“What?” She leaned toward me. “What was in them?”
“Howie tells me the PD is amassing quite the collection of naughty undies. They could open their own Victoria’s Secret outlet.”
“Good grief.”
“I’m telling you, Victor should feel honored,” I said. “A one-off murderer with a fan base this huge? He’s getting the full-on serial-killer treatment.”
The doorbell rang, clearly surprising Chloe.
“Two visitors in one day,” I said. “You’re on a roll.”
“Probably kids selling candy for their team or something,” she said as she headed for the front door.
The eye-stinging fog of Leonora’s perfume heralded her arrival even before she shoved past Chloe and marched into the living room. And to think, I actually used to covet that extravagant scent. Don’t let anyone tell you aversion therapy doesn’t work.
“I won’t stay,” she was saying, “I just wanted to get this back to you before you accuse me of stealing it.” She tossed a pink cardigan on the sofa and then noticed me. Her unpleasant expression grew even more unpleasant. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your little kaffeeklatsch.”
Behind Lee, Chloe rolled her eyes. Through telepathic hoodoo I begged her not to invite the woman to join us. Chloe was inherently polite enough to do it, and Lee was inherently mean enough to accept, just to make us uncomfortable.
Message received. Instead of asking Lee how she took her coffee, Chloe offered me an explanation as she lifted the cardigan and folded it. “It was cold in the green room the other day. I lent this to Lee.”
“Are you two having fun sitting here running me down?” Lee asked.
“A little,” I said, “but mainly we have more interesting things to talk about.” I was tired of this woman’s bullying, and Chloe certainly didn’t deserve it.
Lee acknowledged the gibe with a sneer worthy of the bitchiest girl in middle school. “Did Chloe tell you she abandoned me?”
“Seems to happen to you a lot.” I lifted my cup. “Think it might be you?” I took a dainty sip.
She gave me a hard look and turned her attention to her former agent. “I didn’t come by just to return your ugly sweater. I feel compelled to warn you, though don’t ask me why.”
Chloe frowned. “Warn me about what?”
“I know you think Romulus Tooley killed your precious Swing, but trust me, the guy couldn’t skewer a marshmallow. He couldn’t even toss a damn Molotov cocktail without setting himself on fire! Could you picture that bumbling fool running Swing through with a knife?”
I didn’t bother reminding Lee that Tooley had an alibi for the morning of the murder. It was public knowledge by that point. If he’d killed Swing, it was by proxy. She just wanted to hear herself rant.
I said, “Get to the point, Lee.”
She didn’t so much as glance at me. “Victor Dewatre had his brother killed. It’s taken long enough, but the police are finally beginning to put the pieces together. Meanwhile, guess who’s trying to pull his cute little French butt out of the fire by shifting the blame to someone else who was very close to Swing? Closer even than Victor himself, at least during the past year or so.”
Chloe paled.
“Chloe, ignore her.” I stood and joined them in the center of the room. “She’s just trying to upset you because you ‘abandoned’ her. We already know how vindictive she is. If Victor thought you had anything to do with his brother’s murder, he’d have told me.”
“He doesn’t think she had anything to do with it,” Lee said, “because he did it himself. Try to keep up, Jane. But I must say…” She pressed a hand to her heart. “It is simply adorable that you think your live-in crush tells you everything, shares everything, because you’re just so attuned to each other. Trust me, you have no idea what that man is capable of.”
“This is priceless.” I shook my head in wonder. “First you falsely accuse him of murder, in retaliation for an offense that exists only in your imagination. I mean, you admitted that to me, remember? In the bookstore?”
“I don’t recall any such conversation,” Lee said. “It seems like you’re the one with the vivid imagination.”
No surprise there. I didn’t expect her to admit it in Chloe’s presence. “And now,” I said, “you claim he’s doing the same thing to Chloe that you’re doing to him.”
Lee crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me you never, not once, wondered if Victor might have murdered his brother.”
After a second I managed to mumble, “Of course not,” but her smug expression told me she heard my lie for what it was.
“You never mentioned who you do think did it,” she said, “at least not to me.”
“Well,” I said pleasantly, “from where I stand, you look guilty as hell.”
“Oh please,” Lee said. “If I’d killed Swing, why on earth would I deliberately invite all this attention to myself by telling the world about Victor’s guilt?”
Dom had asked that very same question the day I almost let him kiss me. My throwaway response had been that we weren’t dealing with the most rational person here. But if I was being honest with myself, I did not in fact think of Lee Romano as mentally unsound. Vindictive? This has been established. Mean, catty, and blind to her own faults? You’ll get no argument from me. But from what I could tell, the woman was sane, too sane to risk a murder rap for the vengeful pleasure of framing an innocent person.
Chloe’s voice quavered. “Did he really do that, Lee? Did Victor tell the police I did it?”
“Oh, Chloe,” I said, “can’t you see what she’s—”
“Yes he did,” Lee said. “He’s telling them it was out of revenge for Swing slipping around on you. The betrayal. The humiliation. You couldn’t take it and you snapped. He’s claiming he has evidence.”
“But… But Victor’s been so nice to me.” Chloe’s eyes glistened. “Why would he do something like that?”
“To protect himself. Why else?” Lee shrugged. “Remember, he’s making the whole thing up, trying to deflect attention from his own guilt. He’s doing it now because he knows the police are closing in.”
“She’s the one making it up, Chloe,” I said, “and you’re eating right out of her hand.”
“He says he has evidence?” Chloe asked in a small voice. She must have thought the cops were about to break down the door and haul her away in handcuffs.
“Okay, let’s just take a deep breath and think about it logically,” I told her. “If Victor really were guilty and he thought the police were ‘closing in,’ don’t you think he’d be on the first flight back to Paris?”
“Maybe,” Lee cut in. “The U.S. has an extradition agreement with France, but France doesn’t always honor it. I checked.”
Chloe was hugging herself, fighting tears. I wheeled on Lee. “Are you proud of yourself? You can never just let something go. What did she do that was so terrible? She stopped being your agent. And for a damn good reason—that evil rumor you started about Swing. Your vindictive acts just keep feeding on one another. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t so reckless.”
Lee made a show of haughty indifference, but a tic near her eye gave her away.
I got right in her face. “Fair warning, Lee. When you come for me, you’d better be ready for a fight. I’m not so easily bullied.” I pointed to the door. “Get out! You’ve spread enough sunshine for one day.”
14
Juggling Act
“YOU REALLY SAID that to her?” Victor slid a book off the shelf he was emptying. The carved mahogany bookcase took up an entire wall of Swing’s den, floor to ceiling. Briefly he examined the book cover before adding it to one of the cardboard cartons at his feet, the one destined for his home in Paris. “This doesn’t sound like you, Jane.”
“You’ve never seen me when I’m really riled.” I straightened the books in the other carton, one of those he planned to donate to charity. “When need be, I can throw down with the best of them.
Right then I felt like I was channeling Nina Wallace.”
He squinted at me. “Nina from that Ramrod News show? She has a temper? She seems too ladylike.”
“That’s because you’ve never gotten on her wrong side,” I said. “Nina’s great-grandfather was this notorious local gangster and bootlegger, Hank ‘Hokum’ Hannigan. Pals with Dutch Shultz. Nasty character, Hokum. Anyway, Nina definitely inherited the gene.”
“About Lee.” He plucked a thick volume from the shelf, its paper jacket in tatters. “Aren’t you afraid of angering a murderer? It could be her, you know.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Something occurred to me yesterday at Chloe’s. You know that perfume Lee wears?”
He made a face. “She bathes in it, I think. Should I keep this one? It’s very old.”
He handed me the book: The New York Times Cookbook, by Craig Claiborne. I flipped through it. Many of the recipes contained annotations in the margins, some in English—written by the book’s first owner, I assumed—and some in French. I turned to the copyright page. It was published in 1961. A handwritten note inside the front cover, dated twelve years earlier, expressed the wish that Pierre would enjoy the book as much as the person gifting it had. It was signed, “Your Slave Driver.” An old boss or mentor, perhaps.
“Your smile tells me everything.” He took the book back and added it to the Paris-bound box. “At this rate my apartment will be overrun with Pierre’s books.”
I let my gaze roam over the remaining volumes in the bookcase. “They all meant something to him.”
Victor looked sad. Distracted too. He’d put off this chore, going through his brother’s house, deciding what to do with all of his things. I sensed he still wasn’t ready, but it had to be done. I’d offered to help. I could think of more onerous ways to spend a Friday morning in early autumn than helping a sexy Frenchman sort through books in this rustic, high-ceilinged den. A humongous stone fireplace dominated one end of the room. Sunlight streamed through French doors set into the opposite wall. I recognized Swing’s stamp in the solid furnishings and bold colors.
“So,” Victor said. “What is this about Lee’s perfume?”
“Well, every time I’ve been near that woman, she’s reeked of the stuff. After she left Chloe’s yesterday, the living room stank of it. We had to open windows and air the place out. Which got me thinking. The morning Swing was killed, I showed up at Dewatre around ten-thirty. No more than an hour had passed, according to the ME’s estimated time of death.”
“I think I see where you’re taking this.”
“If Lee had been there before me,” I said, “and if she was wearing a gallon of perfume as usual, for sure I’d have smelled it, and I didn’t.”
“But if she stayed away and sent a hit man, then…” He let his shrug say the rest.
“Yeah, I know, but I just thought it was an interesting snippet to file away.”
“That’s it for the cookbooks.” Victor twisted his torso this way and that, stretching his back, a stirring spectacle for the few seconds it lasted. He grabbed a handful of paperback science fiction novels and prepared to toss them into the donation box.
“Uh-uh-uh,” I said, grabbing one and riffling the pages. “We have to check them all.” So far we’d turned up six movie stubs, nine store receipts, twelve scraps of newspaper, and seventeen folded greenbacks—mostly dollar bills but plenty of other denominations, including a C-note—all of which Swing had pressed into service as bookmarks.
Victor seemed lost in thought as we commenced riffling and tossing.
“So let me ask you.” I adopted a casual tone. “Lee says you told Cullen that Chloe’s the murderer. You told him you have proof. She says.”
It took him a moment to focus on my words. “How would she even know such a thing?”
This wasn’t the response I’d anticipated. “Um, I don’t know, she didn’t say. I just assumed she made it up, like everything else that comes out of her mouth.”
He gave a weary sigh and returned his attention to the books. “Then don’t pay any attention to her.”
“She said something else.”
Clearly he didn’t want to hear it. “What?”
“Well, she said the police—I mean, you know, Cullen—is looking more closely at you. As a suspect.”
He didn’t look at me, just continued to go through the paperbacks.
I tried to laugh it off. “I know, I know, you can tell when Lee’s lying because her lips are moving.”
“Cullen wants me to come down to the station for an interview,” Victor said. “He’s insistent.”
My breath caught. “Are you going to do it?”
“I think I must.”
“Don’t you dare go without a lawyer,” I said. “I’ll talk to Sten Jakobsen. He’ll recommend someone.”
“Ben already did,” he said.
“Oh.” I was taken aback. “You’ve gotten that far.”
He still wasn’t looking at me. When he finally did, I saw a strange kind of sorrow I couldn’t identify. I suppressed a shiver.
“I have to admit I’m surprised,” I said. “I mean, that Cullen isn’t just concentrating on Tucker. I’d pegged him as too lazy to keep working the case when he had this blatantly guilty—or guilty seeming—suspect basically fall into his lap.”
“Tucker’s parents are rich,” he said. “They can afford the best, most aggressive legal defense. It would not be an easy case to prove, no matter how the evidence might look. Cullen knows this. The district attorney knows this.”
“Well, that’s true. Plus Cullen’s kind of under a microscope at the moment. He’s being investigated for that harassment business—okay, by his pal Chief Larsen, but still. Sophie and the Town Council are watching. He can’t just blow off a credible suspect. One who might look credible,” I hastily added, “to anyone who doesn’t have all the facts. Obviously Sophie doesn’t think you did it.”
“Lee is making sure I look more than ‘credible.’” He hurled a book into the carton with unnecessary force, making me jump.
“Victor.” I placed my hand on his arm. “Come on, let’s take a break.”
His bleak gaze took in the room. “There’s so much to do. I haven’t even touched the upstairs.”
“I’ll get started upstairs. If that’s okay with you? I can go through his clothes, get them ready to donate.” It was a chore I’d done many times in my capacity as Death Diva. I could do it in a fraction of the time it would take an emotionally involved family member. “If I’m unsure about anything, I’ll ask you.”
“It seems wrong to be here without Pierre.” He stared out the French doors to the expansive lawn, dotted with mature trees and bordered by a jolly profusion of freeform plantings. “He loved this house. He couldn’t wait to show it to me. He bought it because it reminded him of our grandparents’ stone farmhouse in Uzès.”
“I can see that.” I smiled. “The place definitely has a French country vibe. Where’s Uzès?”
“Provence. It’s a small town, not much bigger than Crystal Harbor. The house is large. It’s been in our family for generations. Pierre and I own it with— That is, I own it along with my cousin Marie. We’ve turned it into a bed-and-breakfast, very successful. Marie is a talented baker and her husband, Serge, can fix anything. He keeps the old place running.”
“I had no idea,” I said. “It sounds wonderful.”
“Pierre used to say he would retire there, perhaps add a real restaurant to the place. Nothing too ambitious, just…” He trailed off and met my gaze. “You should come visit, Jane. I’ll show you the Jardin Médiéval in the center of Uzès—the Medieval Garden. We’ll stay at the B and B. You’ll love it.”
We’ll stay at his family’s bed-and-breakfast? Victor and me? Of course you know the first thing that popped into my head. Was he thinking one room or two? I suppressed another shiver, the good kind this time.
His expression turned serious. “I would like it very much, Jane,
if you would visit me after I return home.”
I kept my voice steady, easier said than done with my heart slamming. “You make it sound like you’re taking the next flight out.”
“That would be the sensible thing, yes?” He pushed his fingers through his light brown hair, which had gotten appealingly shaggy during the past couple of weeks. “To go through Pierre’s things this weekend, put the house and restaurant on the market, and leave. I can do nothing more for him here. I thought I could help keep the investigation on track, but the opposite has happened. I find myself a suspect.”
I couldn’t help remembering my words to Lee. If Victor were guilty, I’d told her, he’d be on the first flight back to Paris.
“Not to mention the death threats,” he added, “and those disturbed women who won’t leave me alone. It’s time for me to go home, get back to my life.” He looked steadily at me as he said this, those silver-gray eyes like lasers.
I knew the response he hoped to receive, at least I thought I knew. Don’t go. Of course I didn’t want him to. I’d miss him like hell and would always wonder what might have been. But those warm feelings were tangled up with others, less warm, less benign. A small part of me wondered if I needed to fear this man.
I took a deep breath. “This is why you’re finally going through Swing’s stuff.”
He nodded. “My lawyer told Cullen we would meet with him on Monday. I could be on a plane instead.”
Monday. Three days from then. I thought of all that could happen in three days, including an arrest if Cullen got wind of Victor’s plan to flee. Not flee! I admonished myself. He wasn’t a criminal. He was simply going home. His work here was done and he was going home. Getting back to his life, as he’d put it. And as for an arrest, Cullen couldn’t bring him in without probable cause, something more compelling than Lee Romano’s squawking about a long-ago argument between brothers.
I avoided his eyes. “Okay, well, that sounds like a reasonable plan. I wish it were different. I mean, I wish you didn’t have all this nonsense to deal with. Um, listen, I’m going to go upstairs and…” I pointed to the ceiling as if he needed help comprehending where upstairs was.
Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3) Page 19
