by Gina LaManna
As Matthew launched into the questioning—covering all the basics from how long they’d been married (twenty-three years), to how long they’d lived here (six years), to the state of their marriage (very good)—I watched Mrs. Lapel for any sign of contradictory expressions to the words that came out of her mouth.
Aside from the basic Spell Splash—a perfume-like substance that acts as a light protectant to ward off simple spells, hexes, and the like—Mrs. Lapel was free of Residuals. Her sister, however, had a more in-depth makeup of glowing particles around her hands. I tried not to stare, but it was nearly impossible as I struggled to tease out the Residuals dancing around the mayor’s sister-in-law.
“Tell me about your husband’s last term in office,” Matthew was saying when I tuned back in to the conversation. “Did he make any enemies? Any friends? Anything in between?”
“My husband was well liked,” Mrs. Lapel said. “I can’t think of anyone he’d consider an enemy. Except, perhaps, Mr. Blott. But my husband wouldn’t consider him an enemy. Just, ah, healthy competition.”
“You’re referring to Homer Blott, the candidate running against your husband for mayoral office?”
She nodded. “Obviously we knew this year was coming—elections for all political offices are every seven years, so we shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, it was a shock to actually see Homer’s advertisements sneaking up on us. My husband was so focused on doing his job that he’d nearly forgotten to campaign for reelection.”
“Have you met Blott in person?”
“Multiple times.” Mrs. Lapel frowned as she considered. “Charity events, galas, all of the formal events. Of course, they’d had a few small-scale debates.”
“Did either man have ill will toward the other?”
Mrs. Lapel shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “It’s a bit complicated. They were in competition with one another, as I mentioned.”
“Honesty is appreciated,” Matthew reiterated. “It’s the only way we can find out who killed your husband.”
“I obviously can’t speak for Homer, since I don’t know him,” Mrs. Lapel said with a quick, furtive glance at her sister. “My husband never spoke ill of him. In fact, he rarely worried about Blott at all. If he did talk about him, it was to admire a campaign strategy he was using.”
“Did your husband feel threatened by Blott’s campaign for mayor?”
“I suppose somewhat,” Mrs. Lapel said with a hint of annoyance. “Only one mayor will be living here after the election, and Blott has raised huge amounts for his campaign.”
“Now, Blott is almost a shoe-in.” Matthew spoke too quickly to realize the insensitivity of his statement, and when he did, he backtracked. “Apologies, Mrs. Lapel.”
Mrs. Lapel devolved into tears. “I-it’s true. I lost my husband, I’ll lose my house...”
Mrs. Lapel leaned against her sister. Her eyes were red, her coiffed blond hair mussed from its usual perfect bob. Lilian hugged her close, ran her hand in soothing circles over her sister’s back.
“I know it sounds so crass of me, but it’s so much change all at once. Where will I live? I hate to talk of such things when my husband’s been murdered, but...” Mrs. Lapel let out a wail. “He took care of me. Who will take care of me?”
“You’ll live with me, sweetie,” Lilian told her sister. “Don’t worry about anything except taking care of yourself. Okay? It’s going to be okay—we’ll get through this together.”
I swallowed, feeling intrusive in the moment. Matthew sat still as a statue, and I could tell he didn’t like it any more than I did.
“I’m truly sorry,” I said, chiming in while Matthew seemed frozen with discomfort. “We hate having to ask you these questions, and I promise there will only be a few more. They’ll be difficult, but there’s no way around them. I’m going to need to ask you to be strong, Mrs. Lapel, for your husband.”
She wiped her eyes, then gave a grateful smile to her sister. “Go ahead—let’s get this over with.”
“You mentioned competition with Blott,” I said. “You also mentioned the fact that your husband was well liked. Do you think Blott might have been worried he’d lose the election?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Lapel paused, offered a strange little smile. “My husband was smart. Friendly. Good. He was a truly good man, Miss—”
“Detective DeMarco,” I supplied. “I believe you. I never had a bad word to say about him myself.”
The personal tidbit seemed to help. She smiled again. “So yes, I suppose my husband would be considered competition.”
“Did your husband ever mention any disagreements or arguments with Blott?” I asked. “Anything that might have gotten Blott angry?”
“Plenty of times, but that’s the nature of politics,” Mrs. Lapel said. “My husband always stands up for what’s right. Blott...”
I frowned, leaned closer. “What about Blott?”
She gave me a tense smile. “I think he’d rather win than be fair, but that’s just my two cents. My husband didn’t say a bad word about him personally, but I found him frustrating to be around and incredibly rude. Even when he was trying to be friendly for media photos, it was forced. My husband said I was biased and imagining things, but I wasn’t.”
“Do you think Blott would have murdered your husband over the mayoral office?” I asked. “There is a lot at stake with this year’s election.”
“What sort of person would kill another over political office?” Mrs. Lapel sniffed harder. “Only a monster. I don’t have any love lost for Homer, but I don’t think he’d kill for it.”
I nodded, although I wasn’t sure I agreed, and jotted down a few notes. I highly suspected that things would be rough going for the borough if Blott took over office. He had a name for being ruthless and bullheaded, and somewhat of a jerk. Mayor Lapel had been genuinely well-liked, and he had been the heavy favorite of the people who knew him to win another election.
However, Blott’s campaign was permeating the borough, making the polls indicate the results would be closer than they should. I wondered if Matthew was thinking along the same lines, and after a quick glance his way, I knew we’d be following up on Blott later.
“You said the state of your relationship with the mayor was ‘very good’,” I quoted, moving along. “Can you expand on that?”
For the first time, she shifted uncomfortably. “It was very good. I supported him, and he supported me. We loved one another.”
I tried not to give anything away, but the gears in my brain were churning. That wasn’t exactly a passionate cry of love over her deceased life partner. “I see. There hadn’t been any...bumps in the road recently?”
“Nothing out of the norm for any marriage,” she said, her smile faltering. “I know what you’re getting at, Detective. He was found with another woman, wasn’t he?”
“A Goblin Girl,” I said, taking a chance on the truth. “They were found in a motel room together.”
She flinched, but her expression remained strong and her eyes dry. “He wasn’t having an affair—”
“Mrs. Lapel—”
“I don’t care what it looks like. It wasn’t an affair. I don’t know if he was meeting the...the Goblin Girl or not for business reasons, but I can guarantee it wasn’t romantic.”
“How?”
“Because,” she said fiercely. “Despite our bumps, we loved each other. He is—was—a good man. I’m certain of it.”
Something wasn’t quite adding up, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The only option was to dig deeper, to let her statements sink in while my subconscious churned away and dissected the facts. “Where was your husband supposed to be last night? Did he keep a calendar?”
“He had dinner reservations. A business meeting,” she said, waving her hand. “I’d planned dinner with my sister because I knew he’d be absent. For more specifics, you’ll have to check with his assistant.”
I made a note to do just that. “Can you give me the exa
ct outline of what happened last night?”
“Detective, are you asking me for an alibi?” Mrs. Lapel murmured. “Because it sounds like—”
“She’s asking the questions that need answering.” Matthew leaned forward, his face severe. “In the interest of time and of helping your husband’s case along, I suggest you answer to the best of your ability.”
The sharpness to his words surprised everyone in the room, but it seemed to do a world of good for Mrs. Lapel. She snapped to attention, wiped the offense from her face, and looked at me with determination.
“I had a hair appointment yesterday until five p.m.,” she said. “I came home shortly after, changed from my errand attire into my evening clothes and left the house again. I took a carriage to dinner—I’m sure you can ask the Master Guardener for the specific time, since he tracks all that, and you can find the carriage driver as well to verify. I met my sister at the Spritely Broomstick at a quarter after six. We had drinks in the bar until seven when our table was announced ready. We dined until...” she hesitated, glanced to Lilian.
Lilian bobbed her head back and forth in thought. “I sent for a carriage back around quarter to eight. You likely arrived home just after the hour.”
Mrs. Lapel nodded. “That’s about right. I changed into my nightgown and prepared for bed. I read for over an hour, maybe closer to two, and then the doorbell rang. I thought it odd since my husband always comes in without knocking, of course. But it was about the time he was due home, so I figured...” She shrugged. “I went to the door and there were two officers who explained they’d found my husband dead.”
“I’m so sorry,” I added, as her eyes teared up once more. “When was the last time you saw your husband?”
“I kissed him goodbye that morning,” she said with a watery smile. “He stayed at the office all day. We talked once on the phone at lunch—as we usually do—to go over evening plans. All seemed well.”
“Nothing seemed off with him?”
“No,” she said after a pause. The pause caught my attention, and Mrs. Lapel realized her error and sighed. “Okay, he did seem very busy lately—coming home later than usual, lots of business dinners, the like. But I assumed it was all related to the campaign for his reelection.”
“It wasn’t—”
“I’m sure it wasn’t personal,” she said. “I know my husband better than anyone in the world.”
“I think we’re done for today,” Lilian said. “My sister is tired, and she’s lost her husband. Any non-urgent questions can wait.”
We stood, thanked both sisters again and wished our condolences on the family. Matthew and I huddled next to one another in the hall as Lilian shuffled her sister away, presumably to rest elsewhere. Lilian returned alone several minutes later looking polished and brisk.
“I imagine you want to talk to the staff?” she asked without fanfare. “You already know my alibi. I met my sister for dinner, then I went home and read as well. Alone. I was asleep by eleven and woke in the middle of the night to my sister’s Comm.”
Matthew gave an appreciative nod. “The staff?”
“This way.” As we walked through the hallway, she gave a sharp inhalation of breath. “I must warn you, I don’t think you’ll learn anything helpful. You’re wasting your time.”
“Why do you think that?” Matthew asked. “The staff saw Mayor Lapel every day.”
Lilian snorted. “Sure. That’s exactly the problem—they didn’t see him every day.”
“What are you trying to say?” Matthew asked. “That your sister lied?”
“No—that my sister is a sweet soul, naive and innocent.” Lilian’s eyes flashed with frustration. “That bump she mentioned? My sister and her husband have not been sleeping in the same room for months. The long hours at the office? He’d sleep there three nights a week.”
“So, you’re saying marital issues aren’t out of the question?” I asked. “You think something might have been going on, and Mrs. Lapel was oblivious?”
Lilian raised an eyebrow. “He was found dead in a Motel Sixth with an expensive Goblin Girl. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”
Chapter 13
We strove to keep our interviews with the staff short, but it took over an hour before we’d concluded even a precursory meeting with most of them. That spoke to the number of staff at the mayor’s mansion, rather than the thoroughness with which we spoke to them. Other cops had already questioned them briefly, and still more would follow in the coming days as the mayor’s case blew wide open.
After an hour and a half, we concluded that Mrs. Lapel had an airtight alibi. At least three different members of the staff recalled seeing her before dinner and after her return. While we still had to follow up with the restaurant where she claimed to have eaten dinner, I suspected she was in the clear.
“Can you give us a rundown of what the mayor’s day looked like?” I asked the personal assistant to the Lapels. “Minute by minute if you have it. Oh, and we’ll need a copy of that calendar.”
The assistant glanced at her clipboard. “I already told you he didn’t have anything out of the ordinary scheduled yesterday. He had breakfast at home with his wife—that’s quite usual for him. Sometimes it is the only time they have together all day, what with his reelection campaign and the long hours at the office.”
“Will the cook be able to verify this?” I asked. “And are you suggesting the mayor normally took dinner out?”
Andie Smite, the well-kept assistant, gave a polite blink. “It depended on his schedule, which I’ll give you a copy of,” she said before I could ask. “For example, this week he was only scheduled to have dinner at home once.”
“Starting with breakfast yesterday,” I prompted, “give me a rundown of his day.”
“Breakfast, then a walk to the office,” Andie said, scanning down the list. “He held a few meetings after he arrived, though you’ll have to talk to his secretary for specifics on those. I just have times blocked off in red—which means mandatory work obligation.”
“Fine,” I said, jotting down the times and a note to speak with the secretary. “Meetings throughout the day. Any plans for lunch?”
“It was open.” She frowned. “That’s unusual. He nearly always has meetings over meals.”
“Any particular buddies or friends with whom he might’ve grabbed a quick bite?”
“You’ll have to talk to his secretary. Nobody that I know of—the mayor didn’t keep many close friends except for his wife.” The answer sounded a bit too rehearsed, and I made a special notation in my notebook to follow up with his secretary to see if their answers matched. “What types of people was he meeting over meals?”
“Donors to his campaign, worried political figures, even citizens,” she said. “He was always taking a pulse on the political climate of Wicked.”
“Was he well-liked by these acquaintances?”
“Incredibly well-liked. If you ask me, it was Mr. Blott who should have been concerned.” Andie lowered her voice. “Then again, I’m biased. If Blott takes over, of course, I could very well be out of a job. Every seven years the newly elected mayor is allowed to choose his own staff.”
“Were you offered the job by Mayor Lapel?”
She shifted uneasily. “Yes. Assistants are very personal, and we often turn over with the mayor’s office. I haven’t spoken to Mr. Blott, so I can’t tell you his intentions, but I suspect I would have been let go at the change in office. Now, I suppose,” she said wonderingly, “it’s inevitable that I’ll lose my position.”
“I’m very sorry, Ms. Smite.”
“Nature of the job,” she said briskly. “I have business to attend to, so let’s finish up, if you don’t mind. After lunch—which appears open on my calendar—he was in meetings most of the afternoon. Small break around five. Dinner and drinks scheduled for six.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, I only handle the household items. Anything business related
is the responsibility of Mayor Lapel’s office secretary. Now, may I pass you off to the chef? I must check on Mrs. Lapel to see how she’s holding up.”
I thanked her, and Matthew and I followed behind Ms. Smite through sweeping hallways decorated with heirlooms from mayors past. Paintings from Wicked’s early eras lined the hallways, the home feeling part residence and part museum.
We swept behind Andie and listened carefully as she explained useless bits of history and fun facts that weren’t fun at all. By the time we reached the kitchens and she introduced us to Chef Lollabridge, we were ready to be rid of her inane conversation starters.
“Chef Lollabridge, just a few questions.” I spoke to the thin, dark-haired female under the tall white hat. She was pretty, in a severe sort of way, and almost painfully slim—ironic for a chef, I thought. “Can you briefly give us a rundown of a normal day in the kitchens?”
“I start at four every morning,” the chef said crisply. “Food prep. I have kitchen help who I’m sure you’ve already interviewed, but if I want something done right, I must do it myself.”
“I understand.”
“Around six I begin preparations for breakfast—Mrs. Lapel prefers biscuits, a very specific variety and freshly baked, with her tea. On mornings the mayor eats at the office, he has an egg white omelet here to hold him off.” The chef paused for a smile. “That’s what he’d order, at least. What he’d actually grab on the way out the door was a fresh, warm chocolate croissant. Doctors ordered the omelet, but he preferred the baked goods.”
“Which did he have yesterday?”
She thought back. “He had a croissant brought up to his room.”
I glanced at my notes. “Does he not normally take breakfast with Mrs. Lapel?”
“He used to,” she said. “Recently—I’m not sure if it’s due to the upcoming election flurry of activity or something else, but he hasn’t had the time to dine in the breakfast nook. Mrs. Lapel normally takes tea by herself before her morning walk.”
I battled back a frown. Seemed to me Mrs. Lapel wasn’t doing a great job hiding the issues between her and her husband—and the rest of the staff hadn’t coordinated their stories to match. “Alright, thank you. I’m assuming lunch is just for Mrs. Lapel?”