbow, he led her out of his office and down a hall away from the lobby.
“Where are you taking me?”
“I really hate to do this, Miranda, but you leave me no choice. I’m hoping some time alone to . . . reflect . . . will help you see the advantages of talking.”
Before she realized what he was doing, he’d walked her through a door that swung shut behind them, and stopped in front of an open cell.
She pulled her arm from his grasp. “But that’s a jail cell!”
“Maybe a little solitary contemplation will help jog your memory.”
Then he put an arm around her shoulder and walked her into the cell.
“You can’t possibly be serious,” she said as he stepped around her, pulled the cell door shut, and turned the key so that he was on the outside looking in.
The man had locked her in a cell!
“This is NOT Mayberry and you’re NOT Andy Griffith,” she sputtered. “There is no way in the world you can get away with . . .”
He walked to the outer door and opened it before turning back to face her. His lips turned up in a smile. “I think I hear Aunt Bea calling. You just let me know when you’re ready to talk.”
chapter 26
T here was something about being locked in a jail cell that made a person want to sing “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” Or learn how to play the harmonica in a really woeful way. Or get their hands around the chief of police’s neck.
An hour later, the outer door clicked open and Miranda heard footsteps approaching. “Blake,” she shouted through the bars. “You have absolutely no legal right to keep me here.” She took the Diet Coke he’d brought her and dragged the can back and forth across the bars, producing a hugely satisfying cacophony of sound. “I’ll have your badge for this. I’ll—”
Blake appeared. With Gran. She supposed she should be glad he hadn’t brought her in in handcuffs.
“I’ll post bail, Miranda,” Gran said. “I’ll have you out of here in no time.”
“Don’t think so.” Blake shook his head and tried to appear regretful, the louse. “She’s not under arrest, so bail isn’t really an option.”
“This is the most ridiculous—” Miranda began.
“There is such a thing as due process, young man,” Gran pointed out.
“Yes,” he replied dryly. “And there’s also obstruction of justice, and lying to a police officer.” He leveled a look at both of them, then began to unlock the cell door. “Don’t you want to know why Tom was in the lake in his car in nothing more than a bra and panties?” He looked at Gran and then at Miranda. “Or is it that you already know and just don’t want to tell me?”
“Now see here, Chief.” Gran’s imperious tone didn’t seem to phase Blake in the least. You had to respect a man who didn’t cave in to Gran. “This is highly irregular, and . . .”
He opened the cell door. Miranda breathed a sigh of relief and moved toward the opening. “Thank goodness you’ve regained your senses,” she said. “I’m sure we can . . .”
But instead of letting her out, Blake put a hand to Gran’s elbow and gently escorted her in. Then he closed the cell door and relocked it, leaving the two of them staring out at him in shock.
“Now,” he said calmly. “If you’re done complaining, I think we should begin with the afternoon of January eighth. Your grandmother can go first.”
“Ha!” Miranda said. “Don’t say a word, Gran. Someone will notice we’re missing and send help. He can’t keep us in here indefinitely.”
For the next thirty minutes Miranda and her Gran sat side by side on the cot in the corner of the cell and imitated clams, their green eyes glaring, their chins pointed upward, their lips clamped together as they refused to speak.
Until Ed Beagley showed up with Helen St. James and locked her in the cell with them.
“I want out of here now,” the bookkeeper said as Blake stepped back to examine his handiwork.
“Don’t waste your breath,” Miranda told her. “He’s waiting for some big confession.” She turned to the other woman. “Do you have something you want to confess?”
“I do not.” Helen turned her back on Miranda and rattled the bars. “You can’t leave me alone in here with them, Chief. It’s not safe. I mean, who knows what they did to poor Tom?”
Gran hooted. “Poor Tom? Is that really what you think?”
“Shhh,
Gran.” Miranda shot a look in Blake’s direction. “That’s just what he wants, some kind of catfight where we all tell him what he wants to know. I don’t plan to give him the satisfaction.” She shot her grandmother a worried look. “And you shouldn’t, either.”
“No, satisfying men has never been your thing, has it?” Helen St. James said.
“Ouch,” Blake said, but was smart enough to hide his grin.
Miranda rounded on the other woman. “And what’s your thing, Helen? Besides having sex with other people’s husbands? What did you get out of your relationship with Tom besides a chance to play dress-up and the opportunity to help him bankrupt Ballantyne?”
Gran gave Miranda a high five.
“I saw you coming down off that mountain,” Helen shot back. “And when I got up there Tom wasn’t there. And neither was his car.”
“So you say,” Gran said.
“Gran,” Miranda said with a warning glance toward Blake.
There was a ruckus out in the hall and then the door to the holding area burst open. At her first sight of the three women in the cell, Joan Ballantyne Harper skidded to a stop. Brow furrowed, she whipped back around to face Blake. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“I think we can safely answer yes to that one,” Miranda said.
Her mother turned back to Miranda and Gran. “What’s going on here?”
“We’re hashing out the chain of events leading up to Tom Smith’s death,” Blake said reasonably. “Maybe you’d like to tell us what you were doing on the evening of January eighth.”
The shock on Miranda’s mother’s face was almost comical. “But you can’t just put people in a cell and tell them they have to talk.”
“Actually, I can.” Blake left and came back with two chairs, which he placed in the cell. Then he escorted Miranda’s mother to one of them. “If it helps, you can just think of this as an interview room.”
“With bars.”
“That we’re not allowed to leave.”
“Right.”
“What if we have to go to the bathroom?”
Blake nodded to the toilet in the far corner of the cell. “It’s got all the amenities.”
The four of them stared at him in openmouthed horror. Blake settled back against a wall and tried not to enjoy himself too much. There was no way the four of them were going to be able to pull off “the clam.” He’d stake his reputation on it.
“What’s Helen doing here?” Miranda’s mother asked.
“She was having an affair with Tom,” Gran said.
“Oh, God,” Joan Harper groaned. “Like the underwear and the being dead weren’t bad enough.”
“Don’t forget the fraudulent receivables,” Helen pointed out.
“Fraudulent receivables?” It was Gran’s turn to groan. “I wondered why Miranda needed to pledge all those assets.”
“Thank God your father’s away fishing,” Miranda’s mother said. “He’d be lying on the floor right there, dead of a heart attack.”
Miranda stepped forward and wrapped her hands around the bars of the cell, the expression in her eyes steely. “We’re entitled to a phone call.” She motioned toward her cellmates. “Actually, by my count we’re entitled to four. Mother, did you call Reuben?”
“He’s fishing with your father. They didn’t take cell phones because the reception’s so spotty.”
Miranda turned back to Blake. “This has gone far enough. You’ve done your big bad cop thing; now let us out.”
“Sorry.” He tried to look like he meant it. “All of you have information pertaining to Tom Smith’s death. All of you have been . . . reluctant . . . to step forward and share that information. I’m giving you the opportunity to do that now. When you’ve explained things satisfactorily, you can go.”
“This is absolutely absurd,” Miranda sputtered. “I’m sure even you have heard of the Constitution of the United States. There are laws preventing this very thing. You can’t simply leave us in here as long as you like.”
He kept his voice calm and under control and the smile off his lips as he settled back against the wall. “It would appear I’m doing just that.”
Lunch was delivered from the Dogwood Café. And despite Blake’s earlier threats, they were allowed to go, one at a time, to the ladies’ room. The afternoon dragged by in silence. Blake came and went, but mostly he stayed and waited. At one point Miranda dozed. About four o’clock in the afternoon, Gran shook her awake. Her mother and Helen St. James appeared to be sleeping. Blake had left his post.
“He hasn’t accused anyone of murdering Tom,” Gran whispered. “Why aren’t we talking?”
Miranda kept her voice equally low. “Are you kidding? I saw Tom’s clothes in the trunk of your car. What were you doing at the lake?”
“It sounds so ludicrous now,” Gran said, “but I went up to my place to look for the yarn I bought for that new afghan I’m working on.”
She smiled ruefully at Miranda’s snort of disbelief. “It was about four-thirty and it hadn’t started snowing yet, so I ran on up there.” Gran sighed. “I figured I’d do a quick search for the yarn and come home before it got too dark. But when I got up there I saw Tom’s car at your place.”
Miranda leaned closer though she wasn’t sure she really wanted to hear what was coming.
“I found the yarn and checked to make sure everything was closed up. It was already getting dark and it had started to snow, but he was still there. So I waited a while longer—I didn’t put on my lights or anything—and when he didn’t come out, I, uh, went over and let myself in.”
“Oh, Gran.” Miranda tried to imagine who had been more shocked.
Gran shook her head. “When I found Tom dressed in that lingerie waiting for some other woman I was so shocked I couldn’t even think. And then I just got so mad.” Gran lowered her voice further and looked around to be sure the others were still asleep. “I yanked his clothes off the bed and shouted at him to get the hell out of your life. And then I left.” She shook her head again. “When I saw you coming up as I was going down, I thought it would be good for you to see him as he really was so that you could tell him off and throw him out. I thought that’s what you’d done.”
Miranda remembered Gran’s prophetic statements, her unwillingness to push for details.
“But then you started pretending he was away on a business trip, and I didn’t know what to think,” Gran said. “When his body turned up I started worrying that you had . . .”
“But he wasn’t there when I got there,” Miranda said. “The house was empty and I didn’t see his car . . .”
They looked at each other in surprise. “You mean you didn’t do it?” they asked in unison.
Miranda closed her eyes as relief washed through her. When she opened them she saw that her grandmother’s face reflected the same emotion.
“I knew you’d never intentionally hurt anyone,” Miranda said. “But it’s all been so bizarre.”
“Ditto,” her grandmother agreed. “I did shriek at him like a crazy woman when I barged into the cabin and found him in that bra and panties, and I did take his clothes. He must have just wanted to get the hell out of there, and figured he’d get dressed once he was off the property. But it had gotten icy and he was parked right next to the lake. Maybe his high heels slipped on the gas pedal. The car must have gone under awfully fast if you didn’t see it.”
There was a long moment of silence while they both pictured the icy waters of the lake closing around Tom. It was not an ending Miranda would have wished on anyone.
Gran interrupted the reverie. “Where do you think Helen fits into all of this? If she came up after you, she couldn’t have been responsible, either.”
Miranda reached out a tentative hand and shook Helen awake.
“What?” Helen St. James opened her eyes, still groggy.
“Are you sure you didn’t see any sign of Tom up at the lake?” Miranda asked.
“Me?” Helen sat u
p. “Hey, are you trying to pin something—”
“No, we’re just trying to figure this out.” Miranda threw a glance over her shoulder. “Without police supervision.”
Helen shook her head and dug sleep out of her eye. This time when Miranda looked at the other woman she saw another victim, one who’d been abandoned just as surely as she had. “Did you see Tom that night?”
“No.” Helen shook her head. “I was supposed to meet him that afternoon and couldn’t get away, and he didn’t answer his cell phone. I saw you coming down on my way up, and I thought maybe you’d finally found out about us.” She scrubbed at her eyes again. “The chief told me Tom was going away, but he’d only booked one ticket.” She looked as weary as Miranda felt. “When I let myself into the cabin—”
“You had a key to my lake house?”
Helen nodded sadly. “I think the best part for him was using the place you cared about the most.”
Miranda closed her eyes as she absorbed this latest blow. “How could I be married to him for fifteen years and know so little about him?”
Helen regarded her carefully. “I don’t think he knew you too well, either,” the bookkeeper replied. “He said a lot of things I’m starting to realize weren’t true.” Helen’s smile was grim. “He underestimated you. We all did.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway and they shook Joan awake. “I’m ready,” she muttered, still half asleep. “Are we going to make a break for it?”
“No,” Miranda said. “We’re going to tell Chief Summers what he wants to know. But if he gloats even the tiniest bit, we’re going to have to kill him.”
It was dusk by the time they’d provided enough information to satisfy Blake.
It was only then, while they were all still reeling from the hours spent locked up with the ugly details of January 8, that Blake had admitted Tom’s death had already been ruled an accident.
After a shocked silence Helen St. James left. Miranda’s mother went shortly after that. Gran got a ride home from Gus and left her car for Miranda.
Tired and deflated, like a balloon whose slow leak had finally emptied it of its last ounce of air, Miranda faced Blake in the empty office. She still couldn’t believe he’d locked them up. Or that he’d withheld such critical information in order to get them to talk.