by Shéa MacLeod
“Oh, get real, Jase.” She whirled on him, her face an angry mask. “That woman made both our lives miserable, and you know it. It’s a relief she’s dead, but neither of us are killers.”
“Okay, all right.” I rushed in to soothe ruffled feathers. “Anyone who knows you knows that, but Costa is a stranger. He’s just doing his job, so we’ve got to help move things along in the proper direction. Right?”
Everyone agreed.
“How?” Jason asked.
“Well, let’s think.” I tapped my chin, pretending to be in deep thought. “Why would Costa suspect you in the first place? Other than that they always suspect the spouse, of course. And, I’m sorry to point it out, but you were in the midst of a nasty divorce.”
“I don’t know why he’d suspect me,” Jason wailed. “There’s no reason—.”
“Well, there was the fight,” Cheryl pointed out helpfully as she grabbed a second bottle of wine and topped off her glass.
Jason looked blank.
“At the party,” I nudged.
His face cleared. “Oh that.” He waved his hand dismissively. “That was nothing. She was behind on her monthly payments. As usual. All part of the pre-divorce agreement. But it’s nothing that wouldn’t have been taken care of eventually. Just a game she loved to play.”
Piper snorted, upper lip curled, but said nothing. I’d had no idea he was getting alimony, or whatever it was. I’d assumed he was flat broke. It wasn’t surprising Natasha had kept that hush-hush. She definitely wasn’t the sort who’d like people knowing her almost-ex was getting a cut of her money.
“Okay, so the almost-ex-husband angle. They always think the ex has something out for the victim, right? So, like, would she have done something you might have wanted revenge for? In the eyes of the police, I mean.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Even if I was out for revenge, it would have been stupid of me to take it.”
“Why’s that?” Cheryl asked.
“Because I needed her alive if I wanted to keep getting alimony after the divorce was final. And believe me, they were very nice checks.”
“All right, how about inheritance? The police would definitely look into that. Who inherited Natasha’s money and book rights?”
“Oh, that all goes to her sister,” Jason said with a wave of his hand. “She changed the will long before our marriage failed. I don’t get a damn thing. See, I told you. Natasha was worth far more to me alive. Without her, I’m broke.”
Chapter 12
Back in the Spotlight
“WELL, THERE GOES SUSPECT number one,” Cheryl said glumly.
“And number two,” I agreed with equal gloom.
“Piper?”
“Exactly. Killing Natasha would have meant killing the goose that laid the golden egg. So to speak. With Natasha alive, Piper got to live off the money Jason was getting from Natasha every month. With her dead...” I shrugged.
“I see your point,” Cheryl said morosely. “Now what?”
I sighed. “Let’s take a walk along the beach. Clear our minds.”
“Sounds good. As long as we don’t find any bodies.”
At the edge of the sand, we shucked our flip-flops and padded barefoot down the beach. The sound of the waves lulled me into something approaching a moment of Zen. Without thinking about it, I turned in the direction of the Don CeSar Hotel and the scene of my earlier near-meeting with the Grim Reaper.
Most people would probably be worried about that. Almost dying. Call me crazy. Call me stubborn. Call me out of touch with reality. But for whatever reason I wasn’t afraid. Not of death. Not of whoever had tried to kill me. I was a little pissed off and determined to discover who the culprit was, but I wasn’t afraid.
“We must be close,” I mused aloud.
“To what?” Cheryl glanced around as if trying to figure out what I was talking about.
“To the identity of the killer, of course. To finding out the truth. Otherwise, why would someone try and kill me?”
“Because you’re nosey.” There was an edge of sarcasm in her tone.
I laughed. “It’s true. But people don’t generally kill other people just for being nosey. Not unless they have something to hide.”
“I suppose you’re right. Too bad we can’t figure out how close we are.”
I couldn’t agree more. Clearly the killer was getting antsy, but the reality was I had no idea who he or she could be. It seemed I’d eliminated the most likely suspects. Of course, there was still Yvonne, the acquisitions editor. Not to mention, Avery Andrews, Natasha’s biggest competition, and Greta Morris, Natasha’s current PA, but I considered them not particularly likely. With Natasha’s death, Greta was out of a job. Ditto Yvonne. Well, not out of a job, but she’d lost her biggest client. The only one who even vaguely benefited from Natasha’s death was Avery, who now took the number-one romance spot at the publishing house. Romantic Press would be dumping all the marketing budget they’d spent on Natasha into Avery’s books now, and that could only boost her sales even more. Yep, Avery had a lot to gain from the murder. I mentally added her to my list of people to be questioned. Also, I still needed to figure out who owned the bracelet I’d found and if it was important to the investigation or simply a coincidence. My gut was telling me there was no such thing as coincidence.
We drew abreast of the hulking pink giant that was the Don CeSar. It looked different from the beachside. Even more elegant and imposing. I noticed a large group of guests huddled around the beach access door. They seemed to be waiting for something. I frowned when I caught sight of a uniformed police officer guarding the entrance. Something was up.
“Come on.” I nudged Cheryl. “Let’s go check it out.”
She groaned, but otherwise didn’t protest, which I took for consent. Not waiting to see if she followed, I took off across the perfectly raked white sand toward the huddle of people. I quickly sought out the most gossipy-looking one of the group: an elderly gentleman with enormous white sideburns and beady, dark eyes that saw everything. He was the only one who’d been given a chair, which probably had a lot to do with the cane clutched between his gnarled hands. He looked ready to burst.
“What’s going on?” I asked, breezing up like I belonged there. “Why aren’t they letting us in?”
The old man’s eyes twinkled with barely repressed excitement. “It’s the police. They told us we couldn’t go in. Things afoot.”
I gave him a conspiratorial look. “What sort of things?” My blood zinged with excitement. Had there been a robbery or something?
The old man’s smile broadened as if he held the best secret in the world. “You’ll never believe it,” he said. “This sort of thing never happens here. Not at the Don CeSar.”
“What sort of thing?” I asked impatiently.
He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “Murder.”
“THIS WAY.” I WAVED Cheryl to follow me around the side of the building. I figured the police couldn’t have every entrance blocked. There was always some side door or something. A service entrance, that sort of thing.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Cheryl asked, looking a little worried.
“Probably not. But a faint heart never solved a murder mystery.”
“That’s not how the saying goes,” she said dryly.
I shrugged. “Hey, whatever works, right?”
With a glance over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching—particularly the police—I crept around the side of the building, Cheryl hot on my heels. The way was dimly lit by ornate wrought-iron lamps and the pebbled walkway nearly overgrown with lush, tropical greenery. Although a narrow path wound its way down the side of the building, it was clearly not something the guests often used. Likely they stuck to the other side of the building with its enormous pool and varied selection of bars. We had it completely to ourselves. Even the police were absent.
The first side door we came to was one of those exit-only doors. Even if it
hadn’t been locked, we wouldn’t have been able to get in. There was no handle. Hanging around until someone wandered out didn’t seem like a good idea either. Who knew how long we’d have to wait?
We walked farther down the path, skirting stubby palm trees with branches that were in need of a trim and dodging spray from overly enthusiastic sprinklers. Finally we found another door. This one appeared like it might be an actual side entrance for employees or the odd guest seeking a smoke. I pushed gently on the crash bar and sure enough, it swung open.
“This way,” I hissed.
“Why are we whispering?” Cheryl murmured back.
“Because we don’t want anybody to hear us.”
“What anybody?”
She had a point. There was no one around. No guests. No employees. And certainly no cops. Probably they were all over at the other side of the building where the excitement was, which was where I wanted to be.
The door led into a narrow hallway. Very bare and boring. Nothing at all like the opulent upstairs. Definitely a service entrance. I racked my brain trying to remember if this part of the building had been on the ghost tour, but I hadn’t been paying any attention after my near-death experience.
On either side of the hall, doors led to various storage, janitorial, and laundry rooms. Up ahead I could hear the telltale crash and bang of pots and pans. We’d need to avoid the kitchen if we didn’t want to have people questioning us. I figured I could claim I was a guest who got lost, but if they looked it up, they’d know I was lying. And Cheryl was a terrible liar. She’d look guilty the whole time.
Fortunately we found a stairwell before we reached the kitchen. It was right next to the bank of service elevators. I didn’t dare take those. Who knew where they’d open up or who’d be waiting on the other side? No, the stairs were a better option.
The stairwell was one of those ominous places with ringing metal steps and lots of echoing concrete walls. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead turning skin sallow. It was exactly the sort of place I expected some evildoer to jump out of the shadows and attempt ghastly murder. However, we made it to the lobby floor unmolested.
There was no window in the stairwell door, so I pushed the door open a crack and peeked through. Cheryl crowded up behind me, trying to get a look.
“Would you stop?” I hissed.
“I can’t see.”
“Neither can I.”
The door suddenly swung open, and I crashed face first to the floor, Cheryl landing on top me. We both let out unladylike squeals followed by oomphs.
A pair of scuffed, black leather shoes appeared in front of my nose. “Well, well. Ms. Roberts. And her sidekick. Why am I not surprised?”
I pushed dark locks of hair out of my eyes as I glanced up to find Detective Costa staring down at us, arms crossed over his broad chest. He did not look happy to see either one of us.
“Oh, Detective. Hi!” Cheryl said perkily, scrambling off me with a few well-placed jabs of her elbows—sharp elbows, at that. “How’s it going?” I could tell her innocent tone did not fool Costa one bit.
I heaved myself to my feet a little more slowly than Cheryl had. In part because I’d been the one to hit the floor. In part because I was putting off dealing with Costa and his disapproval.
“Hello, Detective,” I said coolly, brushing off my navy capris, though there wasn’t a speck of dirt on them. The Don CeSar kept their floors pristine. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Costa said nothing. He just tapped one foot on the marble floor, arms crossed over his impressive chest.
“What’s going on?” I tried to peer around him, but he was a bit on the broad side, and all I could see were cops everywhere and a bit of crime scene tape fluttering in the wind from the open front door. “Having a party?” I laughed, but it came out a little strained.
“Are you investigating what happened to Viola?” Cheryl asked. I couldn’t tell if she was playing along or if she was actually serious. I couldn’t imagine Costa would care one whit about finding out who’d pushed me. More like he was wishing they’d finished the job.
He gave Cheryl an exasperated look. “I’m a homicide detective, Ms. Delaney. I’m not in the habit of investigating accidents.”
Cheryl snorted angrily and shot Costa a glare. “That was no accident, and you know it. Otherwise, why would you have come out the minute you heard about it?” She arched one dark eyebrow and crossed her arms, mirroring Costa’s stance. I was impressed. I didn’t know Cheryl could have quite so much chutzpah in the face of such an imperious jerk.
“Be that as it may,” he said imperturbably, “this investigation is none of your concern.”
“What investigation?” I asked, ears perking up. “Are you telling me there was a murder here? It’s related to Natasha’s death, isn’t it?” I watched his face closely; otherwise I might have missed the slight twitch of jaw muscle. “It is!” I crowed. “But how? Who is it? Who was murdered?”
Costa pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Just go home, Ms. Roberts, and leave the investigating to the professionals.”
“Can’t go home,” I said smugly. “I live in Oregon, and my flight isn’t until Monday.”
He literally groaned. I had to hold back a laugh.
“To your hotel, Ms. Roberts. Go back to your hotel.”
“This is a free country last time I checked. I can stay here until you-know-where freezes over,” I said even more smugly. Taunting the devil probably wasn’t smart, but I was hoping that if I goaded him enough, he’d let slip some information useful to my investigation.
Costa looked ready to explode. “Ms. Roberts...” There was a warning edge to his tone. I figured I’d pushed his buttons hard enough for one night.
I held up my hands placatingly. “All right. I’ll go. But at least tell me who died. Maybe I can help. I did find the first body, after all.” I winced realizing I’d just reminded him of my suspect status.
“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.” He lifted a hand and waved over a uniformed officer. She hurried to his side, eyes wide, body thrumming with excitement.
“Yes, sir?”
“Crowley, please escort these ladies off the premises. Make sure they get a car back to their hotel.”
“Yes, sir!” Crowley’s tone was a little perkier than I thought correct for a police officer. It was clear she was young and eager to please. Maybe I could use that to my advantage.
“This way, ladies.” Crowley waved us toward the front entrance. Cheryl dutifully did as Crowley asked, but I lingered at the policewoman’s side, keeping pace with her.
“Officer Crowley, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I held back a wince at the “ma’am,” reminding myself it was a Southern thing. It had nothing to do with my age. Much.
“How long have you been a police officer?” I gave her a wide-eyed, innocent look.
“A year and a half, ma’am.”
“Wow! And here you are on a homicide already. How exciting! Not the person dying, of course,” I rushed to add, “but it’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?”
“It is quite an honor working with Detective Costa, yes.” She practically beamed with excitement.
“I just ask because I’m a writer, you see. I’m always doing research for my novels. Police procedure is especially important to get right. You don’t know how many readers email me with comments when I get something wrong!”
I left out the part about me writing Westerns and that the things I got wrong were usually historical details. Like the time I had the Pony Express operating in 1862 when it went bust in ’61. You should have seen the outrage I got over that one. It wasn’t even my fault. It was a typo, for goodness sake.
“You’re a writer? That’s so exciting! I always thought it would be fun to write novels. Maybe crime fiction or something like that.” She grinned widely, revealing perfectly straight teeth which had obviously had some seriously expensive orthodontia.
“Oh, yes, so fun.” It was. But it was also hard work. I didn’t bother going into that. I needed information. “Is this your first homicide?”
She nodded. “I didn’t even throw up.”
My eyes widened of their own accord. I didn’t have to feign surprise. “You saw the body?”
“First on the scene,” she said proudly. She lowered her voice, “My cousin works here, so he called me. He knows I patrol the area.”
“Gosh, that must have been shocking. Was it your first dead body? I would think I would pass right out cold.” I gave a delicate shudder.
“I’m a police officer, ma’am,” she said, puffing out her chest. “We don’t pass out.” She gave me a conspiratorial look. “Although my partner, Raston...he lost his lunch. And he’s been on the job ten years!”
“Well,” I said with approval, “we all know that women are the stronger sex.”
She nodded in agreement. “You aren’t lying.”
“What was it like?” I asked. “I’m writing a crime scene next, you see.” Liar, liar. “I’ve got to get all the details right. Was there blood?” By then we were at the curb waiting for the Uber. According to my app, I had three minutes to get all the information I could out of Crowley.
“There was blood,” she confirmed. “A lot of it. Head wound. The medical examiner says she was hit on the head with something before she took a tumble down the stairs. Poor thing.”
My ears perked up. Now that sounded familiar. At least the stairs part. We were passing a large grouping of police, behind them the yellow crime scene tape roping off the grand staircase. I managed a peek between all the muscled legs and torsos, but the body was already gone. I could still see the pool of blood where the victim fell, bright red against the white marble.
“She? The victim was a woman? Was she a guest?”
Crowley shrugged as she ushered me outside. “Not a guest here anyway. No one is sure who she was. Guess that’s one for Costa to figure out.” A silver car slid to the curb. “Here’s your ride, ma’am. It was nice talking to you. Get home safe.” The minute I was in, she shut the door firmly behind me. And that, as they say, was that.