Bombshell

by Catherine Coulter

  Sherlock said. “So no pancakes?”

  “Oh, no,” Melissa said. “I’ve got to watch my figure.”

  “You said Peter spent the night?”

  Her mouth opened, then snapped closed.

  Savich said, “Peter told us how he tore up the sheets Friday night with you.”

  They watched Melissa dart a look at Savich’s cell recording every word and thought she would scream. But she held herself perfectly still instead and drew several deep breaths. She said finally, “I know you probably won’t believe me, but I’m not lying. I really don’t remember.”

  Sherlock said, “The way Peter tells it, he might never forget Friday. But you say you don’t remember?”

  “I had too much to drink. I don’t usually drink more than a glass or two of wine, I really don’t, I swear.”

  “Was that when you came back to your apartment Friday night?” Savich asked her.

  She gave him that marvelous blink again, very effective, the way her lashes swept over her eyes. “Well, we had some wine at dinner, too. Peter brought a lovely chardonnay with him from Frog’s Leap Vineyards in Napa Valley. He made a big deal out of it, told me it was the best he’d found, that he’d been saving it for me, for us together.”

  “Did the wine taste good to you?” Sherlock asked her.

  “I thought it tasted only so-so, but Peter was so excited, I lied and told him I really liked it, and he poured more into my glass. I guess the second and third glasses were too much for me.

  “It was weird, though. Even if I ever happened to drink more than I should, I’ve never had a hangover. But when I woke up Saturday morning, I did. My head really hurt. Peter brought me a cup of coffee and some aspirin, told me how sorry he was that his wine had made me feel bad. Please don’t tell my parents.”

  “But you felt well enough to fix Peter breakfast? One yolk?”

  Melissa smiled. “The aspirin helped.”

  And Sherlock wondered: Had Peter drugged her wine? She considered asking Melissa’s permission for a blood test, but decided not to risk it as long as Melissa was answering their questions. Instead, Sherlock asked, “Did Peter call you this afternoon after we spoke with him at the Hoover Building, Ms. Ivy?”

  Melissa nodded, and Sherlock was pleased she didn’t lie. “He was very angry, said he was glad we were together that night. I can’t believe you really suspect Peter of killing poor Tommy.”

  “We haven’t charged him with any crime at all, Ms. Ivy,” Sherlock said. “We’re simply establishing where Tommy and all his friends were on Friday night.”

  “Tell us about your visit with Tommy to his grandparents’ on Thanksgiving,” Savich said.

  “Oh goodness, was that ever something. Do you know they had a chef prepare the dinner? It was amazing.”

  Savich, who knew she’d been raised in Kentucky by two barely middle-class parents, also knew she’d probably been blown away that day. There was something else, too—it was envy, and it was clear in her young voice.

  “But he didn’t take you back to their home on Christmas Eve?”

  “By that time we weren’t nearly as good friends anymore.”

  Now, why was that? Sherlock said, “Tommy’s grandparents spoke of you, Ms. Ivy.”

  Sherlock paused, stared closely to see Melissa’s thoughts were written clearly on her beautiful face. Of course they’d talk about me, I’m beautiful and not a stuck-up debutante like they expected.

  “They were very nice to me,” Melissa said, “and Thanksgiving was very nice, too, but it was only one afternoon. Why would they talk about me to you?”

  Savich cut in. “They told us you were using Tommy, Ms. Ivy, to gain entrance into their world, that you’d searched him out because you knew who he was. They even saw you writing in your notebook. They thought you were a social climber who was seeing Tommy because you knew Mr. Cronin was famous and had money and a lot of very important friends.”

  “Not anymore he doesn’t, not for a long time now,” came out of Melissa’s mouth before she could stop herself, but it was too late, her words hung stark and mean in the silent air. She said, “Oh, I really didn’t mean that. Really, Tommy and I were only dating, we were friends, and they were nice to me. I wonder if they misunderstood, saw more to it than that because they’re older. I mean, how could they have seen the notebook when I didn’t have one?” And her lashes swept down again to excellent effect. When she raised her head again, she looked trusting, honest, guileless.

  “They saw you and Tommy kissing, Ms. Ivy,” Sherlock said, speaking in perfect rhythm with Dillon, “more than a friendly kiss, an all-out French deal, and it bothered them. I know that sounds prudish, but the Cronins are of a different generation.”

  She watched Melissa’s lovely mouth quiver, then firm up. “So I kissed Tommy. It was a thank-you kiss, really, nothing more. I thought they liked me.” The wistfulness in her voice was well done.

  “But you knew they didn’t like you because they told Tommy they didn’t want him to bring you to their house Christmas Eve,” Sherlock said. “Did it bother you to find out they were merely being polite to a girl they believed was an opportunistic gold digger?”

  “They should have liked me, because I’m not an opportunist. I’m a good student, I study hard, and I have lots of friends, too, more than that evil, crooked old man!”

  Savich said, “So what did you and Tommy do on Christmas Eve?”

  “We had our own private Christmas. Tommy said he’d drop by his aunt’s house in Potomac Village on Christmas Day, then he’d come right back to me, and he did.”

  Sherlock picked it up. “Did Tommy give you those lovely pearl earrings?”

  Melissa’s fingers touched one exquisite pearl drop. She wanted to say no, but realized it wouldn’t be smart, saw it in Sherlock’s eyes. Melissa cleared her throat. “Yes. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? I’m wearing them today to honor Tommy. There’s nothing more I can do, is there? It’s all so horrible.”

  “Why did you break up with Tommy?” Savich asked.

  Melissa looked down at her UGGs, then shrugged. “We just sort of drifted apart, but I still really liked him.”

  “You call it drifting in only three weeks?”

  “Well, yes, sort of, I guess.”

  Sherlock said, “All right. Did you do most of the drifting or did Tommy?”

  “Well, I suppose I was the one to break it off.”

  “Was Tommy upset about this?” Sherlock asked her.

  “No, I don’t think so, not really.”

  “Was Tommy upset when you hooked up with Peter, one of his best friends?” Sherlock asked her.

  “He never said he was. I think he was ready to date someone else, too.” She was lying on that one, Sherlock thought, but let it go for the moment.

  “I find that odd, Ms. Ivy,” Savich said. “He took you to meet his grandparents on Thanksgiving and he wanted you to be with his family on Christmas. It doesn’t sound to me like he wanted to drift at all, like the furthest thing from his mind was to date another girl. It sounds like Tommy was very serious in his feelings for you; maybe he was in love with you.”

  “No, Tommy didn’t love me. I mean, we only dated, and he was very sweet, but—”

  “Was Peter upset that you’d been with one of his friends, Ms. Ivy?” Savich asked.

  “Oh, no, Peter always knew Tommy and I were only friends.” She stared straight at Savich as she spoke, and he could feel the pull to believe her.

  “But you didn’t hook up with Peter until after you broke up with Tommy?” Savich asked.

  “No, of course not.” Big nose on that one. Sherlock leaned toward her, sympathy brimming. “I’ll bet you were very concerned that your turning to Peter might affect their friendship.”

  “Yes, of course, but I don’t think it did. I mean, they’ve know
n each other forever.”

  Savich asked abruptly, “Where are you from, Ms. Ivy?”

  “From Cincinnati—well, from a suburb on the Kentucky side.”

  “Are your parents paying your tuition at George Washington? Are they paying for your apartment?”

  “No. My dad lost his job and all his money after the banking crash. He and my mom lost their house last year. I have to work, Agent Savich, to pay my tuition at GW.” He saw she finally realized where he was going, and added quickly, “I waitress over in Foggy Bottom. A lot of lobbyists and politicians. I get really big tips.”

  Savich said, “Ms. Ivy, your income from your part-time waitressing brings in about half what it costs to pay the rent on your apartment. Then there’s your tuition, food, those new UGGs on your feet. Did Tommy help you out with rent money, with your bills?”

  She wanted to say no—it hovered—but again, she proved she wasn’t stupid. She stuck up her chin. “Yes, he did, because he knew I couldn’t pay all my tuition last September and he offered to help me out. As I told you, Tommy was my friend. He knew I’d pay him back.”

  Savich said, “When exactly did you stop seeing Tommy and start up with Peter Biaggini?”

  “Weeks ago, really, right after Christmas.”

  “And Peter then took over Tommy’s assistance with your bills?”

  “No! Well—a little bit.”

  Savich said, “You’ve been making healthy cash deposits since around the first of the year, right? All from Peter?”

  She hadn’t expected that question and stumbled out a reply. “What of it? Peter’s a really nice guy—”

  And you’re so beautiful you drop boys in their tracks at twenty feet, a perfect damsel in distress. “Like Tommy?” Sherlock asked. “How many other boys have helped you out since you arrived in Washington, Ms. Ivy?”

  “I know you’re federal officers, but you shouldn’t be able to look at my bank account. It’s not right. It’s none of your business how much money my friends lend me.”

  “I agree,” Savich said, rising. “A cop would never do that without a warrant.”

  She looked at him, realized she’d emptied her bucket without a whimper and looked furious. She jumped to her feet. “I didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s awful murder, I didn’t! Peter said you’d come here and threaten me, but I couldn’t imagine why you would. Peter was with me, he really was. Yes, I remember now, we did make love. He didn’t snore; he never does. He didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s death; he didn’t.”

  Sherlock said, “Ms. Ivy, I really hope you’re not lying to us. But I’ve got to tell you, I do wonder if you’re telling us the whole truth about Friday night. I’d hate to see you in a federal penitentiary for a couple of years. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”

  “I’m not lying; I’m not.”

  Sherlock smiled. “I think you might do very well in TV someday if you guard your reputation, your looks. Oh, yes, if you’re not lying, then I suggest you be careful around Peter Biaggini. I would wager my Super Bowl ticket that if he drugged your wine he might have killed Tommy, too.” She shrugged. “I fear you could be a loose end, Ms. Ivy.”

  “There’s no reason for Peter to kill Tommy. I mean, why would he? I left Tommy for him. He knows that. He won! I don’t know if he made fun of Tommy about it, I don’t, but why would he? They were friends forever!”

  At last the truth, Sherlock thought.

  Savich said, “Ms. Ivy, a tech could be here in a half hour to draw your blood, and we could find out.”

  She stared at Savich as though he’d grown an extra head. “Draw my blood? No! My mom would never allow that, never. Peter’s not bad, really, he’s—”

  “Very generous, I know,” Sherlock said. She handed Melissa a card. “Wouldn’t you like to know what really happened on Friday night, Ms. Ivy? Perhaps you owe it to Tommy to try to find out the truth.”

  Melissa stared at the card but said nothing more. Savich turned at the doorway. “Ms. Ivy, like Agent Sherlock, I caution you not to speak to Peter Biaggini. If you tell him you don’t remember spending the whole night with him, if you can’t really give him an alibi, you could be a danger to him.”

  Sherlock’s last sight of Melissa Ivy was her chewing on her lower lip, her pink UGGs bright on the banged-up hardwood entrance hall.

  Maurie’s Diner

  Maestro, Virginia

  Sunday evening

  Griffin eyed Anna, the kick-butt waitress wearing a Maurie’s red apron, and decided her full name, Lilyanna, brought to a man’s mind a vision of a flowy-dressed Southern woman with long loose hair lifting romantically in a summer breeze while she served sweet tea on the front porch. Nope, this was a solid Anna with a Glock 22 stuck in her jeans. He realized he’d like to get into it with her, let her wrestle him down. Griffin shook his head. He was losing it. He watched her, always friendly to the customers, always a smile in place. She was moving closer to their booth.

  He’d brought Delsey here for dinner after she’d awakened, showered all the hospital off her again, she’d told him, since once wasn’t enough, and managed to cover the sutures with a small bandage, a hank of hair covering it.

  A ketchup-drenched french fry paused on the way to her mouth. “Hey, whatever are you thinking about, Griffin?” She smiled over at Anna, watched her wave a menu at them, then start over.

  She saw her brother’s eyes follow. “Hmm. Maybe you don’t have to tell me. She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “What? Who? What did you say, Delsey?”

  “Anna. She’s very cool, isn’t she? And here she comes, and would you look at that, her eyes are locked right on you, like a laser. Hmmm again.”

  Griffin eyed his spoonful of mushroom soup. “Shut up.”

  “Have I been missing something since I got my brain addled?”

  “No more than usual. Eat your salad.”

  She forked up some lettuce with Maurie’s signature dressing. “So if you’re not checking out Anna, what are you thinking about? That DEA agent? I’ll tell you, Griffin, I can’t get over that. Every time I think about him, I get cold and want to cry. I wish I knew why he was in my apartment in the first place.”

  Griffin was silent as a post and spooned up some more soup.

  “Hi, Anna.” Delsey popped another french fry into her mouth. “Tell Maurie his fries are still the best, and the salad—I’ll eat the salad if you put a gun to my head.”

  “I’ll tell him, but he knows it. He always eats two fries out of every order, for quality-control purposes, he tells me. And would you look at him, skinny as a fence post. Hey, Mr. FBI, how’s your soup?”

  “It’s great.”

  Anna looked down at the nearly full bowl. “Great, huh? You on a diet, Griffin? Nope, not even a shadow of flab on you. You’re not eating because you’re still worried about Delsey, aren’t you? Well, stop it. Look at her, she looks ready to salsa on Main Street.”

  “Maybe tomorrow, Anna,” Delsey said, and Griffin saw his sister look from Anna back to him. “We were talking about that poor DEA agent. I overheard Griffin and Ruth talking about him at the hospital and why he was here in Maestro.” She drew a deep breath. “And I heard them talk about maybe Professor Salazar being the drug czar, or whatever you’d call it.”

  Griffin said, “Do you ever remember seeing anyone hinky at Stanislaus, Delsey? Anyone who didn’t look right being there?”

  “There are always so many people visiting Stanislaus—that’s why it’s such a great place. Musicians performing from out of state and their entourages, critics, writers, so yes, lots of strangers. I’d have to say Professor Salazar has more strangers than anyone cruising around him. I’ve asked who they were and was told they were visiting friends, from Europe, from New York, classical guitarists from all over the country here to worship at his Gucci-clad feet. All of them looked l
ike they fit right in.”

  Griffin said, “When I met Salazar at his house yesterday morning, he was wearing moccasins.”

  “I’ll bet they were Gucci,” Delsey said.

  “Dels, did you ever see any Hispanic guys hanging around him?”

  Delsey shook her head. “No, and I already told you, I never saw the man who hit me before, only heard two men’s voices. Anna, have you ever noticed any young Hispanic guys in the diner before?”

  Anna shook her head.

  Griffin watched his sister’s forehead knit, a sure sign she was thinking. She leaned close. “What about Mrs. Carlene?”

  Griffin went on alert. “Who’s Mrs. Carlene?”

  Anna said, “She’s Professor Salazar’s secretary. She came with him when he arrived at Stanislaus this past September.”

  Griffin said, “Mrs. Carlene sounds very Southern. How would a musician from Madrid hook up with a Mrs. Carlene?”

  Delsey said, “I don’t know, never thought about it, really. I overheard her.”

  Griffin would find out all about Mrs. Carlene. “So what did you overhear?”

  “It was last November, and I’d left a theory class with Professor Coffman in Brackford Hall, and I heard Gloria Brichoux Stanford—she’s a famous violinist, retired—”

  “I don’t live off the planet, Delsey. I’ve heard her play. Go on.”

  “She was speaking with another professor, I don’t remember who it was, woodwinds, I think, and he was telling her that Mrs. Carlene guarded Dr. Salazar like a lioness with her only cub. I heard Ms. Stanford say she was so secretive she wouldn’t even let anyone hear her speak on the telephone. She said Mrs. Carlene noticed her standing close by and clammed right up, didn’t say another word, punched off her cell. I remember the woodwinds professor shook his head like who cares? I didn’t hear anything more. But I didn’t forget it, it was too weird.”

  Delsey shook her head. “I can’t get over you believing Professor Salazar might be a drug kingpin. I can’t fathom it.” She paused for a moment. “What I mean is he’s got everything, more than everything, he’s at the very top, but to sell drugs to teenagers? I know you guys think the same thing.