“Otis is armed?”
Otis gazed at her. Allowed “former military,” “ex-cop,” “current PI,” and “all-around badass” to breach the veneer of his otherwise gentle demeanor. It was a thing he did with his eyes. And jaw. I never got tired of watching. Or watching its effect on whomever he fired it at.
Patricia sat up straighter on her gilded seat and swallowed.
Otis continued, with the eye-thing still fully engaged. “I am, Patricia. And you can address me directly. I promise not to shoot you. Let’s put your—all this—behind us, shall we?”
I picked up a muffin, tipped it to Otis, bit a big chunk of its top off. This was not my easygoing guy who’d dropped the “g’s” off “huggin’” and “cryin’” last night. This was Loaded-For-Bear Otis.
Patti was the bear. She got that. Sat up even straighter.
“Of course, I—Of course.”
Tom laid our cards smack on the table. “If you could convince us your husband isn’t dead. Ms. Stone,” Tom said, “we’d extrapolate you didn’t kill him, which we’ve been led to believe you might have. Moreover, I suppose his not being dead would free him up to kill you. While keeping him from being a suspect. Make him a viable threat.”
I relished Tom’s sardonic professor voice. So cool it was hot. His hand rested lightly on my neck. He could read my neck, I knew. Neck braille. A friendly offer was sent from my neck to his hand. Euphemism.
Pay attention, Allie.
Something was missing. Something obvious.
Like motive. “What’s his motive, Pat—tricia? It can’t be money. He can’t inherit if he continues to use being dead as his alibi.”
Geez.
“Otis? Is there…sherry? Or something?”
I always admired the generous application of sherry in British crime novels to situations of bewilderment and agitation. I tried to remember when I’d ever had sherry. No time like the present.
“Generally not before noon, Allie. At least today. Keep on asking those good questions.”
“But Allie,” Patricia took a deep, centering breath in order to better address my plebeian ignorance. “He doesn’t have to inherit to get all my money.”
“How is that possible—Oh.” My whole body went quiet. “Who gets the money if you die?”
“My niece. Heidi. My brother’s daughter.”
“Your brother—?” This was Tom.
“He’s dead. My only sibling. I have no children. Heidi inherits everything.”
Tom was right there. “This Heidi. And your Steve?”
Lordy. And everybody around here is so buttoned up in the daytime.
We were all right there.
A bitter smile. “Not ‘my Steve,’ not for the last five years. But yes.”
Wait a sec. Ask her—
Stop. I got this.
“Can’t you just write her out of your will.”
“That would be lovely, Allie, but this isn’t common money. It’s a trust fund. I was stupid. I could have given Steve his prenup cash to get rid of him. That was a ridiculous idea back when he asked. By the time it started looking like an answered prayer, it was too late. He was angry. Angrier than usual. Still a dolt, but Heidi is nothing if not clever. What she sees in Steve—”
I was pulled off course for a second by “common money.” Long enough hear someone say, Arrogant Bitch. Inside my ears. But then I thought about Tom’s Mondo money. Not common either. And, at the same time, tackier. So I cut Patricia some grudging slack.
“And if Heidi should become—out of the picture?”
That set her off the rest of the way.
“Ha. That’s a sweet way to put it. You mean if she got crushed inside a garbage truck. Or eaten by feral cats? I dream of it. But no.” She tuned back in to what she’d said. Shook off the daydreams and answered my question. “She’s got a younger brother, my nephew, who might be a decent human being, given time and attention. But you can see my situation. Oh. Sorry, Tom, I—”
“No worries.” Deadpan. I knew he was thinking what I was thinking and Otis and Lee Ann were thinking too. Which was Honey, that’s the least offensive thing you’ve said all day.
Patricia let herself slump against the dressing table, black eyes gleaming dread, not menace.
“I’m scared. The security system is excellent. But Steve knows that house. He sneaks back in sometimes. Leaves…things. A half-finished beer. He’s partial to Bud Lite, naturally. A pair of shoes. My size, but from Payless.” She said “Payless” the way ordinary folks would say, “LandFill.” Only not as generously. The insult quotient of those shoes reminded her to sneak another peek into my closet, which was standing wide open and confirming all her expectations.
I wanted to drag my mad-spiked boots out from under the bed and kick Patti in her bony shins with them.
She continued the list of spooky and inferior things left by Steve. “A dead bird. I called the cops and they said, ‘Probably flew down one of the chimneys.’ It’s a nightmare. The house is older than God. It creaks and moans even when there’s no wind. And when the lake freezes out back, it cracks like a gunshot. The shadows never—Whenever I start down the staircase, I—”
Tell me about it. Twelve thousand-plus-square-feet is a pants-wetter. I’d spent a long hour cowering in a closet of a house almost that big once, before I fell asleep in self-defense. A part of me was would always be quivering like a scrawny little hairless dog about that.
For a couple of seconds, I tried to empathize, but my better nature tripped a circuit breaker. I wanted to call bad old Steve and tell him giving Patti the bird was a laugh riot.
“Are you staying alone there? At night?” Otis’s emphasis was on “alone” and “night.” The “what are you thinking?” was understood.
“I had a girl who stayed nights, but I fired her. I tried to get Jay to stay, but he said that would be above his pay grade. He’s such a—”
Go Jay.
Tom roped her in. “Has Steve made direct contact with you since he—disappeared?”
She shook her head. “No. Not counting the bird and—. Except I got a text I was afraid might be from him. It said, ‘Still here, Patti?’ I tried to have it traced but it was a dead end. He ditched his real phone when he sank the boat.
“I did buy a gun,” she volunteered. ‘It’s a Glock something. Expensive. Highly recommended. Supposed to be lightweight, but heavy for me. And I’ve never actually fired a gun.”
OMG.
Otis stepped in. “Please don’t even think about using that gun, Ms. Stone. Wait here a second.” He took himself out of earshot, phone in hand. Came back after five minutes. Didn’t sit. Stood looking down at Patti in a way that caused her to sink a few centimeters deeper into her tiny, golden seat.
‘Your story is unusual. But plausible, I suppose. I’m going to send one of my back-up people to you. She’ll meet you at the gatehouse in a few minutes. Adam will walk you up. Wait for her there. Monica Cowan. She’s smart. And seasoned. Retired from the P.D. but a private investigator now. You’ll appreciate her no-nonsense personality.”
Sounded like “prison matron” to me. I guessed Patti was wondering too, but she nodded meekly enough. Beggar. Not chooser. A new role for her.
“Give Monica your Glo—gun. That’ll be safer for everybody. We’ll get together with the other members of our group as soon as we can. We have issues to deal with today, but we’ll either put together a plan or refer your case to someone else.”
Patricia started to protest but decided not to push her luck. I smiled to myself without moving my lips.
We-the-T&A were now the devil Patricia knew.
Chapter Thirty-Five
By the time Patricia—who was henceforth officially “Patti” in my mind—left, it was early afternoon. We’d already piled up a week’s worth of To-Dos. We couldn’t sta
rt doing them yet, however, because, when I opened the door to hand Patti over to our guy, Homicide Detective Olivia Wood was standing next to him, looking official.
She turned to watch them head up the drive. I noticed the rain was coming down harder and colder—a weather moment that felt transitional to me.
Olivia was trained to ignore that sort of thing. “Who’s that with Adam?”
Uh oh.
I suspected the lieutenant had limited time and/or patience for a story as tangled as the one we were sorting out. Convoluted kerfuffle, I’d call it. The bogus murder and death threat combo.
Besides, to be fair, Patti’s situation was more a matter for the Bratenahl PD, whose natural response to her story might be to turn back around and take another hard look at Mrs. Stone for the kayak murder of Steve. Or make fun of the bird again. Before I could begin to explain any of this to Olivia, I would have to get my detective head in order and find out whether the consensus of the T&A regarding this case would be, “Are you kidding?”
Valerio would bring Olivia up to date when we knew more. Or Otis could decide to tell her when she went into the kitchen for the note and whatever he had in the oven. Not my call.
That handful of thoughts and rationalizations zipped through my head as Olivia and I watched Patti and Adam disappear up the drive.
“Neighborly visit, Olivia. Come on in. I’ll take your coat. It’s getting nasty out there. The note’s in the kitchen with Otis. There’s coffee. And muffins. And possibly pie.” TV crime shows got one thing right: As long as nobody’s shooting, a cop can be diverted by pie. I’m a little bit law enforcement myself when it comes to pie. I tagged along.
Business first. Otis produced the envelope and the note. They both handled it with gloves in spite of the combined years of experience that said, “Waste of time and gloves.”
I got that. Admired it too. I wanted to become that caliber of detective. Skilled. Focused. Dependable. Somebody committed to a dogged, unyielding code, who’d handle skepticism, fear, and plain exhaustion and keep walking the grid.
Miles to go, Allie Harper.
The glass coffee table in the greenhouse had yet to be replaced, so we had the pie, coffee, and conversation in the dining room. When we first moved in, I’d been quite taken with this room. It wasn’t uptight and baronially overdone like our former mansion-y dining room. The old-fashioned, many-paned windows of wavy glass offered a painterly view of pines in many sizes and shades of green, plus a slice of lake with its ever-evolving hues of water. Also rolling breakers in different shapes and sizes. And the rain. Looking nastier by the minute.
We’d sorted ourselves. Otis Johnson, PI, and Lieutenant Olivia Woods, Homicide, on one side of the table. Tom and Allie on the other. Pros v. Amateurs. I was trying to read Olivia’s expression, Tom was no doubt trying to listen his way into her mood. I bet we’d agree on “murky.”
“Stacey? Is she—?”
“Stacey’s fine. Well, not fine, but okay. We’re keeping an eye on her for a bit, but, common sense, she’s not his concern. From his perspective, she’s peripheral. This new one is not Tito Ricci.”
All our current hopes, fears, and heartaches, summed up in a simple sentence. The more we knew about “this new one,” the more cold and dangerous he looked.
“We’ve got bits and pieces, but nothing’s clear yet. He’s the new regime. Tito’s out, and this guy appears to be his own boss. Not working pro bono, you can count on that. Planning on you guys to make all of his efforts pay. Unlike Tito, he’s not interested in holding University Circle for ransom. That was more ‘Tito-over-the-top’. He just wants the jackpot.” She stopped to clear her throat. Stared at the windows as if she was hoping to see something better than March.
“We’re going over that empty penthouse. Not much left after the cleanup—” She paused, reviewing the little she had. “Nothing at all on their in-house cameras until they got them started up again. University Circle CCTV may give us an idea of where he’s been, but he’s professional, this guy. Let’s hope he’s as businesslike as he looks. Hope we can be smart and grab him soon.”
She looked out the window some more. Under Olivia’s buttoned-up appearance, I saw a layer of bone-tired. And, under that, a bunch of worry. The precision of the murder of Kip Wade and the cruelty of Gloria’s death belonged to our so-called newer, cleaner guy. The grisly killing of Tito—the horror of the hands—haunted all of us now.
“I wanted to let you know I got a call from Chad Collins, your guard—”
“From the museum. Is he okay? I was just—” Not going to reprise what Lisa had said last night. She’d sacrificed something to tell me about his conversation with the bogus journalist, I wasn’t about to betray her. Or Chad.
“—wondering about him. What did he say?”
She smiled at me in an “I know who you are, Allie Harper, and I forgive you for it” way.
“He told me about talking to the ‘news guy’ who turned out to be from 16. As if that isn’t as obvious as one of their cheap—You and Lisa Cole still tight?”
“Jobs come with built-in compromises, Olivia. She told me about Chad because she doesn’t want him to lose his job. I hope you—”
“I won’t say anything to anybody. He wants to get into the police academy. I didn’t discourage him, but I told him not to give up his day job until he knows more about what cops actually do. Big leap from the day-to-day of ‘don’t stand too close to the pictures.’ They don’t send museum guards to their posts saying, “Let’s all make it home for dinner.” He’s on the older end of eligible. He’s afraid to call you. I thought you should know, but apparently you have your own source.”
“Lisa is a friend. And I like Chad. Next steps? What should we be doing now?”
“Not a damn thing, Allie. Your next step is to stop in your tracks. All of you. Sit tight. I don’t see any role for the—for you all until—For a while. Except as very careful civilians. The Art Museum—University Circle in general—it’s all quiet now. I talked to Cecilia Southgate at the museum. She agrees. Their security is always on the alert. We’ve got an eye on things. So that lets the T&A”—for the first time in the history of our five-and-a-half-day relationship Lieutenant Wood cracked a smile about the name—“off the hook for now. Stay alert. Let Otis and his team keep you safe. The next move is your new guy’s. I don’t believe you need to worry about it being another bullet out of nowhere. He wants something. He’ll let you stew until you’re irrational and then make a demand.
“Grab a breath. You guys sit tight. Read a book. Binge some Netflix.”
Or take on a small, quick, new case.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tuesday, March 6
10 a.m.
Sometimes you have to throw caution to the winds and go to a funeral. First, however, I had to stonewall a wannabe attendee.
“No. Tom. No. Not a chance. Not a prayer.”
“Allie, I’m going. I have to. I have a responsibility to Kip’s—”
“Send them a nice note. Make a donation in his memory. Visit his grave someday. You cannot show up at his funeral. Think again. This whole thing got started because Kip Wade was almost a dead ringer for you.”
“That’s not funny, Allie. He’s dead because he looked like me.”
“I didn’t mean to be funny. Listen to what you just said. Think about what it would be like for his family and friends—”
He let this sink in. “Okay. I get it, but you can’t go either.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. As much as you can’t go, I have to.”
“And why is that?”
“For starters, I’m not a…a look-alike.”
“Okay, but surely you’d be a painful reminder.”
“Tom, you have never seen me, so you don’t understand how completely I’ll blend in. In a black dress, I’m invisible. Everything ab
out me is nondescript. I cut him off before he could say what I saw on his face.
“Thank you. Your kind disagreement is noted in advance. I have an outfit that makes me essentially invisible to anyone who doesn’t know me as…well as you. I’m going. I need to find out stuff. Kip had a brother.”
“Robert Frost Wade. I’ve met him. He’s the brother who’s not blind. Kip always referred to him like that. Hyphenated. My brother-who’s-not-blind.”
“Robert Frost? Wow. They—That’s—Never mind. I’m sure Robert’s sad about his brother, but I think he might talk to me. I can scout around. See who else shows up. Tom, what you said about Kip looking like you is true, but we don’t know why he died. Not really. Maybe not at all.
“I would be happy if we could find out what Kip Wade was planning last Wednesday night. There had to be something in it for him, a reason to go out there alone. He believed somebody would meet him. Give him something. Tell him something. I’m hoping important information will show up when I talk to Robert. Something unexpected.”
Yeah, Alice Jane. Like a bullet out of the dark. I threw her and her redneck twang off her spot next to Tom on the red chaise. He and I had taken to meeting in the dressing room. Just to chat. We both had plans about that we weren’t discussing. Yet.
I’d now ransacked my closet for black and frumpy and turned up quite a bit of frumpy but not a lot of black. I had two dresses to choose from. I gave up and picked the one that would cover my knees. Funeral, Lee Ann.
I threw the dress over the back of the chase and sat down next to Tom. “I want to know how Tito got to him, Tom. What Kip had to gain by going down to the lagoon. Whether the scene at the door was a complete coincidence or a part of a strategy we’ve only got a piece of. Kip is dead because of—we don’t know exactly what. Critical information is missing.”
He exhaled and unwound himself maybe a half turn. “Okay. You’re probably right. I don’t like this, but you should go. Take Otis and his security. Wear your frumpy disguise.”
The Devil's Own Game Page 18
