by Kylie Logan
To distance herself from the accusation, she held up her hands. “I don’t have that kind of power. I’m only—”
“Yeah, a friend of Florie’s. Concerned about the poor girl’s sad fate. Thanks to you, I have a meeting with the dean this afternoon. I’m sure he’s going to ask about my relationship with Florie.”
“Maybe you should just come right out and tell him the truth.”
“That I slept with Florie?”
“I don’t have any proof of that and hey, it really doesn’t matter to me. Your business is your business. Yours and Florie’s. But I do know you helped her out when it came to that one A she received this semester.” As if to prove it, Jazz reached into her pocket and pulled out the DVD she’d watched the night before. “Her video project was a disaster.”
One corner of Brody’s mouth pulled tight. “And I was a sucker.”
“That’s what she demanded, right? She’d sleep with you. In return, you replaced her video project with a really good one, probably one you filmed yourself.”
His breath stuttered over a sigh. “Nobody else fell for her blackmail.”
“You mean like Joyce Wildemere? I think Florie tried. I’m pretty sure she had taken some incriminating photos of Ms. Wildemere.”
Brody’s nod was barely perceptible. “Joyce would have caved eventually. She’s not made of strong stuff. Joyce would have paid whatever it was Florie was asking, or changed Florie’s grade to make sure she passed. If Florie hadn’t died. No way Joyce would want her husband to know she’s seeing Margie Teester from the admin office on the side, even though everyone on the staff has known about it for years.”
The information proved her theory about the pink polka-dot envelopes, and Jazz should have been happy. Or at least felt vindicated. Instead, a sadness settled over her, pushing on her shoulders, softening her voice as well as her resolve.
“I just…” Jazz lifted her shoulders. “I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I just wanted you to know that I know about the video project.”
“And now you’ll tell the cops, give them more ammunition.” Like he was moving under water, Brody trudged to his desk.
“I doubt the fact that you did Florie’s project for her will make any difference as far as the investigation,” Jazz told him. “According to what I heard on the news, the cops don’t have any proof that you…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. “… that you were involved in her death.”
“It’s not possible to have proof because there’s nothing to prove.” He picked up a sheaf of papers on the desk, then slapped them back down. “Why would I want to kill Florie?”
“She threatened to tell your wife what you two were up to?”
Brody barked out a laugh. “It didn’t matter anymore! See, the night Florie was killed, the night we went back to Tremont to film that B roll together … well, I asked her to come along and take some stills. Truth is, I didn’t really care about the stills. We didn’t need any more stills. I only asked her to come because I wanted to talk to her. Someplace where no one could interrupt us. I told her it was over between us.”
“Seems to me that would make her more determined than ever to make sure your wife found out what was going on. I mean, if Florie was upset.”
“Except she wasn’t,” Brody assured her. “As a matter of fact, she thanked me for finally getting it over with. She admitted she’d only slept with me for the grade.”
“Florie always was good at getting what she wanted.”
“On the flip side, you should know she didn’t mean anything to me.” Brody was a little too nonchalant. “She was just a willing kid and I’m just a guy nearing middle-age and looking for a little excitement. So you see…” He sat at his desk, his gaze on the closed laptop in front of him. “There was no real passion. There never had been. There was just sex.”
“Except she thought enough of you to create that photo montage, right? The one you took out of her studio. And you thought enough of yourself to destroy it.”
His jaw tightened and his gaze shot to hers. “Oh, you are thorough.”
“Just lucky, really. I asked the right questions and got some answers.”
“And screwed me royally in the process.” His chest rose and fell. “Do the cops know about the photo?”
“Would it make a difference? If you and Florie broke up—”
“We did.”
“And if you claim you have no reason to have killed her—”
“I didn’t. All right?” He slapped a hand against his desk and stood. “She meant nothing to me. And maybe you don’t understand, Ms. Ramsey. A relationship—a real relationship—is all about passion. Sometimes that passion turns into love. Sometimes, it explodes into hate. But without it…” He mumbled a curse. “I couldn’t have killed Florie. I didn’t have any passion for Florie. Truth be told, I didn’t care if she lived or died.”
“Nice speech!”
At the sound of the voice coming from the doorway, Jazz jumped and whirled around. She was just in time to see Nick step into the office.
And just in time to see Tate Brody’s jaw go rigid.
“Good morning, Ms. Ramsey.” His expression blank, Nick tipped his head in Jazz’s direction. “I’d like to say I’m surprised to see you here, but really, I’m not.”
Jazz took a step in Nick’s direction. “I was just—”
“You were just leaving.” Nick’s voice simmered with authority. “Officer Franklin!” The uniformed officer Jazz had seen the night Florie was killed stepped up behind Nick. “Escort Ms. Ramsey out of the building.”
She didn’t argue. Nick was in no mood to negotiate. Jazz joined Officer Franklin in the hallway. They hadn’t gone three steps when she heard Nick’s voice echo back at her from the office.
“Tate Brody, you’re under arrest for the murder of Florentine Allen.”
* * *
The dismissal bell had already rung and most of the girls were gone for the day. Jazz finished the last of the paperwork that was waiting for her when she got back from North Coast and checked her phone one more time. Her app for a local TV station still hadn’t updated the story. There was no news about Florie Allen’s murder, not a word about the arrest of her killer.
“Got a minute?”
The last person she expected to see was Nick, so when he rapped on her door and stepped into her office, she was at a loss for words.
“I can come back,” he suggested.
“No.” Jazz rose from her chair behind her desk. “Come on in. I figured you’d be knee-deep in wrapping up the case.”
“I am. And I need to get right back to the station. I just wanted to let you know what was going on.”
“You arrested Tate Brody. It hasn’t been on the news yet.” As if it proved anything, she lifted her phone, then plunked it back on the desk. “But of course I heard you in Brody’s office.”
“Because you were there first, already talking to him when I got there.” Back when they were a couple, Nick had visited her a time or two at school, and he strolled further into the office without bothering to look around. Nothing at St. Catherine’s had changed. Nothing had changed at all except the something between them, the something that wouldn’t change again anytime soon because one look—at the way Nick juggled his car keys, at the way he stood in front of her desk with his feet slightly apart, at the way he sized her up with that careful, cagey look that said she wasn’t an ex-lover or even a friend, just a source—told her he was there on business.
He confirmed it when he asked, “What were you doing there?”
There was no use pretending. Not anymore. Not with Nick. Jazz rounded the desk and went over to where Florie’s psychedelic photograph still leaned against her bookcases. “I wanted to ask him about this photograph,” she told Nick. “It’s Florie’s work, and I think it tells the story of Florie and Brody’s relationship.” She noted his indifference and found herself feeling both indignant and disappointed. She had hoped it would
be as big a deal to him as it had been to her when she made the discovery. “You already know.”
“I know they were having an affair. That was one of the first things Brody admitted when we brought him in today. But this picture—”
She pointed out what she and Sarah and Eileen had discovered the day before, ending with the birthmark and the bet they’d find it on Brody.
“Good work,” Nick admitted. “But why—”
“Because there are two photographs, Nick. Or at least there were two. Only my guess is that Brody didn’t know that. He had the one that used to hang in Florie’s studio. This is the one she had her apartment. You probably saw both of them.”
He nodded but didn’t comment, so Jazz went right on. “Brody destroyed the photograph he had. I think he did it because he knew it was too personal, that someone would eventually figure out that the picture was all about him, all about his relationship with Florie, and he didn’t want anyone to know about it.”
“And you know this because…?”
There was no use lying, so she admitted that she’d been at the school when the trash cans were emptied, that one of the techs had dropped a scrap of the photo. As if to prove her sincerity, she took the discarded piece of photograph from her desk and handed it over to Nick.
“You must have found more of it.” She ventured the guess.
Nick’s gaze snapped from the scrap of photograph to her. “The guys at the lab said they’d found pieces and they were fitting them together. They said they’d call me when they were done, but they were pretty sure the picture was nothing but discarded trash.”
“But see, that’s how I knew it must be important,” she told him. “Because Brody destroyed it.”
He chewed over this new piece of information in silence and might have gone right on standing there and thinking if Sarah hadn’t breezed into the room.
“Oh!” Her eyes wide, she looked from Jazz to Nick and back to Jazz, then turned around and raced out.
Nick dropped into the chair in front of Jazz’s desk. “I guess Sarah’s not feeling chatty today.”
“Or she doesn’t want to intrude.”
His look—top lip curled and eyes squinched—told her that will be the day, but it settled soon enough. “You’re going to hear it on the news sooner or later so I figured I might as well break the news to you,” Nick told her. “We found the murder weapon.”
“That’s why you arrested Brody!”
He nodded. “It was a lanyard. You know, the kind you wear around your neck to hold a photo ID. Black background, white skulls.”
It sounded familiar, and it was no wonder why. “Florie had it on her backpack. I remember it from those pictures you showed of the afternoon she died. She was on Public Square handing out brochures and she had her backpack with her and—” Another thought hit. “It wasn’t on her backpack when I found her. Brody…” Jazz’s stomach soured, and she swallowed hard. “You know, he broke up with her that night. At least that’s what he told me. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe she broke up with him. He got angry. He tore the lanyard off her backpack and…” She couldn’t put words to the image that flashed through her mind.
Another nod from Nick. “We found the lanyard in the trunk of Brody’s car, of all places. It’s got blood on it. We don’t have a DNA match yet, of course, but the blood type is Florie’s.”
“And let me guess, Brody’s telling you he has no idea how the lanyard got there. That’s what he said about Florie’s phone, too, right?”
Nick waved away the information as inconsequential. “He was right about the phone. Anyone could have put it in the trash can near his office. Apparently, people aren’t very careful with the trash there.” It was all he said—all he’d ever say—about the fact that Jazz had walked off with a piece of the photograph. “We checked his phone records. And hers. There were plenty of calls between the two of them, all hours of the day and night.”
“He says it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” Nick admitted. “But it’s a fact, and I deal in facts. The phone could have been dumped by Brody; he admits he and Florie were having an affair; he had the murder weapon in his car. Facts. All of them.”
“But he’s denying it all, right?”
“It’s weird.” Cocking his head, Nick thought about it. “When I questioned him the first time, he denied having anything to do with Florie’s death. But since we found the murder weapon … Well, he hasn’t declared his innocence lately, but he might just be waiting until he consults his lawyer. Which he’s doing…” Nick checked the time on his phone. “Right now.” He sat up and worked a kink out of his neck. “I’ve got to get back and wrap this thing up.”
Jazz let go a long breath. “That’s good. We can all have some closure. And you get to close your case.”
It wasn’t exactly a smile that lit Nick’s face. It was more pained than that, a grim acceptance of the fact that though the case might be closed, even an arrest wouldn’t change what had happened. It wouldn’t bring Florie back.
CHAPTER 20
“I’m thinking Monday would be good.”
After four years of working at Eileen’s side, Jazz was used to her mind moving like quicksilver. Most of the time, she was able to keep up.
This wasn’t one of those times.
The next morning when Eileen zipped by Jazz’s desk and into her office, Jazz left off sorting the day’s mail and followed. “Monday would be good for what?” she asked.
Eileen had been at a meeting at the diocesan office downtown. Before she sat at her desk, she kicked off her black pumps and poked her feet into the Toms waiting for her on the carpet in front of the fireplace. Her sigh of relief preceded her words. “The memorial service for Florie. I’ve been watching the weather. Monday sounds perfect. Midsixties, sunny. We’ll take the girls across the street to the park. As much as I love the chapel, on a spring afternoon, the great outdoors seems more fitting. I didn’t want to do the memorial sooner. Not until…”
This time Jazz knew exactly what she meant. “Until they found the man who killed her.” She managed a smile, sure that it wobbled around the edges. But then, thinking about Florie, about Tate Brody and the misery he’d brought to his wife and to his school and his colleagues … well, it all had a way of tangling around her heart. “You’re right. This seems like a good time.”
“And a lot of work for us, I’m afraid. It’s already Friday.”
Jazz’s mind flew through a list of details. “Priest?” she asked.
“I saw Father Donovan from St. Pat’s this morning and he owes me a favor. He’ll be here Monday at one.”
Father Kevin Donovan was a good choice. He was young and enthusiastic, the perfect combination of devout and congenial. He’d conducted a few classes at St. Catherine’s and was the girls’ favorite. It helped that he was as cute as can be. And leave it to Eileen to come up with the perfect time, too. By one, lunch hours would be finished and Jazz would have the morning to wrap up details.
“Music?” Jazz asked.
“The school choir and orchestra. You’ll talk to Marni?”
Marni Gulick directed both St. Catherine’s choir and orchestra, and Jazz made a mental note to contact her as soon as she was done there with Eileen. “The orchestra’s been practicing ‘Farewell to Stromness’ for the spring concert.”
“Perfect.”
“And the choir?”
Eileen grinned. “Whatever you and Marni decide will be fine. Make it something nice and Catholic!”
“Done!” There would be a million other details, but Jazz would worry about them later, and she’d have the weekend to make arrangements. “Balloons?” she suggested.
Eileen nodded.
“School colors?”
“Of course.”
“Flowers?”
Eileen glanced out the window and Jazz did, too. If the weather predictions were true and the weekend was warm, the daffodils along the paths that surrou
nded the gazebo at the center of Lincoln Park would be in full bloom by Monday.
Eileen’s smile was soft. “Let’s let God take care of the flowers.”
Fine with Jazz. It was one less thing for her to worry about. “Will you speak?” she asked Eileen.
The nun thought about it. “I’d rather not, but I suppose it will look weird if I don’t. I’ll write something up. Short and sweet. We’ll keep the whole thing to under an hour. We can gather at the gazebo.”
“I’ll check with the city to see if we need a permit. And maybe…” Jazz pictured the scene—Eileen and Father Donovan at the front of the crowd, the school’s small choir under the roof of the gazebo, the orchestra gathered around them. It was nice. Fitting. “Maybe it will make people forget the bad parts of the story,” she suggested, though she knew it was unlikely that would ever happen. The day’s news was filled with talk of the instructor who’d been arrested, of his relationship with his young, pretty student. The media was all about sordid details, and they were feasting on everything they knew about Florie and Brody and filling in the blanks with conjecture. It all made Jazz glad that Larry and Renee Allen probably couldn’t find a working TV in their house if they wanted to. They didn’t have to listen to the ugly story.
They didn’t have to see the same picture Jazz had seen, either, the one every local and cable station had picked up to go with the story—Florie in her little black skirt, her tall boots, her over-the-top makeup.
“We need to show the real Florie,” Jazz decided right then and there. “I’ll get some of her photos blown up and we’ll put them on easels, but it would be nice to have her picture, too. Without the makeup and the piercings.”
Eileen couldn’t have agreed more. “Her yearbook photo will work.”
“It will, but something newer would be nice.” She knew better than to think she would get a recent photo from Larry and Renee. “North Coast might have Florie’s student ID picture,” she told Eileen. “Or…”
Jazz knew exactly where she could get recent pictures, and plenty of them, but for now, there were a million other things to think about, a million details, a million calls she had to make, and she hurried back to her office to get down to business. Once the school day was over, she knew exactly what she had to do, where she had to go, and who she needed to talk to.