Coached to Death

by Victoria Laurie

  “Oh,” she said, and to my surprise, she seemed to accept that explanation. “Okay, so what do you want me to do?”

  “Well,” I said, jumping in before Gilley could make any more false statements. “We need that necklace, but please don’t touch it with your bare hands.”

  The clerk looked around her counter, and her eyebrows bounced when she spotted a pen to use to pick up the necklace. She maneuvered the necklace carefully onto the counter, and I used a tissue to lift it into my purse. “We’ll also need something with your fingerprints on it to rule you out when we send this to the lab,” I said, trying to sound official.

  “That Dixie cup should work,” Gil said, pointing to a cup of water she had by the register.

  Our helpful clerk downed the water and handed over the cup, which I also handled with tissue and set it inside my purse.

  “And you said the necklace was a return. Did the woman who returned it pay for it with a credit card, perhaps?” I crossed my fingers hoping our assassin had left some kind of a trace.

  “No,” said the clerk, dashing my hopes. “She paid cash, and I refunded her in cash.”

  “Darn it,” I said, before thinking through what we’d need from the clerk next. “I suppose the last thing we’ll need is a physical description,” I said. “Can you describe this woman in as much detail as possible?”

  “Um, sure. She was, like, a little taller than me—”

  “How tall are you?” Gilley asked.

  “Five five and a half,” she said. “And she was maybe a few inches taller, but then she was also wearing heels.”

  “That’s great,” I said, eager for the details. “Now, describe what she looked like for us.”

  “Okay, um, she was pretty, and well-dressed.”

  “In vintage?” Gilley asked.

  “No,” the clerk said. “She was definitely designer label material. I’m not sure who she was wearing, but it was expensive. She wore a sand-colored, full-length fur vest, with a matching sand-colored turtleneck tunic, and a long scarf in the same tones trimmed with fur. Oh, and she also wore these killer stone-colored leather boots, gloves, and matching fedora.”

  “She wore gloves?” I asked. She’d worn gloves at the church too.

  “Yeah. They were gorgeous.”

  “And a hat?” Gilley pressed.

  “Yep. And sunglasses.”

  My hopes were beginning to fade. “But you could tell she was brunette, right?”

  The clerk appeared confused. “She was blond.”

  Well, that was a new twist. “Did she take the sunglasses off?” I asked, already knowing she hadn’t.

  “No. She wore them the whole time she was in here.”

  “Can you describe her face?” I pressed.

  “Um, well, she had on bright red lipstick, and like I said, she was wearing big round sunglasses.”

  Dammit! I thought. The woman had used another outfit to distract from and obscure her features. Everyone who encountered her seemed to notice everything about her outfit, but almost nothing overly descriptive about her facial features.

  And the leather gloves worried me: I had a feeling that the only prints we’d find on the necklace would be the clerk’s.

  Gilley must have been thinking the same thing, because he sighed heavily and said, “Is there anything, and I do mean anything, that you can tell us about her appearance that was distinctive? I mean, other than what she was wearing?”

  The clerk pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “Not really.”

  “She’s foiled us again,” I said to Gil. “She wears vintage in a town known for designer labels and designer labels in a store that’s vintage. This woman is beyond clever.”

  “Hey, guys?” the clerk asked meekly.

  “Yes?” Gilley and I both said.

  “What if . . . what if she comes back?”

  I realized that all this talk of murder had frightened the poor clerk. “I doubt very much that she’ll come back here, so please don’t worry, but on the off chance that she does, don’t say a word about what we’ve told you. Wait on her, and be on your best behavior. If she wants to return ten things, take them all back; then the moment she leaves, you call the East Hampton police and ask for Detective Shepherd.”

  “Shepherd,” she repeated. “Okay, got it.”

  I nodded and turned to Gil. “Are you taking those home with you?” I asked him, referring to the hat, the chaps, and the vest.

  “Uh, uh,” he said with a sigh. “Although I look fabulous in them, no?”

  “No,” I said, but added a playful grin.

  “Humph,” Gilley said, turning away. “Everyone’s a critic.”

  While Gilley shuffled out of his getup, I thought of something and asked the clerk, “How much was the necklace?”

  “Um, it was twenty-eight dollars.”

  I took out a hundred, laid it on the counter, and said, “You’ve been very helpful. Please keep the change.”

  With that, Gilley and I left the shop and headed straight to the East Hampton police station.

  Shepherd met us in the waiting area, and we explained where we’d been and what we’d discovered. He took the necklace and the cup from me, placing both in plastic baggies.

  After we’d finished telling him all about the visit to the vintage shop, however, he moved us over to a bank of chairs and asked us to sit. I had the feeling a lecture was coming.

  Holding up the baggie with the necklace, Shepherd said, “This was good work.”

  “Thank you,” Gilley said, and he did look pleased.

  “But . . . ,” I said, because I knew where this was headed.

  Shepherd offered me a lopsided smile. “But . . . I need you both to stop.”

  “Stop what?” Gilley asked.

  “Stop snooping around this case. This isn’t a civilian matter. It’s a matter for the police.”

  Gil crossed his arms, his pleased smile fading into a frown. “With all due respect, Detective, you should be happy we’re helping you out. Without us, you never would’ve been led to the necklace.”

  “True, but what have you really given me? I mean, we’ll look for prints on this thing, but I think we all know that it’s more than likely to have been wiped down.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” I said, irritated that he was so quickly dismissing us when we really had done some good detective work.

  “True, which is why I’m going to send the necklace and the cup to the lab, and pay a visit to this vintage-shop girl, but I want to make it clear that this assassin is dangerous. She’s careful, she’s smart, and she’s met you, Catherine. If you continue to snoop around in her business, I’m worried that it could have . . . consequences.”

  Gilley reached out and squeezed my hand. “Yikes,” he whispered.

  Gazing directly at me, Shepherd said, “Promise me you’ll stop snooping around, looking for the woman,” he said.

  I glared stubbornly at him; maybe it was the thrill of discovering the trail of the assassin, or maybe it was that it felt empowering to be investigating someone dangerous. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because after twenty years of knowing exactly who I was and what I wanted in life, I wasn’t so sure of either myself or my purpose anymore, and this felt like a clear and distinct direction for a change.

  “Fine,” I said at last.

  “You’ll butt out?”

  I got up in a little bit of a huff and began to walk out. “I said fine, didn’t I?”

  From behind, I heard Gilley scramble up and after me. And then Shepherd called out, “You never lie, right, Catherine?”

  I shook my head and pushed my way out the door without a backward glance or another word.

  * * *

  “He didn’t even thank us,” Gil said, sitting down next to me at the kitchen table of Chez Kitty.

  I spooned some sugar into the tea he’d made for us and picked up a cookie. “He’s insufferable,” I agreed. “He’s rude, he’s arrogant, he’s stubborn
, he’s . . .” I was suddenly at a loss for what else the man was, so I looked to Gilley to see if he could fill in the blank.

  “I think that about covers it,” Gil said, swirling his tea with his spoon. “And I’d absolutely hate him except that he’s gorgeous.”

  My mouth fell open. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Come on, Cat, you know he’s pretty.”

  “He is most definitely not pretty.”

  Gilley sipped his tea and cocked a skeptical eyebrow at me.

  “He’s not,” I insisted. “You want pretty, all you have to do is look at Maks.”

  “Maks is devastating,” Gilley agreed. “But Shepherd could hold his own in a beauty contest between the two.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “What I find curious is why you are so insistent that he’s not beautiful when he so clearly, clearly is, sugar. Why, mercy me, might you be a tiny bit attracted to our lonesome detective?”

  Sometimes Gilley’s southern accent comes through a little more distinctly in his speech. I’ve noticed this happens when he’s tired or has had too much to drink or, like now, when he’s trying to make a not-so-subtle point. “You read too much into everything, you know that, Gilley?”

  Propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin lazily in his hand, Gilley said, “Do tell.”

  I rolled my eyes and tapped the table. “Can we please talk about something relevant?”

  “Shepherd is definitely relevant.”

  I sighed. “He’s not the only one who’s insufferable at the moment.”

  “Fine. What would you like to talk about?”

  “The case.”

  “I thought we’d quit that.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Well, probably the moment when the gorgeous detective we’re no longer talking about ordered you to butt out and you said you would.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  Gilley slanted his eyes at me. “Catherine Cooper, I heard you with my own ears. You agreed to butt out.”

  “No, you heard me say ‘fine,’ which isn’t quite an agreement, is it?”

  Gilley giggled. “You’re a sly one.”

  “Not as sly as this assassin. But you’re right, we probably can’t go snooping around inquiring about her lest we provoke the ire of the E.H.P.D.. But I was thinking of a different angle, anyway.”

  “What angle would that be?”

  “Well, the one piece of this puzzle that really doesn’t fit is Heather’s housekeeper. She did come running out of that church as if her life depended on getting away, and she did look terrified. Something spooked her, and I have a feeling it was our go-go-wearing hitwoman.”

  “Do you think the assassin is after Heather’s housekeeper?”

  “Maybe. And if she is, the question is why?”

  “Indeed,” Gilley said. “Especially since it appears that the housekeeper may have been the one who killed Heather.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “As a trusted employee, she could’ve easily slipped Heather some poisonous substance, then waited around to make sure she was dead.”

  “And we still don’t know what the toxin was, huh?”

  “No,” I said. “At least not according to what Shepherd told me yesterday.”

  “Okay, so, what’s Heather’s housekeeper’s name?” Gil asked, as he pushed his tea to the side and reached for his laptop.

  “Kuznetsov. I don’t remember her first name.”

  Gilley grunted as his fingers began to type. “Was it Sasha?”

  “No,” I said.

  “There’s a Sasha Kuznetsov who lives in West Hempstead.”

  “West Hempstead . . . that’s near JFK, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any other Kuznetsovs nearby?”

  “She’s the closest one.”

  “Carmen!” I said as the name suddenly flashed into my mind. “I remember now: her first name is Carmen.”

  “Hmm,” Gilley said, typing. “She’s not coming up anywhere on social media.”

  “Do you think that Sasha is related?” I asked.

  “Possibly.” Gilley eyed me sideways. “Why do I feel there’s a road trip involved here?”

  I got up from the table, taking my teacup with me. “Tomorrow,” I told him. “Tonight I’ve got a double date, and I gotta get moving if I’m going to make it.”

  “It’s not even two o’clock,” Gil said. “And who’s the double date with? You, Maks, and another couple?”

  “No. Me, Matt, and Mike. I’m meeting them in the city for dinner. It’s almost a three-hour drive, and I still have to change.”

  “Good for you,” Gilley said, getting up to take his teacup to the sink as well. “It’ll be nice to spend an evening with your sons.”

  “Yes, if one enjoys scintillating conversations of me saying many, many words and getting monosyllabic responses.”

  “The joys of parenting,” Gilley said. “Remind me never to try it.”

  I laughed and looped my arm through his. “It does have its joys,” I said. “Years four through twelve were wonderful. And, according to you, they’ll be wonderful again when they’re twenty-two.”

  “Only seven and a half more years,” Gil said.

  “Why do I have a feeling they’ll fly by?” I sighed wistfully. “I can’t believe how quickly they’re growing up. Both boys are now taller than me.”

  “Honey,” Gilley said. “They passed you by when they were eight.”

  I pretended to glare at him. “Ten, and I wouldn’t mock, Mr. Gillespie. Mathew is already two inches taller than you.”

  “Which is why I think I’ll spend the evening shopping online for some new boots. Something with a heel. Put a little of my own go-go in my step!”

  “Have fun,” I said, letting go of him. “With luck, I’ll make it back here before midnight.”

  “Drive safe.”

  I left Gilley to cross the courtyard to Chez Cat, where I changed into something “motherly” and was on the road within the hour. I was meeting the boys in Manhattan at a favorite restaurant of theirs where the slabs of prime rib were thick, the prices were high, and the all-female waitstaff were gorgeous. The restaurant was always teeming with businessmen, and I likened it to Hooters for the upper crust.

  As I was getting onto US-27, my phone rang. Caller ID said Marcus Brown was on the line. “Marcus?” I said when I picked up the call.

  “Catherine,” he said warmly. “I have news to share.”

  “Good news?”

  “No. Just news. I spoke with Dr. Beauperthy—the medical examiner—and he said that he’s still unable to identify the toxin that killed Heather, but he also relayed that there was nothing unusual or lethal in her stomach contents, although her blood-alcohol levels were elevated. He attributes that to her having had at least three martinis between noon and four. He also found some of the Cobb salad from the luncheon, and he noted that your punch was clearly the last thing she ingested as there was still some liquid found in her esophagus, but he tested all of the ingredients and found nothing chemically toxic in it.

  “He also did a thorough examination of her body and could find no puncture wounds where a needle might’ve delivered a fatal dose of some kind of poison. He’s actually stumped at how she came into contact with the toxin, whatever it was.”

  “Well, I guess that’s good news after all,” I said. “I mean, good news for me, but not so good for Heather. She was still murdered.”

  “True.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Does Shepherd know all this?”

  “Beauperthy e-mailed him his report an hour ago.”

  “Can he still come after me in light of this?” I asked, hoping the M.E.’s report would put me in the clear once and for all.

  “He could, but he’d get laughed out of court again. There’s no evidence connecting you to Heather’s cause of death. At most, he could bring a charge of causing harm to a corpse, but even that’s highly circumstan
tial. Truthfully, I don’t think he’s that stupid, Catherine.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Me either,” I said. I’d gotten to know Shepherd a little better, after talking to both him and his sister, and I didn’t feel that he was legitimately targeting me as a suspect anymore.

  “Thank you for the update, Marcus,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. If I hear any further updates, I’ll contact you, but I think you can rest easy for now.”

  I smiled. Just hearing Marcus say that did make me feel much better.

  After hanging up with the attorney, my mind drifted to all of my encounters with the detective, and then to what Gilley had said about Shepherd. I didn’t like that Gil had accused me of being attracted to him. I mean, the man truly was insufferable. And annoying. And he’d arrested me in public!

  But there was a side of Shepherd that spoke to me. It was his sad side, I suppose. No one tells you this if you’ve never been through it, but divorce is as much a death as losing a loved one. It’s the death of your identity as a married person, as someone’s partner, as a member of a team.

  But it’s also the death of the future you were certain you would have. That image we all create of being one half of an old couple, shuffling along in some bucolic park, hand in hand . . .

  And that death will hit you hard, even when you can’t wait to be free of the person you’re married to. There’s still a mourning process that comes with the vow of “I no longer do . . .”

  So I could understand Shepherd in a way that made me sympathize with him. It seemed to me that his grumbly, cantankerous nature was due to the fact that he was still in mourning. For his divorce and for his murdered ex-wife.

  Still, the man was insufferable! And my attentions were currently being pointed toward a certain lovely, charming, sincerely nice man named Maks.

  So why was I spending so much time thinking about Shepherd?

  “Damn you, Gilley Gillespie,” I muttered.

  With a sigh, I prepared to change lanes by checking my rearview mirror. Finding the lane open, I maneuvered over and noticed the car behind me did as well. It wasn’t anything alarming, just something I noticed. But then a car in the lane to my right moved over into my lane and slowed down, which meant I had to move back to the left again.