Coached to Death

by Victoria Laurie

  “Honey, do I look new at this?”

  “No. Which worries me.”

  “Relax. I do this kind of thing all the time.”

  “Wait, you’re telling me you illegally hack into stuff all the time?”

  “What do you think the term ‘computer hacker’ means, Cat?”

  I blinked some more. “Okay, I know you used to hack into stuff in college, but I had no idea you were still doing it.”

  “How do you think M.J. and I solved most of those mysteries?” he asked me next.

  “I don’t know,” I snapped. “M.J.’s a psychic. Didn’t she do most of the sleuthing?”

  Gilley lowered his lids to half-mast. “Girl,” he said levelly, “in the first place, M.J. isn’t like your sister. She’s a medium. She talks to dead people, who’re not nearly as forthcoming with information as you might think. In the second place, we both brought our skills to the super-sleuthing table. She talked to the dead, and I hacked into databases and whatnot. I never stole anything, and any private information I got, I never passed on. No one was put in danger. No one got hurt. Well, at least not from my hacking.”

  I sat with that for a minute, still unnerved by the obvious law-breaking. But then I also had to consider that I trusted Gilley. He’d never once lied to me. And he’d never once betrayed me. So if he said that he only used his skills for good, then I suppose, given the circumstances, I had to be okay with it. “Okay,” I said. “Just please make sure to reset Joyce’s password back after we’re done poking around.”

  “Of course,” Gilley assured me, adding, “I had every intention of restoring her password. What was it again?”

  My eyes widened, and I sucked in some air. “You don’t remember it?”

  Gilley adopted a knowing smile. “Of course I remember it. It’s PASSWORD.”

  I laughed. “Wow. That must’ve put your hacking skills to the test!”

  “I know,” he said. “She made it too easy.”

  “What’d you change it to?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “DROWSSAP,” Gil said.

  At first, I thought I misheard him—that hadn’t even sounded like a word, and then I realized he’d simply changed it to PASSWORD spelled backward. “Clever,” I told him.

  He smiled. “After we’re done snooping, I’ll change it back and send her an anonymous e-mail to let her know that her security is at risk and she needs to change it to something more challenging ASAP. But I digress. What’s really important here is that we can look all through Heather’s Facebook pages and see what we see.”

  I scooted closer to Gilley to peer over his shoulder as he scrolled down the page. “Is that Joyce?” I asked, pointing to a photo of a little old lady with silver-blue hair, leaning heavily on a cane.

  “It is. She looks like a crafty one, if you ask me.”

  “She looks sweet and trusting,” I said, poking him in the arm.

  “Stop with the guilt trip. I’ll do no harm to sweet and trusting Joyce.”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, what do we see?”

  “Well!” he began, and I could tell he’d been snooping for a while. “Not only do we have a fantastic suspect pool with her friends’ list—”

  “Excluding poor Joyce, of course.”

  “I’m not excluding anyone yet, sugar.”

  “You really think an eighty-two-year-old killed Heather?”

  Gilley eyed me seriously. “See, this is where my experience really comes in handy. I think anyone is capable of anything.”

  “Gilley, she was smashed over the head with a crystal punch bowl that I personally know weighed about six pounds. That thing was heavy! No way could an elderly woman with a cane accomplish that.”

  Gilley continued to eye me skeptically. “We’ll clear Joyce of all suspicion once we’ve identified the real killer.”

  “Fine. I don’t want to argue. How many names do we have in the suspect pool?”

  “Three hundred and sixty-eight.”

  I stared at Gilley for a long moment. “Please be kidding.”

  “I never kid about suspect pools. I only kid in the kiddie pool.”

  “Ba-dump-bump, shhhhh,” I said, adding an eye roll.

  “Thanks. I deserved that.”

  “Can we get back to work here?” I asked, pointing again to the screen.

  “Of course. Sorry. As I was saying, we have over three hundred suspects to look at.”

  “Wait. You’re saying that you suspect every name on Heather’s friends’ list?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gilley, I’m sure some of those people don’t even live here in New York.”

  “Doesn’t mean they didn’t fly in to do the deed.”

  I rubbed my temples. “You’re giving me a headache.”

  “Look, all I’m saying is that it’s likely that Heather knew her killer. And if she knew her killer, then it’s likely that the killer has a social-media profile and was friends with Heather.”

  I moved my hand over to the touch pad on the computer and tapped at something that caught my eye on Heather’s personal page. “Hold on a second,” I said.

  “What?” Gil asked me.

  “This post,” I told him, clicking on it. “That’s from the party. And that’s . . .” My voice trailed off as I looked in horror at the screen.

  “That’s you,” Gilley said breathlessly.

  The image was obviously taken right in the middle of my angry outburst, and the caption was the one that was most hurtful. Heather had written,

  Yikes! This cat clearly needs to be checked for rabies!

  “Well, that’s just mean,” Gilley said.

  A deep, dark anger took hold of my insides. “I’m going to say something, and I don’t want you to judge me, Gilley.”

  “Go for it,” he said.

  “I’m not sorry she’s dead.”

  “I know, Cat. You and at least one other person feel the exact same way.”

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to take some deep breaths. “Why was she so mean to me?”

  “You know, that’s actually one of the questions I think we need to have answered.”

  I opened my eyes again. “We do?”

  “Yes,” he said. “She was particularly vicious toward you. And we both have no idea why, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But at least some of her friends seem to be in on the joke. See? Ten women commented with laughing emojis or stuff that was supportive of Heather. That’s telling, because in my experience, most women just aren’t that bitchy to each other. I mean, it’s risky, especially on social media, to be that blatantly mean. So, they must’ve felt justified in their support of Heather’s comments.”

  “That’s a really good point.”

  “And what’s even more important is that someone is obviously using Heather’s hatred of you against you, by basically framing you for murder.”

  “But we don’t know that yet, do we? I mean, yes, she was hit with my punch bowl, but that could’ve been just because it was handy. Plus, we’re not even sure that that’s how Heather died. To Marcus’s point, the photo of the crime scene doesn’t indicate Heather bled to death, and the M.E.’s report said the blow likely came postmortem. So how did Heather die?”

  Gilley scratched at his chin. “That’s the second question we need to focus on.”

  “I think that’s the first one, Gilley. I think the answer to that question is where we should begin.”

  “How’re we going to answer that?” Gil asked. “The M.E.’s official report is probably at least a week away.”

  “Ah. Good point,” I said. “But it does beg the question: What do we know about the way Heather might’ve died?”

  “For all we know, it could’ve been natural causes,” Gilley said.

  I shook my head. “Not from the crime-scene photos I saw. She died violently. She was facedown on the floor surrounded by the shards of my crystal bowl.”

  “But there was no blood, C
at,” Gilley reminded me. “And I’m not a medical expert, but I think I can still hazard a guess that the reason her head wound didn’t bleed is because she was already dead when she hit the floor.”

  I got up from the table and paced back and forth for a moment, and then I had a thought. Reaching for my cell phone and my purse, I took out Marcus Brown’s business card and punched in the numbers. I then came back to the table and put the phone on speaker.

  “Marcus Brown,” the counselor said, answering on the first ring.

  I smiled. I liked a man who was willing to answer a call right away. It spoke to his take-charge character. “Marcus, it’s Catherine Cooper.”

  “Catherine, how are you?” he said smoothly. “Don’t tell me that moron disguised as a detective arrested you again.”

  I laughed. “No, no. Nothing like that. I’m calling because Gilley—you met him at the courthouse—and I want to look into Heather’s murder and—”

  “Hold on, you want to what now?” Marcus interrupted.

  “We’re looking into Heather’s murder,” I repeated.

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I had the feeling I’d surprised Marcus once again.

  Because he didn’t speak, I decided to plunge ahead. “I was hoping that, in the stack of papers you brought to the courthouse during my bond hearing, you might have some documentation regarding the M.E.’s findings. Even if they’re the preliminary findings.”

  “I do,” Marcus said, sounding careful with his wording. “But I still don’t understand why you think it’s a good idea to go poking around the investigation. That could bring you a world of trouble, Catherine.”

  “I’m already in trouble, Marcus. And if we don’t start identifying other suspects who had more cause to do Heather harm than myself, I’m telling you, it’ll only be a matter of time before they haul me off to jail again.”

  “So why not hire a professional?” he asked. “I know of at least two very good private investigators. They could do all the legwork and keep you from drawing the attention of the E.H.P.D.”

  “As it turns out, Gilley has quite a bit of investigative experience,” I said. “Besides, I think it’s within my best interests to be seen as someone attempting to solve the crime.”

  “You could just as easily be seen as someone trying to obstruct justice,” Marcus warned. “If you go poking your nose into this, the prosecutor could make a case that you’re attempting to shift suspicion from yourself onto someone else.”

  “I am attempting to shift the blame off myself and onto someone else. I just don’t know who that someone else is at the moment.”

  “I think it’s a bad idea,” Marcus warned.

  “I appreciate that,” I said, and I genuinely meant it. “But this is something I need to do. If I’m going to live in this town as a free woman, I now know I’ll need to earn my reputation back; otherwise, assuming I’ll be acquitted, I’m likely to forever be known as the woman who got away with murder.”

  “All right,” Marcus said after another lengthy pause. “I guess I can’t stop you. But do me a couple of favors.”

  “Of course. What?”

  “Number one: don’t become a pain in the ass. You’re not well loved in that community, and the last thing we need are people coming forward with fabricated stories about the terrible feud between you and Heather Holland that will get created out of annoyance and the hope that you’ll go away.”

  “Noted, and granted.”

  “Number two . . .” Marcus continued.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Keep me in the loop about your progress. If you find out anything that you think might be relevant to your defense, shoot it to me.”

  “Also noted and granted,” I said.

  “Number three: stay away from Shepherd. Do not even think about questioning him about any of his findings or suspicions—especially those that involve you.”

  “That’s one promise I can easily keep,” I assured him. “But at some point, I would like to talk to the M.E. At least as soon as he finishes his report.”

  “Larry Beauperthy,” Marcus said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The M.E. His name is Dr. Larry Beauperthy, and as it so happens, you may be in luck, having retained me as your attorney.”

  “Granted, I do feel lucky that you’ve been defending me, Marcus, but I’m still confused as to how I retained you and what you’re actually referring to here.”

  “A benefactor set up enough of a retainer for you to cover your bond hearing. Going forward, I’ll be billing you directly.”

  “Good to know, and I’m assuming that billing will start with this phone call?”

  “It will.”

  “And just how much will this call cost me?”

  “One hundred and fifty dollars.”

  My eyes widened. “Your hourly rate is only a hundred and fifty dollars?” I asked. I was floored. With Marcus’s credentials, I’d have thought his rate was triple that.

  “No. My services come at six hundred dollars an hour. I’m hanging up the moment we reach the fifteen-minute mark.”

  “Ah,” I said. Even I’d lowballed his rate.

  “Try not to worry,” Marcus said. “It’s money well spent. And here’s why: Dr. Beauperthy was my college roommate at Stanford. We go way back.”

  “Get out of here,” I said, and Gilley bounced his eyebrows.

  “It’s true. And I already have a call out to him on your behalf. That will also be included in my bill.”

  “Isn’t that some sort of conflict of interest?” I asked.

  “No,” Marcus assured me. “Our friendship will have nothing to do with his findings, and to preempt any protest from the D.A.’s office over it, I’m already planning to record every single conversation with the good doctor.”

  “So you can probably find out what he thinks about the way Heather died,” I said.

  “Yes. I think I can.”

  Gilley nodded and flashed me two thumbs-up. “That’s fantastic. And you’ll share that with me?”

  “I will,” Marcus said. “As soon as your retainer check clears the bank.”

  “What retainer check?”

  “The one you’re sending to my office. I think a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer should get us started.”

  Gilley and I exchanged a look. “Very well, Marcus. Let’s hope I won’t actually need defending again and you’ll be returning most of it back to me.”

  “Honestly, Catherine? Nothing would make me happier. Especially since I drive a BMW.”

  With a chuckle, he clicked off the line.

  “What did he mean by that?” Gilley asked. “Lots of people drive BMWs.”

  “Inside joke,” I told him. “Okay, so, hopefully we’ll be getting at least a few answers about the manner of death in Heather’s case. Let’s look again at where we should start.”

  “I think we should start with the crime scene,” Gil said.

  “Good. I like it. But how do we do that?”

  Gilley smirked wickedly. “I know a way . . .”

  “I’m nervous, but listening.”

  “Hold on, let me show you,” he said, getting up from the table and disappearing into the hallway leading to the bedrooms. A minute or two later, he returned with a small, black drone. “Ta-da!” he said.

  “That’s very nice, Gilley. What do we do with it?”

  “We use it to spy on Heather’s house.”

  “How will we be able to see anything?” I asked.

  Gilley pointed to a good-sized lens on the underside of the drone. “This camera can rotate three-hundred-sixty degrees, and the image quality is fantastic.”

  I frowned. “Again, I ask you, how will we be able to see anything? Heather died inside her house. That drone will only give us a good look at the outside.”

  Gilley placed the drone on the floor, keeping the remote control in his hand. He then moved to the front door and opened it wide.

  “Wa
tch,” he said.

  Moving back toward the drone, Gilley fiddled with the controls on the remote, and the drone came to life with a high-pitched buzz. It then lifted off the ground and zipped out the front door. Using his free hand, Gilley pointed to his tablet on the table, and I immediately saw the view of the drone as it elevated into the sky. It then moved over the roofline of the guest house, pivoted, then began to descend back down, keeping close to the exterior wall.

  A few seconds later, I was watching myself watch the video of the drone watching me through the window. “Wow,” I said, turning to see the thing hovering at eye level. “That’s seriously creepy, Gil.”

  “It’s the future,” he said. “But do you see, Cat? We can look in through the windows at Heather’s house and get a surprising amount of detail.”

  For emphasis, Gilley pivoted the camera back and forth, and I realized that he was right. We could see quite a lot of detail about the room we were standing in.

  “Can we fly that thing from here over to Heather’s?” I asked. I was worried we might get caught if we had to stand out on the road or something. It would definitely look suspicious.

  “No,” Gil said. “The range is just a little too far. But I have a solution.”

  “Excellent. What?”

  “You know that patch of woods at the far end of Heather’s property?”

  I thought back. I almost never drove in that direction as my office was the other way, but on the few occasions when I had driven past Heather’s house, I did think I remembered a large patch of dense woods edging close to the road and bordering Heather’s property. “Yes,” I said.

  “If we head in there and I have you hold the tablet, I can navigate the drone to peek in all the windows, and we can record the video for further analysis.”

  “Who owns those woods?” I asked, worried about trespassing.

  “Probably Heather,” Gil said. “They practically butt up to the south end of her house.”

  “Yikes. I’m not sure about that plan, Gilley.”

  “Come on, Cat. It’s not like she’s going to be around to catch us. And by now, I’ll bet the police have cleared out the crime-scene tape. The place is bound to be abandoned.”

  I tapped my finger against my thigh nervously. But then I decided that, as a life coach who should be setting an example for her clients, I’d need to take some personal risks every once in a while. “Fine. But we should go at night.”