Art of Deception

by Brenda Donelan

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Afterward

  Also by Brenda Donelan:

  About the Author

  Art of Deception

  A University Mystery

  Brenda Donelan

  Art of Deception

  ©Copyright 2016 Brenda Donelan

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to the librarians, bookstore owners, and those who carry my books in their shops. You are all a huge part of my success and I thank you for your continued support and encouragement.

  Acknowledgements

  A big “thank you” goes to my beta readers; Dayle Tibbs Angyal and Stacy Jundt. Your thoughts and suggestions on my draft helped me write a better story. I appreciate the time, attention, and enthusiasm you gave to my work.

  I’d also like to thank my editor, Brian Schell. His focus on detail and observations of the legal system helped me tighten up my writing and produce a better book.

  A huge shout out goes to Samantha Lund Hillmer, the designer of my book cover and the guru of my website and all other technical things that I don’t know how to do. I’d also like to thank Doradog for the cover photography, courtesy of iStock.

  National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo) has been a fixture in my life for the past several years. It serves as an inspiration, a challenge, and a swift kick in the pants. It was during the November Nanowrimo writing program of 2015 that a portion of this book was written.

  As always, thank you to my family and friends for listening to me for countless hours as I talk about my books.

  Secrets can kill. But secrets can also keep you alive.

  Chapter 1

  “What the hell is going on here?” shouted Marlee McCabe as she jogged toward the front door of her terra-cotta colored Spanish-style house. Police cars, with their lights flashing, were parked in front of her house, while stoic uniformed officers stood outside the residence. A cold January wind swirled around, forcing the professor to pull her fleece-lined coat closer to her chin.

  “Marlee McCabe?” asked a scrawny male officer in his mid-twenties.

  “Yeah,” said the 39-year-old Criminology professor. “What’s going on? Was there a break in?” She looked at her house, worried about the safety of her cat, Pippa. To a lesser degree, she was concerned with her belongings, most of which were not worthy of stealing.

  “No, ma’am. We have a warrant to search your residence.” The officer thrust a folded piece of paper at her.

  “A search warrant? For what?”

  “It’s all in the search warrant, ma’am. Please stay outside the residence until the search is finished,” said the officer in a matter-of-fact tone, holding out his wimpy arm as if to prevent Marlee from rushing into her home.

  Marlee ran a gloved hand through her tousled auburn curls as she unfolded the warrant and began to read. Her home was being searched because a tip from a confidential informant claimed Marlee had a stolen antique urn stashed in her house.

  “This is bullshit! I’m not even sure what an urn is unless it’s just a fancy vase. How could I have stolen it and then hidden it? And why would anyone say I did such a thing? Besides, I’ve been in Chicago at a criminology conference for the past few days.” Marlee paced back and forth on the sidewalk leading to her house, aware that her neighbors had their faces glued to their front windows, watching the action.

  The young officer standing near Marlee didn’t respond to her questions. He just watched her every move as she paced and vented.

  “Didn’t I have you in my classes a few years ago?” Marlee asked the officer, taking a good look at him.

  “Yes, ma’am. You gave me an F on my final paper, which made me flunk the class. The dean suspended me for a semester, so I went to Minnesota West Technical College and got my Associate Degree in law enforcement. Now I work here in Elmwood.” The young officer’s eyes bore holes into her face.

  Crap, thought Marlee. There’s no way I’ll get any special consideration from this guy. Marlee had two types of relationships with the local police officers. Some of them despised her, like Chief Langdon. Others liked, or at least tolerated, her. Judging by this officer’s expression and their past history in the classroom, Marlee guessed their relationship fell into the despise category.

  “Wait a minute! Is this a joke? Is this one of those fake arrests for charity where you take me to a phony jail and then I have to call my friends to bail me out? I’ve heard of these. It’s a fundraiser for something like muscular dystrophy, right?” Marlee was surprised it took her this long to figure out the gag. Her friends and coworkers must be having a big laugh at her expense right now, not to mention the officers in her house. She chuckled out loud at the thought.

  But wait… police officers wouldn’t enter my house even if it was for charity. “Did somebody let you in?” Marlee asked the officer. “My cousin Bridget has a key and stays here sometimes when I’m out of town. I’m just returning from a conference…” Marlee’s voice trailed off as Bridget McCabe walked out the front door, handcuffed and escorted by two beefy policemen.

  Seeing Marlee standing on the sidewalk, Bridget wailed, “Marlee, I’m in big trouble! They’re taking me to jail!”

  I find myself in a dilemma. Should I do the wrong thing for the right reason?

  Chapter 2

  Marlee watched as her tall, thin cousin was ushered into the back seat of a waiting police car. Her long, dark, wavy hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail, and some of the strands had come loose from the hairband. Tears streamed down Bridget’s face as she mouthed the words “I’m sorry” from inside the locked patrol vehicle. Marlee held her cousin’s gaze until the car drove away.

  “What in the hell am I going to do?” Marlee said out loud. The police officers were now gone, and the neighbors retreated back inside their homes since the show was over. Marlee sank onto the cement step in front of her home, impervious to the winter chill, and cradled her head in both hands. She’d been involved in solving criminal cases before, but none featured a blood relative as a suspect. That changed everything.

  Pulling the folded search warrant from the pocket of her coat, Marlee looked at it with a degree of focus she hadn’t possessed when she first arrived on the scene. The search warrant alleged that an antique urn was stolen from Marymount College and it was stashed in Marlee’s home. The information leading to the search warrant apparently came from an unnamed source who said they witnessed Bridget McCabe move
the urn into Marlee’s home through the back door on the previous evening.

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Marlee mumbled to herself as she wondered who was setting up her cousin and why. She rose to her feet and went inside her unlocked home. Glancing around, she noticed some things out of place, but her home hadn’t been trashed, as often happened when law enforcement searched for illegal items. Marlee knew from personal experience as a former probation officer that the cops were not under any obligation to be neat and orderly during the execution of a search warrant. Frequently, they left a home looking like a spring tornado had ripped through it.

  She walked to the spare room at the rear of the house, the room where Bridget stayed. The sleeper sofa was still made out into a bed, albeit an uncomfortable one, as Bridget and several other overnight guests had been quick to point out. Several items of clothing were strewn across the bed and additional bedding was tossed on the floor, suggesting the officers were quick to search the closet in the spare room. The out-of-season clothes all belonged to Marlee and the sheets and blankets were stored in the closet until needed.

  A small door cut into the wooden paneling at the bottom of the closet had been pulled open, exposing some of the electrical wires and other mechanical items Marlee was unfamiliar with. She noticed the little door and looked inside it once when she first bought the home. Her theory on home maintenance was not to go looking for trouble. If it started smoking or a noise came from within, then and only then, would she pry the door open again and take a peek. At that point she would have the good sense to call an electrician.

  The space was small, two feet high, a foot wide, and a foot deep. Hardly room for anything besides the electrical wires contained within. Marlee noticed that some dust had been disturbed inside the door when the police were searching. Running her finger inside the small space, Marlee noticed a tint of green residue. Hmmm, must have been from some old paint or the coloring of some previous wires, Marlee thought as she stood up and dusted her finger off on her pants.

  Marlee hurried to the living room and dialed her friend Bettina Crawford, a detective at the Elmwood Police Department. If Bettina knew anything about Bridget’s arrest, she’d tell Marlee. After a quick telephone conversation, Bettina agreed to discuss the matter at Marlee’s house, away from the prying eyes of her police department and the nosy Elmwood community members.

  For the next half hour, Marlee stood glued to the window in her front door as she watched for Bettina. Finally, the Native American detective arrived in her personal car dressed in athletic gear and running shoes. An insulated red coat hung from her shoulders, unzipped. Her straight black hair was pulled back and fashioned into a braid. “I’m trying to give the impression that I’m here for something other than police business,” Bettina said as she walked into the home.

  “And you thought coming to my house wearing exercise apparel would be the way to throw everyone off?” Marlee couldn’t remember the last time she had exercised to the level that special clothing and shoes were required. Yoga pants and t-shirts populated Marlee’s wardrobe, but they were for lounging, not exercising. Bettina, on the other hand, was diligent about physical fitness. The women’s differing theories about exercise were evident in their physiques. The detective was slim and athletic, while the professor was neither of those things.

  Marlee grabbed two Bud Lights out of the refrigerator and handed one to Bettina. They sat at the dining room table, which was heaped with text books, ungraded papers, empty fast food bags, and an oversized cat bed. Marlee’s sixteen-pound Persian, Pippa, was curled up in the bed. She lifted her head as Bettina sat at the table and gave a loud growl. The police detective had interrogated murderers and wrestled domestic abusers to the ground, yet she was cowed by the fluffy cat. Bettina leaned back and slid her chair further away from the persnickety Persian.

  “Bettina, I’m worried about Bridget. She was arrested today and charged with stealing an urn from Marymount College. It’s completely bogus. Somebody lied and said they saw her bring it into my house. The cops were here searching when I got home from my conference.”

  “I was just leaving work when you called, so I heard a bit about this before I left the station. The charge is real. Not only was Bridget arrested for stealing the urn, but they found it here in your house.”

  “What?” Marlee shouted. “The police found it? How? Somebody must have planted it and blamed Bridget.”

  “I don’t know any of the particulars other than the urn was found hidden in the spare room where Bridget was staying. The officers wrapped it up carefully in plastic so as not to damage it because it’s so old. They also need to preserve the fingerprints and any other evidence,” Bettina related as she took a mighty swig from her beer bottle.

  “Somebody must have broken into my house while I was gone and planted the urn. Then they contacted the police and said they saw Bridget do it,” Marlee said, working the case over in her mind as she spoke. “Somebody has a grudge against Bridget, and they’re trying to get her in legal trouble. Or it’s a sick joke.”

  “Well, here’s the problem with those theories,” Bettina said, looking at the table as she spoke. “Bridget confessed to taking the urn and hiding it in your house.”

  “No way! She wouldn’t do something like that! The cops must have forced her to confess. Or they tricked her into saying she did it.” Marlee’s mind was going one hundred miles per hour as she thought of logical explanations for Bettina’s revelation.

  “I don’t think so, Marlee,” Bettina said in a gentle tone. “I know the people involved in this search, and they’re all straight shooters.”

  “Why would Bridget take an old urn? It’s an antique, but there’s no way she could sell it around here.”

  “She couldn’t sell it around Elmwood or anywhere in South Dakota, but she could sell it in another state or overseas via the Internet.”

  “So you really think Bridget did this? That she stole the urn, hid it here, and was trying to sell it?” Marlee couldn’t believe what Bettina was saying. Bettina was a good friend, but now she had placed herself squarely in the enemy camp. The professor shot a death glare at Bettina.

  “Look, I don’t know the whole story. I’m only telling you, as a friend, what I know so far.” Bettina held her hands up in a defensive pose, as if to deflect Marlee’s venom. “Don’t kill the messenger.”

  Marlee took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Right. I know. I don’t mean to take it out on you. Guess I’m in shock over this whole thing. I fully expected you to tell me the whole thing was a mix-up and that Bridget would be released within the hour.”

  “I’m afraid not. You better get Bridget a lawyer. A really good lawyer.” Bettina took a final slug of beer and stood to leave. “Oh, and you might think about getting legal counsel for yourself too.”

  “A lawyer for me? Why? I didn’t do anything!”

  “The urn was found in your house. You let Bridget stay here. There may be some suspicion that you’re in on it. At the very least, I’m sure you’ll be questioned in the next day or so.” Bettina said, as she gently closed the door behind her, leaving Marlee to digest not just Bridget’s legal predicament, but also her own.

  I’m in over my head, and there’s no way out.

  Chapter 3

  In the course of two short hours, Marlee went from being happy to be home to being distraught over her cousin’s arrest and her own possible legal entanglements. What am I going to do? Marlee thought. She felt helpless, and that was a feeling she was not used to. She was the last person anyone would consider a damsel in distress.

  Taking a deep breath, Marlee grabbed the telephone and called Denny Harlow, the biggest jerk of an attorney she knew. When she’d worked as a probation officer, Denny Harlow had represented several defendants in federal court. He fought tooth and nail for his clients and didn’t mind pissing off the prosecutor, the judge, other attorneys, or probation officers in the process. He didn’t have an
y friends in the court system and couldn’t care less. Denny Harlow was exactly whom she needed to help her and Bridget out of this situation.

  “Denny Harlow speaking,” said the raspy smoker’s voice on the other end of the line. Denny was answering his own telephone again after running off another secretary with his foul mood and excessive work demands. If the secretary was young or pretty, sexual harassment was likely a factor in her exit.

  Marlee gave Denny an overview of Bridget’s arrest, the search of the house, Bridget’s so-called confession, and her own potential involvement in the case of the stolen urn.

  “You’ve gotten yourself in a real pickle, girlie,” Denny said between hacking coughs. “Your cousin too. I can’t represent you both. Since we’ve already talked, I can be your attorney, but you’ll need to find someone else for Bridget. Come down to my office in an hour and we can start talking about what you can and can’t say to the police.”

  Marlee agreed to meet with Denny. After hanging up the phone, Marlee contacted Renee Salazar, an attorney Marlee was familiar with from her days in the probation office. Renee was much subtler and nuanced than Denny Harlow, but just as dedicated to protecting the rights of her clients. After a quick conversation, Renee said she would go to the jail immediately to represent Bridget.

  “Can I tag along with you? I want to talk to Bridget too,” Marlee said, worried about her cousin.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. For one thing, I need to meet with Bridget alone to start preparing her defense. For another thing, you may be named as a codefendant or a material witness, so you can’t have any contact with your cousin while this matter is pending.” Renee was soft spoken, but firm in her directive.