Stalking Steven

by Jenna Bennett

  She was slurring her words, and was practically cross-eyed.

  “Good idea.” I got in front of her and yanked the comforter down just before she tumbled onto the mattress. “Get some rest. You’ll feel better.”

  She was already out cold. I closed the door behind me and got busy stripping and washing the sheets and towels my uninvited guests had used. If I had to stay here, and Zachary was coming, we’d need clean sheets on every bed.

  Chapter 19

  With Rachel settled and the sheets in the dryer, I finally found time to call Mendoza to tell him what had happened. And, of course, got his voice mail. He was probably still sitting in on the interviews with Konstantin and Yuri and the Russian girls.

  Boy, was he in for a surprise when he picked up his messages.

  “It’s Gina,” I said. “You’ll never guess what happened. I picked up Rachel from the hospital and took her to the house in Hillwood to recuperate, since they wouldn’t let her leave unless she had someone to stay with. I’ll get Zachary, too, when they let him out—probably tomorrow morning—and we’ll all camp out here for a few days. And speaking of camping out… you’ll never guess who we found when we got here.”

  I took a breath, both because I needed one, and to prolong the suspense.

  “Steven and Anastasia! Set up, as pretty as you please, in two of my guest rooms. She pulled a gun on me when I walked through the door, although we got that part of it straightened out. And she says—they both say—that they didn’t shoot Mrs. Grimshaw. I can’t think of a reason why they would have shot Mrs. Grimshaw, but I told them you’d need to test the gun, and if they hadn’t shot Mrs. Grimshaw, then they had nothing to worry about. Anastasia said that someone else shot her, and then that someone tried to get into her house. Anastasia’s house. Or Araminta Tucker’s house, I guess, but the house where Anastasia was staying. She said they were coming through the back door, and she ran out the front and walked all the way to the university, where she intercepted Steven the next morning. And the two of them went on the run.”

  I took another breath.

  “Steven seems pretty certain Anastasia is his daughter. He said he knew her mother back when—‘back when’ being the time before the girl was born, I assume—and that she has his eyes. And she does, sort of. But I’m sure they’ll have a paternity test done, to make sure. Anyway, I told them what happened last night, and that Yuri and Konstantin are no longer a threat, so they decided to venture back into the world. I told them to talk to Diana first. If you contact her, she can probably tell you where to find them.”

  I took another breath. Had I left anything out?

  “I think that’s all. Except for who actually shot Griselda, I guess. I don’t think it was Anastasia. She seemed sincere when she said she didn’t. And it couldn’t have been Konstantin and Yuri. They didn’t know about Araminta Tucker’s house until the next night, after they beat the information out of Zachary. So while I’m sure vice and ICE are happy with you for putting them on the trail of Konstantin and Yuri, you still have a murder to solve. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. If not, I guess I’ll see you around.”

  I paused another second. I’m not sure why. It wasn’t like I expected him to answer. And of course he didn’t.

  “Bye, Detective,” I said, and disconnected the call. And sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the sheets to make it through the wash cycle so I could throw them in the dryer.

  Had I left anything out?

  I didn’t think so. Nothing important, anyway. Except maybe the ransom note. Someone had sent it, or put it on Diana’s doormat. And it hadn’t been Steven and Anastasia. As Steven had said, it was his money. And if Anastasia really was his daughter, she had no reason to want to steal his cash. Even if she were mercenary, and I had no reason to think she was, she’d be better off keeping on his good side. And that was aside from the fact that Steven had sworn they were together the other morning.

  So it wasn’t Steven and Anastasia.

  And it couldn’t have been Konstantin and Yuri. There was no reason to think they even knew who Steven was, let alone where he lived.

  Although Zachary might have told them that, too. Assuming they’d asked. I’d have to find out if they had. But even if they knew who Steven was, and where he lived, was a ransom note something that would have crossed their minds?

  Somehow I didn’t think so. And the Russian girls wouldn’t have been able to get out of their room and over to Richland, where Diana and Steven lived.

  Diana herself?

  It would have been easy for her to set it up, anyway. Just unlock the front door and drop the note on the mat, and then call me, frantic.

  So Diana had had means and opportunity. But maybe not so much in the way of motive. Like Steven, it was her money. If she wanted it, she could just take it out of the bank.

  Would it benefit her somehow for us to think that Steven had been kidnapped instead of running off with his young mistress, which is what we’d been thinking then?

  I couldn’t see how.

  So who did that leave? If Diana was out, and Steven and Anastasia were out, and Konstantin and Yuri were out, and the Russian girls were out… who was left?

  Anybody?

  The only other person I could think of was Araminta Tucker. She’d known about Steven and the girl. She’d known who Steven was, and that he was a professor at the university, so she might have figured out where he lived. A quick computer search or even checking the phone directory might get her that information. And she did get around. I didn’t know how, but she’d made it to the ice hockey game the other night, so she had access to some form of transportation. She might have made it to Diana’s house in the early hours of yesterday morning.

  The other shoe dropped, and in retrospect, I can only marvel that it took as long as it did.

  Araminta Tucker knew all about Steven and Anastasia. She’d rented them her house. Right next to her sister-in-law. The sister-in-law with the million dollar insurance policy.

  Anastasia had said that she’d been woken up by a loud noise. The shot that killed Griselda, I assumed. And then someone had been at the back door to her house. Araminta’s house.

  Someone who had been on their way in through the back door when Anastasia ran out the front.

  That’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? That someone had been on their way in?

  There’d been no sign of forced entry the next morning. That’s when I’d been skulking around Araminta’s house, and also when Mendoza had taken me inside, a little later in the afternoon. If someone had tried to force the back door then, the way they had the following night, one of us would have noticed. The way we’d noticed the following day, after Konstantin and Yuri had made their visit.

  So had the person who shot Griselda had a key?

  Who’d have a key to Araminta’s house other than Anastasia? Steven, presumably, but he’d been home with Diana.

  Griselda might have. Araminta’s sister-in-law and neighbor. Patton’s sister. The one who stuck her nose into everything. Yes, Griselda had surely had a key to her brother’s house next door. And it was possible that whoever shot Griselda had gotten the key to Araminta’s house from Griselda’s house. But that still left me with an unknown murderer.

  And of course Araminta would have a key to her own house. All landlords do, just in case.

  So maybe Araminta killed Griselda.

  I turned that thought over a couple of times.

  Mendoza had said it once, that she was the obvious suspect. I’d laughed at the idea, but he was right, of course. She lived next door, or used to. She was Griselda’s sister-in-law. They didn’t like each other. And she inherited the money.

  Assisted living isn’t cheap. That nice million dollar life insurance policy would probably come in very handy.

  The hundred thousand dollars from Diana would be helpful, too.

  Araminta had been at the Arena last night. She was the only person involved in the ca
se—that I knew about—who had been.

  As Sherlock Holmes used to say—I think it was Sherlock Holmes—when you’ve eliminated all the other possibilities, the only suspect that’s left is the murderer, even if it doesn’t make any sense.

  Or something like that.

  Maybe I’d just go pay her a friendly little visit. Make sure she made it home from the Arena in one piece last night. Tell her that Konstantin and Yuri were in prison and that we’d found Anastasia and Steven. And see what she said.

  I grabbed the phone again, and dialed Mendoza back. And got his voicemail again. “I’m going to see Araminta,” I told him, and laid out the reasons why. “I’ll be careful. It won’t be like last time. I won’t be taken by surprise. I won’t eat or drink anything. And I’m sure she’s not going to pull out a gun and blow me away right in the middle of the assisted living facility. I’ll just see what she says—if she lets anything slip—and then get back to you.”

  Maybe I’d tell her I’d like to keep Edwina, and that I’d be happy to pay for her. If Araminta accepted money, that might be a clue that she was guilty.

  I hung up the phone and tiptoed up to the second floor to check on Rachel. She was sound asleep, so I left a note next to the bed telling her where I’d gone and why. After hesitating, I added a post-script: If I’m not back in three hours, call Mendoza.

  I tiptoed back down. Edwina lifted her head to look at me, but seemed pretty content to be stretched out on the rug in the kitchen. “I’ll be back,” I told her. “Rachel’s here. I don’t want to bring you, just in case Araminta takes one look at you and changes her mind about wanting to keep you.”

  Of course, if she had killed her sister-in-law and was going to prison, she couldn’t take Edwina with her. But I wasn’t willing to take any chances. So I left the dog on the kitchen rug and headed back out.

  I spent the drive going over the case in my head, fitting the pieces together in different ways. Had I overlooked anything? Was there another solution? Another suspect I hadn’t thought of? Was it possible that Anastasia was lying and she actually had shot Griselda, and the story about someone trying to get into the house was just that: a story?

  Yes, of course it was possible. I only had Anastasia’s word for what had happened. So it could be a lie.

  But what would be her reason for wanting Griselda dead?

  The only person who had a solid motive for that was Araminta. And the only person who had showed up for the money drop at the Arena was Araminta.

  Everything pointed to Araminta. No matter how I turned the pieces of evidence around and tried to put them together in different ways, I came back to Araminta.

  * * *

  The first thing I saw when I drove into the parking lot of the assisted living facility was Mendoza’s car.

  Or not the first thing. I saw a lot of other cars first, along with several spindly trees and dry grass.

  But I did see a car that looked like Mendoza’s, parked in one of the visitor slots. It was the right color, with Davidson County government plates, and the extra antennae and mirrors that differentiate plain police cars from regular cars.

  I pulled the Lexus into the slot next to it and got out. And peered through the window of the sedan.

  It was empty. If it was Mendoza’s, there was no way to tell for sure.

  I headed into the lobby and over to the desk. “I’d like to see Araminta Tucker, please.”

  The nurse behind the desk squinted at me. “Weren’t you here the other day?”

  I nodded.

  She began tapping on her computer, and soon spat out another sticker with my face on it. She handed it across the counter. “She already has someone in with her.”

  I had suspected as much. “Good looking cop named Mendoza?”

  She nodded.

  “He won’t mind,” I said glibly. “I’m meeting him here.”

  She looked doubtful, but I guess there wasn’t much she could do to stop me. I headed down the hallway to the elevators.

  Between you and me, I didn’t know whether Mendoza would mind me showing up or not. It depended entirely on what he was doing here, and whether he’d gotten my voicemails.

  If he had, he was probably expecting me. If he hadn’t, he might not be happy to see me.

  Did he know that Araminta was suspect number one in Griselda’s murder?

  I had to assume he did, whether he’d gotten my voicemails or not. I mean, he wasn’t stupid. Solving murders was his profession. He was the one who had pointed out her motive in the first place. And if I could figure out that Konstantin and Yuri hadn’t shot Griselda, and that Anastasia might not have, Mendoza certainly could figure out the same thing.

  So was he here to arrest her? To look for a confession?

  The elevator stopped on Araminta’s floor, and the doors slid open. I stepped out into the hallway and headed for her room. Like last time, I could hear the TV from yards away, but this time, the connotation was more sinister. What if the TV was on so loudly to drown out any noises Mendoza might be making as he choked to death on a cookie?

  The door was open a crack. I peered through the opening. Araminta was sitting, pretty as you please, on the sofa facing the TV. Mendoza had his back to me, but I could see his head above the back of the wingback chair I’d occupied the last time—and first time—I was here. Between them on the coffee table was a plate of what looked like scones, and two dainty cups of tea on saucers. As I watched, Mendoza grabbed a scone and lifted it to his mouth.

  “Nooooo!”

  I pushed the door open and launched myself through the air, knocking the scone out of his hand and taking him down to the floor while I was at it. His head grazed the corner of the coffee table going down, and when I ended up on top of him on the floor, he blinked up at me, confused.

  He has very pretty eyes, in case I neglected to mention that.

  “Tsk, tsk.”

  Araminta clicked her tongue, and I tore my attention away from Mendoza’s face—with a touch of difficulty—to look at her. “Sorry. I thought there might be something wrong with the scone.”

  Mendoza closed his eyes in what looked like pain. I wasn’t sure whether it was because of the head wound or what I said.

  Probably the latter.

  “Dear me,” Araminta said, clucking. She unwound herself from the sofa and bent to peer down at Mendoza. “Is he all right? Do you need help?”

  “I think we’re all right.” I removed myself from on top of Mendoza. It wasn’t easy, in the confined space between the chair and the coffee table. “He hit his head. I think he could use a Band-Aid.”

  “I’ll get one.” Araminta bustled out, through the doorway into the rest of the apartment. I extended a hand to Mendoza, who eyed it without favor and proceeded to right himself without my help.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He sighed. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Kelly?”

  I sat down on the chair he’d been forced to vacate and watched as he pulled himself up on the now-empty sofa. “Did you get my messages?”

  “Yes,” Mendoza said. He looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but thought better of it. The little trickle of blood at his temple made him look very rakish, although I was sorry to see that he was a touch paler than usual.

  I grabbed a napkin and extended it across the table. “I’m sorry I knocked you down. But I was afraid the scone might be poisoned.”

  “The scones are fine,” Mendoza said. “I’ve already had one.”

  “And you feel all right?” In that case, I wouldn’t mind one myself. They looked good.

  I reached for the one Mendoza had dropped—might as well pick it up off the floor—as Mendoza said, “I did. Until you showed up.”

  “I said I was sorry.” I took a bite of the scone. It tasted great. Almond and raspberry, unless I was mistaken.

  It crossed my mind that there was some old poison that tasted like almonds—arsenic, maybe? Or strychnine? The kind you read about in old murder mysteri
es—but if Mendoza said the scones were all right, I’d take his word for it. “This is good.”

  He nodded. “So what are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t get you on the phone,” I said, around the bite of scone. “I figured you were still sitting in on the interviews with the Russians. So I thought I’d come down here and… um…”

  I swallowed, since I didn’t exactly know how to end the sentence. I mean, I had told him what I thought on the phone. It wasn’t hard to figure out that I was here to see if I could discover whether Araminta was guilty.

  “Uh-huh,” Mendoza said dryly.

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “And I’m grateful.”

  He didn’t sound grateful. I took another bite of the scone so I wouldn’t say so. “Anything new on the Russian front?”

  “No,” Mendoza said. “Anything new on your end?”

  “Nothing I didn’t already tell you by voicemail.” I popped the rest of the scone in my mouth and chewed. “That was really good.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Araminta said from the doorway. “Have some tea.”

  I wouldn’t mind if I did. Except Mendoza shook his head.

  “No?”

  “Remember what happened last time?”

  I did remember what happened last time. There’d been something in the iced tea. “Maybe some other time,” I told Araminta over my shoulder. “Thanks, though.”

  She made a face. “Then I’m afraid I’ll just have to shoot you.” She glanced at Mendoza. “And you.”

  He made himself more comfortable on the sofa. “No Band-Aid?”

  “I’m afraid I forgot to look,” Araminta said. “About the gun…”

  It was in her hand, where it looked very big and scary, although that might have been because she had very small hands.

  “It’s the one you used to kill Griselda,” I said, “right?”

  The words hitched a little, I admit it. I was scared, and it was hard to breathe. It isn’t every day a girl is faced with a gun, and a woman with nothing much left to lose.