The Perfect Lie

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  Blunt tapped a plain, un-manicured fingernail on the table.

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  “Can’t say,” Blunt replied.

  “That is why you’re asking these questions, right? The way she died must relate to you considering me as a person of interest.”

  “Let’s stick to the question I asked you—the one you didn’t answer. Did anyone see you arrive back at the hotel?”

  “Lots of people.”

  “Such as?”

  Finch leaned back in the chair, entwined his fingers behind his head. “Me. I was here when she got back.”

  Blunt shifted her focus. “You? You weren’t with her at the bookstore?”

  He frowned at me. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Just what kind of bodyguard work do you do for her that has you waiting in her hotel room for her to return?”

  “The none-of-your-business kind,” he replied.

  “What time did Miss Jax arrive back at the hotel?”

  “Somewhere around nine forty-five, I guess.”

  “You guess or you know?”

  “You’re wasting your time, officer,” I said. “I allowed you inside my hotel room as a courtesy. If you’re going to turn this into an interrogation, you won’t like the end result.”

  Blunt snapped her notebook shut and stood. “Why are you here, in New Orleans?”

  “Why does anyone come to New Orleans?”

  Blunt prodded Parks with a finger, jerked her head toward the door. He stood like a trained animal and walked in that direction. She followed, stepped into the hall with him, and turned. “How much longer are you staying?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “No reason.”

  I resisted the urge to say anything more and closed the door.

  Of course there was a reason.

  There always was.

  CHAPTER 5

  “We’re not skydiving today, are we?” Finch asked. “You want to find out what happened to the Weston lady. Am I right?”

  “‘No’ to your first question,” I said, “and ‘yes’ to your second. If she was murdered, I want to know why.”

  “You don’t want to know, Joss. You need to know. There’s a difference.”

  He was right. I did need to know. My curiosity wouldn’t let it drop.

  Finch opened his mouth, and I prepared for the incoming lecture about letting the police do the work. I wasn’t a cop. I was the host of a television show by day and a writer with semi-decent forensic knowledge by night.

  “I won’t bother trying to talk you out of whatever you feel you need to do,” he said. “You’re going to do what you want, no matter what I say.”

  He was right about that too.

  “At least give me today and tomorrow,” I said. “Let me dig around a bit. If I don’t find anything, we’ll resume all death-defying activities as planned. Okay?”

  “You’re still calling your mom, right?” he asked.

  “When I have time, yes.”

  He gave me his I’m disappointed look. “Joss.”

  “Later on, okay?”

  “Not later on. Now. I’m not filtering any more calls from her. Like I said, it’s not what you pay me to do.”

  “I know it isn’t. But you don’t just work for me, Finch. We’re friends.”

  He handed me the phone. “Friends don’t make other friends deal with their own mothers.”

  I took the phone, winked. “Oh, come on. Some friends do.”

  He walked to the adjoining door dividing our two rooms and stepped into his, shutting the door behind him. I sighed, thought about how much I needed a strong sedative right about now, and dialed the number. My mother picked up on the first ring, almost like she’d expected the call.

  “Well, well,” she began, “look who finally made time to talk to her mother.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Did Finchie tell you I’ve been calling?”

  “His name is Finch.”

  “Whatever. Did he?”

  “He did.”

  “And?”

  “This is me calling you back,” I said.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “I mean, how are you doing today?”

  “Busy.”

  She blew a displeased breath into the phone. “You know what I mean, Joslyn. Today is ... well, it’s just ... I’ve been thinking about you all day. That’s why I called Finchie—”

  “Finch, and you shouldn’t be talking to him about my private life. What I choose to tell him is up to me.”

  “Calm down. We only talked about your cousin’s wedding. Seems to me like you’re struggling today, and I just want you to know I’m here if you need me.”

  “I can’t do this, Mom. I can’t talk to you if we’re going to talk about the past. I said I was fine, and I am.”

  “Fine” equaled occupying the rest of today with any activity that didn’t require use of my brain.

  “Are you coming to Clay and Courtney’s wedding or not? It’s next weekend.”

  “I know. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Why not? You’ve known about it for several months now. You’re not filming right now, and whatever book project you’re working on, I’m sure you can take a break.”

  “Give me the rest of the week to decide, Mom. Okay?”

  “Come home, Joslyn. Please. We all miss you. Everyone wants to see you.”

  Not everyone.

  “I will. I just don’t know if it will be before the wedding.”

  She sighed the way she usually did when she didn’t get what she wanted. “Listen, honey, I know it’s hard coming back here after what happened. Have you ever thought about how good it might feel to face everyone at the wedding? It’s been five years, Joslyn. Everyone has moved on. Everyone except you.”

  “Clay is the brother of my ex. I doubt he’s moved on.”

  Another sigh. Much deeper this time. “Maybe if you talk to your father ... hold on and I’ll get him.”

  “Wait, Mom. Don’t. I have to go.”

  “What? Why? We’ve only just started talking.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll call you again later, okay?”

  “Today?”

  “If I can. I’m assisting the police with a local investigation.”

  “What investigation? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it next time we talk. Tell Dad I love him and give my love to the family. I love you, and I’ll see you soon. I promise. Bye.”

  I pressed the end button on the phone before she had the chance to utter another word and embraced the swelling ball of guilt festering inside me.

  Finch poked his head back in. “How’d it go?”

  I turned away. “Did you ... umm, could you hear me?”

  “Some. You sound so different when you to talk to her.”

  “In what way?”

  “You don’t sound like yourself. The Joss I know is fearless. Last week, you jumped from a plane. Last month, you swam with sharks. Last—”

  “This is different.”

  “Why? Because she’s your mother?”

  “It has nothing to do with her. And, to be honest, it has nothing to do with the wedding either. Well, almost nothing.”

  He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. “What happened five years ago?”

  He was listening.

  “Let’s talk about it another time, okay?”

  He leaned against the doorway. “You remember when I interviewed with you, what you asked me?”

  “I asked you a lot of things. I needed to be sure you were the right person for the job.”

  “The last thing you asked me was what made me leave Tennessee and travel to California to work for you.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “I could have said anything. I could have told you what I thought you wanted to hear. I didn’t. We were stra
ngers, and still, I laid it all out for you—my wife’s infidelity, the baby, all of it. I knew it could have cost me the job. I told you anyway.”

  “Your honesty was one of the things that won me over, Finch. It built trust between us.”

  “Trust goes both ways. You said it yourself. I don’t just work for you. We’re friends.”

  I smiled. “I know we are.”

  “If you want to talk to me about anything, you always can.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. It means a lot to me. It really does.”

  “And if you don’t want to go to this wedding, don’t go. She’ll get over it.”

  I knew she would.

  The question was ... would I?

  CHAPTER 6

  The details of Alexandra Weston’s death were scant at best. The news channels had little to go on, and as a result, they kept broadcasting the same alleged bits of information they’d received in a repetitive loop. The police hadn’t made a public statement. I wanted to know why and decided to take my query straight to the superintendent of police.

  I hadn’t made it very far inside the department walls before Blunt stopped me.

  Hands on hips, she said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to speak to the superintendent.”

  “About what?”

  “Alexandra Weston.”

  “Why? Is there something you didn’t mention before?”

  “No.”

  She laughed. “Well then, whatever it is, you can talk to me. He’s busy.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll wait.”

  Jaw clenched, she said, “Look, I get it. Your little real-life murder show on TV makes you feel entitled, like you know something we don’t. Here’s the thing: you’re a writer reading a cue card. What we do here is real police work. You wouldn’t know anything about it.”

  Finch, who stood beside me, stared at Officer Blunt and said nothing. He didn’t need to. He knew what was coming.

  “I know you’ve never seen the show,” I said. “And I doubt you’ve read any of my books, so I’ll let your ignorance about who I am and what I do slide. But before you label me, take a look at my background. I have plenty of experience.”

  I awaited a heated response as I watched her nostrils flare next to her raised finger. It was derailed when a plump, middle-aged man of average height appeared from a small office to my right, his bushy, uncombed head of hair taking center stage.

  “You’re Joss Jax, aren’t you?” he asked.

  I turned, nodded.

  “Heard you were in town.”

  Blunt rolled her eyes. “Of course you heard, Herb. I told you.”

  He behaved like she wasn’t there, his eyes remaining on me. “I’m Detective Murphy. The superintendent put me in charge of Alexandra Weston’s case. Why don’t we talk in my office?”

  Gladly.

  Finch and I stepped inside, and Murphy shut the door, leaving Blunt ogling me through the small office window. It wasn’t hard to imagine what she was thinking.

  Murphy sat down and gestured for Finch and me to do the same.

  “Don’t mind Blunt,” he said. “She’s one hell of an officer, but she’s also, you know ... well, forgive me for saying, but she’s ... uhh ...”

  “An unhappy woman?” I suggested.

  He smirked. “I was going to go with ‘a real bitch,’ but hey, tact isn’t my strong suit.”

  It wasn’t mine either, but today I was feeling generous.

  “You haven’t released much information to the press about what happened to Alexandra Weston.”

  “Too early in the process. You know how it goes. We’ll leak a thing or two here and there, shake a few trees, see what tumbles out.” He leaned over his desk, entwining his short, chubby fingers together on top of it. “How much do you already know?”

  “Not a lot. I heard she was found dead inside the bookstore bathroom a couple hours after it closed. Why did it take so long for someone to find her? Didn’t anyone realize she’d never left the shop in the first place?”

  “Everyone thought she slipped out, went home. From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t much of a people person unless she wanted to be.”

  “There was a Chanel handbag sitting on the floor next to her chair when I was there,” I said. “You’re saying no one saw it or thought it was odd when she left it there?”

  “She took it with her into the bathroom. It was recovered on the floor inside the stall.”

  “What about the pens she was handing out? There was a basket sitting on the desk during the signing. There was a bin of books too. And a mug of something—a silver container she was drinking from.”

  He shrugged. I continued.

  “What about the surveillance tape? Didn’t the bookstore have one?”

  “Yes and no. They have one. It just wasn’t on at the time.”

  “Why not?”

  “One of the plugs was disconnected. Can’t say yet whether it was on purpose or whether the cord just detached somehow. It’s an older system, so either theory is plausible. We dusted for prints. Don’t have those results yet.”

  “How long had the camera been broken?” I asked.

  “The last recording they have is from two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks, and no one noticed or cared?”

  “Employees said after they hired the security guard, they hardly had any theft. Checking to see if it was working was no longer a priority.”

  It was hard for me to believe Louis was considered that big of a deterrent. He had the size, but lacked in mental capacity.

  “The security guard was a new hire then?”

  “He’d only been there three weeks. We think the killer was hiding somewhere in the store during the book signing, possibly even before, waiting for an opportunity to make his move.”

  “Even if that’s true, how did he escape?” I asked. “The front door was locked from the inside with a key that one of the employees carried around in his pocket. I saw him lock it about ten minutes before the store closed. He’d unlocked the door to let the last few customers out, and then locked the door back up.”

  “We think the killer exited through the side door.”

  “What side door?”

  “The one they use for shipments in the warehouse out back. It locks from the outside only. From the inside, anyone can push the metal bar and get out.” Detective Murphy pulled a manila file from the top drawer of his desk. He flipped it open, turning the folder in my direction so I had a clear view of the photograph resting on top. An ordinary kitchen knife with a tan, wooden handle.

  “We found this knife stashed inside a discarded fast-food sack in a dumpster on the opposite end of the parking lot.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t get any prints off it.”

  “Not a one. And the weirdest part is there was a very small cut on Alexandra Weston’s neck, but she didn’t die from a knife injury. There were no other marks on her.”

  “If this wasn’t the cause of death, what was?”

  He craned his neck, looking left and right, before saying, “Apparently Alexandra Weston wasn’t feeling well. In the stall we believe she used prior to her death, it looks like she vomited. Did she seem unwell to you?”

  “She never said anything to me about her stomach being upset, but she seemed a little off to me. She was shaking. I asked her about it, and she blamed it on the coffee.”

  When I said the word coffee, he blinked.

  “Was she poisoned?” I asked.

  “It’s possible. We can’t be sure of anything yet.”

  “Your pathologist is running a tox screen, I imagine?”

  He nodded.

  “Make sure you test the silver mug that was sitting on the table during the signing.”

  He looked at me like he wondered if I’d forgotten whom I was talking to.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I know you know how to do your job. How long will it be before you know something?”

  He shrugged. “Not sur
e. Celia Burke, the forensic pathologist at the coroner’s office, is running tests now. She’s a little backed up at the moment though.”

  “Why?”

  “She handles at least twenty autopsies a month.”

  Twenty autopsies? It had to be some kind of record. “Time to hire a second pathologist, don’t you think?”

  He ran a hand down his face. “Believe me. You have no idea. We’re trying.”

  I stood, walked to the door. Finch followed.

  “Have you brought in any possible suspects yet?”

  “We’ve talked to all the employees. They’re all small, scrawny things. None of them weigh more than a buck and a half. And they’re ... well, timid. George McFly types, pre-time travel, that is.”

  “Anything else I can talk you into telling me before I go?”

  He leaned back, rubbed his chin. “There is one thing. The store’s bodyguard we were just talking about. Louis. He’s the only one who didn’t show up for work today, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Louis Massie lived in the lower 9th ward with his mother, a woman I was told everyone called Miss Sabine. Although it had been almost a decade since Katrina, many neighborhoods, including the one Louis lived in, still struggled to recover from the devastating aftermath of the hurricane. Vacant pockets of flattened land where homes used to be breathed a haunting reminder of the destruction that had poisoned the area. Some people had left their homes entirely, vowing to never look back, never return again. Others remained, strong and resilient. Raising a torch of unfettered bravery, they began anew. Miss Sabine was among them. On a quiet street where only a handful of homes remained, her modest, traditional-style dwelling with beige siding and white shutters looked newly remodeled, transformed from its former, battered self into a thing of beauty.

  I parked at the curb, walked up a series of brick steps leading to the house, and knocked on the door. I stood for almost a full minute and waited. No one came. I spotted a neighbor across the street on her porch. She was rocking back and forth on a weathered, yellow rocking chair. A blanket was wrapped around her legs. When she saw me, she stood, draped the blanket around her body, and walked toward me, blanket ruffling in the soft wind. She looked to be in her upper eighties, I guessed, and had short, black hair and glasses, which were too big for her face.