Coached to Death

by Victoria Laurie

  “Xanax.”

  I held up two fingers. “Twice,” I said, then pointed to the camera above the door and grinned for effect. Holding forth my wrists, I added, “Ain’t cha gonna arrest me now, Shepherd?”

  The detective got up and began to move to the door. I stopped him in his tracks when I said, “No? Gee, won’t the press wonder what the deal is when I have Marcus here phone in a tip that a person of interest in the murder case of Heather Holland showed up to confess to the crime and wasn’t even arrested!”

  Shepherd turned back to me, furious. “You want me to arrest you, Catherine?” he snapped, before hauling out a set of handcuffs.

  “I do!” I yelled, and I held my wrists aloft to make it easy for him.

  “She’s clearly under the influence here, Detective,” Marcus said, getting to his feet as well. “If this goes to trial, I’ll get the whole confession thrown out.”

  “She should’ve thought of that before she came in here to confess!” Shepherd said angrily, and then he seemed to think of something, and his jaw dropped a little before he turned to stare at me. “You did think about it before you came here, didn’t you?”

  “Yep,” I said. “I thought about how you arrested me at Pierre’s so publicly when you had nothing but some flimsy circumstantial evidence, and how you proceeded with the charges even though it was clear that the judge was going to toss the case out for lack of evidence, and how you’ve been so intent to make me the focus of your investigation when you know I didn’t do it . . .”

  “You just confessed that you did,” he reminded me.

  I rolled my eyes. “Right. And you totally believe that, huh, Shepherd? You totally believe I did it.”

  “Maybe you did!” he snapped.

  “Maybe I did,” I agreed. “And that means that you can close the case on Heather. And put away that file on her dead ex-husband too! His death can just remain suspicious.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marcus turn his head sharply toward me. I think he was starting to put it together as well.

  Shepherd stood there, holding the handcuffs for a good couple of beats, and we waited him out. At last, he came calmly back to the table, pulled out the chair again, and sat down. “What do you want, Catherine? An apology or something?”

  “That would be a nice start,” I said.

  “No.”

  I glared at him. “You and your stupid pride,” I spat. “You owe me an apology, Detective. You know you do.” Waving my hand in a circle, I added, “That whole stunt at Pierre’s was just one giant ruse to keep the real killer from thinking you were onto them. And I know you believe the two deaths are related, so as long as you can dangle me to the public as a person of interest, you can dig deeper into Heather and Tony’s murders. And Tony Holland was murdered, wasn’t he?”

  “You done?” he asked.

  “With you? Not by a long shot.” I stood, and Marcus got up with me. “I’m going to do a little digging myself, Detective, and if you cause me even one more ounce of public humiliation, I’ll make sure the press hears that I came here today and confessed to murdering Heather. Marcus, of course, will get me off because I popped two anti-anxiety pills half an hour ago, and no judge in her right mind would allow a confession made by someone hyped up on so much Xanax, and while it might all be terribly inconvenient to me to be thrown into jail again, I’d still sleep well knowing I’d ruined your chances of ever bringing the real killer to justice because the other defense attorney would have it on public record that I confessed to the crime.”

  Shepherd eyed me moodily. I had him. I knew I had him. And I expected him at any minute to jump to his feet, lose his cool, and arrest me on the spot, but what he did next wasn’t any of that, and it surprised me a great deal. He stood calmly, tucked the handcuffs into his back pocket, and said, “She was poisoned, Catherine. That’s why there was no blood at the scene. She was dead long before that punch bowl broke over her head. We don’t know what the toxin was that killed her, but we do know that her central nervous system shut down rapidly. You didn’t kill her. Sorry about the other night.”

  With that, Shepherd strolled out of the room, and Marcus and I were left to stare at each other.

  * * *

  A bit later, Marcus walked me out of the police station. “I think I should drive you home,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve taken two Xanax, and I’m not comfortable with you driving under the influence of that much prescription medication in your system.”

  I lifted my arm to access my purse and dug around for a moment, coming up with some breath mints. Using my thumb to pop the top, I offered the container to Marcus. “I had two Tic Tacs. Not Xanax.”

  His eyes widened.

  “I swapped them out in the car before I went in,” I explained.

  “Clever,” he said. “But don’t tell anyone else that. Ever.”

  Saluting with two fingers, I said, “Noted.”

  Marcus looked around suspiciously. “Still, Catherine, to keep up the ruse, it might be a good idea to take an Uber or a taxi home. The last thing we want is for some cop to pull you over on suspicion of being under the influence.”

  “But I just told you that I’m fine to drive,” I said.

  “Oh, I know. It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s Shepherd. It wouldn’t surprise me if he sent word out to his patrol buddies to keep an eye out for your car.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t the police in this town have better things to do than pull over innocent people?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I’m the wrong person to ask. I’ve been pulled over three times in this town.”

  That floored me. “For what?”

  “DWBBMW.”

  “What does that stand for?”

  “Driving while black in a BMW.”

  My mouth dropped. “Please be kidding.”

  Marcus chuckled. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I said to the police the first time they pulled me over for a report of a suspicious driver in a BMW.”

  I stood there for a long moment, trying to get a handle on my anger. Outright racism, bigotry, misogyny, and hatred are all trigger points for me. They’re trigger points for my sister too. Heaven help the fool who pulls such shenanigans in front of the two of us—our wrath unfolds in tag-team waves of anger. “I’m so sorry,” I said to him, at a loss for anything else I could say. “It means all the more that you were willing to come here so late to help me the other night.”

  “I owed a friend,” he said with a one-shoulder shrug.

  “Ah,” I said, nodding. “Maks.”

  “I see he’s confessed to being the benefactor.”

  “He has. He’s incredibly kind, don’t you think?”

  Marcus looked at me curiously. “Kind? Maks? Hmm. I don’t know that I’d describe him that way, Catherine, but he has gone out of his way to be kind to you.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say.”

  Marcus shrugged again. “Maybe it is.”

  Marcus did not come forth with any further details; instead, he changed the subject. Lifting his watch, he said, “I should go. I have a meeting at one.”

  “Thank you again, Marcus.”

  “Just doing my job,” he said, already moving away. “I’ll refund your retainer just as soon as I subtract my hourly rate for today’s counsel.”

  “Thank you,” I told him, and then I thought of something and added, “Marcus, do you happen to know of any tax attorneys looking for some administrative or clerical help?”

  “Actually,” he said, looking surprised, “I do. You know of someone?”

  Picturing Erma, I cleared my throat nervously but pressed on. “Yes. One of my clients recently found herself laid off. She’s got a rather big presence, but she’s a hard worker and eager to please.”

  “Big presence?” Marcus asked. “Is that code for something unpleasant?”

  I attempted a laugh, though it came out a bit strained. “N
o . . . ahem . . . No. She’s just a big energy, lots of enthusiasm, you know the type.”

  Marcus cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Please?” I said. “I need this, Marcus.”

  He nodded slowly. “In truth, that could work. The attorney I’m thinking of has an . . . unusual personality.”

  I blanched. “Is that code for pervert?”

  Marcus chuckled—his laugh was genuine. “No. Not a pervert. Dwight’s a geek. Harmless, but he’s definitely on the spectrum.”

  “On the spectrum?”

  “Asperger’s. He struggles with social interactions.”

  “Erma—the woman I’m recommending—struggles with those a touch too.”

  “Send me her résumé, and I’ll forward it to Dwight.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Marcus.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Waving good-bye, I left him and moved in the opposite direction, heading toward my car, which was in a church parking lot two blocks down. As I was rounding the corner and about to cross the street to the side where my car was parked, a movement out of the corner of my eye caused me to turn my head, and what I saw stopped me in my tracks.

  Bursting out of the church door came none other than the dreadful housekeeper who’d given me such a hard time at Heather’s.

  While I stood there in shock, she came dashing straight toward me, and I’ll admit to raising my arms up defensively as she drew close. In that moment, she seemed to recognize me too, and just as she seemed set to collide with me, she shifted slightly and scrambled past my stunned form.

  Confused, I spun around and watched her continue to run toward a sedan that’d definitely seen better days. The door was open, and the housekeeper launched herself inside, and before she even had a chance to close the passenger-side door, the car was speeding away.

  I don’t know what compelled me, but I took a few hurried steps in the car’s direction and took note of the license plate, saying it out loud to myself over and over long after the car had sped away.

  Reaching into my purse, my hand shaking, I pulled out my phone and tapped the license number onto the screen of a new e-mail that I would send to myself. I then jotted a few words about the car, its bronze color, the rust on the right-front fender, and the shape of it. I wasn’t clear on make or model, but I didn’t think I needed to be, having gotten the full license plate number.

  I then realized that my heart was racing and a cold sweat had broken out across my brow.

  “What on earth was that all about?” I mused.

  My gaze turned toward the church, and I approached it, wondering if that was a good idea. I hadn’t witnessed a crime, but the woman’s actions were certainly suspicious. I wondered if she’d been questioned by the police . . .

  “Certainly she has,” I said to myself.

  But what if she hadn’t.

  Reaching the door of the church, I pulled on the door, but it was locked. “Strange,” I said. I’d just seen the woman come out of the building. How could the door be locked so quickly after she’d appeared?

  Unless someone who had been in the church with her had locked the door right after her escape.

  With a bit of reservation, I knocked on the entrance. No one appeared, so I put my head to the door and listened, but no sounds came to me.

  “Odd,” I said.

  At last, I turned away to walk down the steps toward my car again, and after reaching the sidewalk, I glanced back at the door one last time. To my surprise, another figure appeared from the doorway, and she casually descended the steps as if she were completely oblivious to the scene of the housekeeper racing away from the church only moments before.

  Adding to the strangeness of the moment, the woman descending the steps was dressed like someone who’d just stepped out of the sixties. Clad in a patterned dress that was cut three inches above the knee and colored bright orange, lime green, neon yellow, and pink, the woman casually walked down the stairs and toward me, her hair bound in a high-volume coif, a chunky white necklace with a big peace sign at her neck, and her hands covered in white leather gloves. Her look was topped off with a pair of thick Jackie O sunglasses and bright-pink lipstick.

  I winced taking all of her in; it was quite retro, but overall it didn’t really work. Perhaps it just seemed that she was trying too hard to get some attention.

  Still, I couldn’t let her go without asking her about the housekeeper. “Excuse me!” I said, waving to her.

  The woman’s head jerked when she realized someone was calling to her. “Yes?”

  I approached her and asked, “Were you in there with that other woman?”

  “Other woman?” she said.

  “Yes, the one that just came running out of the church.”

  The stranger appeared to consider me suspiciously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Thinking fast, I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet. “The woman who came out of the church dropped this. She left in a car before I could call out to her. I was hoping you knew her and could help me track her down.”

  The stranger looked from me to the wallet, then back again. “I don’t know who just came out of the church,” she said. “I was in there to pray for my mother. She’s having gallbladder surgery tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope your mother will be all right.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said, about to turn away.

  Quickly I said, “Is there anyone else inside who might have known her?”

  The woman’s lips pursed in a pout of impatience. “Father Stephan was the one giving the sermon today, but he left twenty minutes ago for lunch. Otherwise, it was just me, praying.” She tapped her finger to her lips and added, “You know, I thought I did hear a door close. Maybe that was this other woman you were talking about. I’d tell you to take the wallet inside and leave it on the pulpit with a note, but the door locks automatically. Father Stephan should be back from his lunch by one o’clock or so.”

  I smiled and put the wallet back into my purse. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  She nodded and went on her way, while I waited until she was out of sight to move to my car and get in.

  On another impulse, I called the East Hampton Police Department and asked to speak to Detective Shepherd.

  “Shepherd,” he said gruffly.

  “Detective, it’s Catherine Cooper.”

  There was an audible sigh, then, “You wanna come back in and confess to another crime you didn’t commit?”

  “No, I believe my limit of one confession per day has been reached. Speaking of confession, however, I have a question for you: Did you ever interview Heather Holland’s housekeeper?”

  Shepherd didn’t answer for a beat or two, which I found a little telling. “We’re still attempting to locate her.”

  “Ah. Well, you might want to ask the owner of a bronze-colored sedan with the license plate number V, L, A, one, six, seven, six.”

  Another pause, then, “How do the two connect, exactly?”

  “That’s the license plate number of the car that I just witnessed Heather’s housekeeper jump into. She came barreling out of a church two blocks from your station, in fact, to throw herself into that waiting car, and it took off before she even had a chance to close the door. Now, I’m no detective, but I’d call that suspicious.”

  Shepherd swore, and I heard the sound of snapping fingers, then “Thanks.” And then he hung up.

  Satisfied that I’d done my duty as a concerned citizen, I sat still and watched the church for a while. I can’t really explain why—call it a hunch.

  My hunch paid off five minutes later when Shepherd showed up in an unmarked black sedan. I watched from the shadows of my car as he pulled up on the other side of the street, all his attention focused on the church and not me, thank God. After parking, he got out of his car and hurried up the steps to the door, which he attempted to pull open, but which I knew to be locked.
He then settled for knocking, but there was no answer.

  Shepherd then walked around to the other side of the church and back again. I smirked as I watched him and sunk a little lower in my seat so as not to be seen.

  I needn’t have worried; he was entirely too preoccupied with trying to get inside the church.

  Finally, just when I thought the detective was ready to abandon the effort, a priest appeared, walking with haste toward the church. Shepherd stood at the base of the steps until the priest got to him, and then a verbal exchange between the two took place. And then an argument.

  “So it’s not just me,” I muttered. “Shepherd can even try the patience of a priest!”

  The priest kept shaking his head at Shepherd, but I couldn’t hear any of their conversation. Still, given their body language, I felt I was able to suss out that Shepherd wanted to go inside the church to look for evidence that Heather’s housekeeper had been there. He took out a photo from the folder he’d been holding, and the priest had looked at the photo and frowned. I had the feeling the priest knew the woman, but he didn’t appear to be very forthcoming with information.

  And if Heather’s housekeeper had used the church as a sanctuary, then I could understand the priest’s lack of cooperation.

  Finally, the priest had had enough of the conversation, and he walked past the detective, inserted a key into the lock, and let himself inside the church without even a glance back.

  “Ha!” I laughed softly. “Priest one, Shepherd zero.”

  For his part, Shepherd stood in front of the steps leading to the church with his hands on his hips, clearly frustrated.

  And then it was almost as if he knew I was watching, because he swiveled on his heel and turned in a half circle to stare directly in my direction.

  “Shit,” I swore and ducked way down in my seat, not even daring to look in his direction.

  A moment or two later, the rapping sound on my car window caused me to jump.

  With a sigh, I turned the car on and rolled down my window. “Yes?” I asked innocently.

  “What’re you doing?” Shepherd demanded.

  “Sitting in my car.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a nice day. I was taking in some afternoon sun.”