By Familiar Means

by Delia James

  I tried to ignore them.

  “Pete’s not happy you had holes in your story, Anna,” Kenisha was saying. “You’ve got no good explanation why you were down in that tunnel or how you knew there was even a tunnel to be in.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah, uh-oh,” Kenisha agreed. “He’s not really happy about Jake and Miranda either.”

  “But he must have seen how upset they were.”

  “Yeah, he saw it and he was not impressed.”

  I swallowed. “Detective Simmons is a good guy,” I said, mostly because I needed to reassure myself. “He won’t jump to conclusions.”

  “He might not,” said Kenisha darkly. “But he’s not in charge of this one anymore.”

  “What? Who is?”

  “Lieutenant Blanchard.”

  I felt the blood drain out of my face. Alistair rubbed himself reassuringly against my shins.

  “Maow,” he told Grandma.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured back.

  I really was not going to think about this Grandma-to-feline conversation. I had other things to worry about. Kenisha did not talk about her lieutenant much, but when she did, it was with the kind of enthusiasm people normally reserved for tetanus shots or the stomach flu.

  Kenisha’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He is personally very interested in this case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is,” she said flatly. “That’s why I’m calling.” Her voice lifted to more normal tones. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but this is official business. We’d like you to come down to the station to answer some questions about the incident.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “That means now, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” agreed Kenisha.

  “All right. I’m on my way. Bye.” I hung up the phone.

  “What’s the matter, Anna?” asked Grandma.

  “The cat didn’t tell you?” I was staring at the phone.

  “I’m not quite that fluent, dear.”

  “Merow,” agreed Alistair.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to stay focused on the important things. “I’ve been asked to come down to the police station.”

  “Well, that’s not surprising. We knew that nice detective was going to have some more questions.”

  Except this isn’t the nice detective. I didn’t say that. I just bit my lip, picked up the receiver and dialed another number.

  * * *

  Before I walked into the station, I made extra sure my mental shields were up and as bright and solid as I could make them. If there was a place where I was going to be picking up stray Vibes, it was going to be in police headquarters.

  Kenisha was in the lobby to meet us when Frank and I walked in.

  “You brought the media?” said Kenisha.

  “I wanted to bring Enoch Gravesend, but Frank will come for free.” Enoch’s my lawyer. Actually, he probably would have come for free, too, but Frank was working on the story, and I could tell myself that being my moral support and my witness would help him out. That made this an even exchange instead of freeloading.

  Kenisha looked like she wanted to argue my decision but couldn’t quite find the right angle. What I didn’t say was that Grandma B.B. had wanted to come, too.

  “No, Grandma,” I’d told her firmly. “I can’t show up at the police station with my white-haired grandmother in tow.”

  “I’ll wear a hat,” she’d said. “Then no one will see the white hair.”

  “No, Grandma.”

  “Well, whatever you think best, Anna.” She’d sighed. “Besides, I have plenty to do with my morning.”

  As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about.

  Kenisha opened the door and led us through the interior of the station, past the desks with their computers and their busy occupants. From the looks on the faces, everybody seemed to know where we were headed and why. Everybody in uniform anyway.

  “Just remember, you’re not under arrest,” Frank murmured to me as Kenisha punched the entry code on another door. “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to. If you do answer, answer only what you’re actually being asked. Don’t volunteer anything extra.”

  “I don’t want to look hostile,” I said as we followed Kenisha down a bland, scuffed hallway.

  “Trust me, Anna, Blanchard already thinks you look hostile.”

  This did not make me feel any better.

  Kenisha opened a door and stood aside to let us walk in. As I passed, she squeezed my hand, very briefly.

  It was an interrogation room. It looked a lot like the ones on the cop shows on TV, only it was a lot smaller. It was painted the same dismal shade of oatmeal off-white as the hallway and smelled of old coffee. A big man sat on the far side of a metal table with a series of manila folders lined up in front of him. There was only one plastic chair on the other side.

  My first impression of Lieutenant Blanchard was that this was a man who had not only bought his gym membership but used it religiously. His arms and shoulders strained the seams of his immaculate white dress shirt. His neck was thick and his eyes were dark and round and set deep in his square face. His graying hair was cut short and bristly.

  He did not offer to shake my hand, and to tell you the truth, I was kind of glad. He also wasn’t paying a lot of attention to me. He had zeroed in on Frank.

  “What’s the media doing here, Freeman?” Lieutenant Blanchard demanded. His voice was thick with authority and contempt.

  “Miss Britton asked me to accompany her,” Frank answered before Kenisha had to. “And of course, readers of the Seacoast News and its associated Web sites will be interested to hear how thoroughly and professionally the Portsmouth police are conducting their investigation of this tragedy. We had a call from the Boston Globe just this morning,” he added.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Frank answered. “We’re pretty excited.”

  “You’re also finished here,” snapped Blanchard. “No media during an ongoing investigation. You can wait in the lobby.” Blanchard jerked his head toward the door.

  “You can’t . . .” Frank began, but Blanchard just folded those bulging arms so his elbows rested on the table.

  “Yeah, I kinda can. This is an interrogation, not a tea party.” He looked right at me to see what effect that word, “interrogation,” had. I made myself look back steadily and not shrink away or show how badly I wished I had my cat or my grandmother to hang on to. I had my wand to help keep my focus, but digging around nervously in my purse in front of Lieutenant Blanchard did not seem like a great idea. “Officer Freeman, you will show Mr. Hawthorne to the lobby and the coffee machine. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kenisha opened the door back up. I got ready to protest, but Frank gave me a small shake of his head and followed her out.

  Lieutenant Blanchard made sure the door was shut behind them. I didn’t see him do it, but I was pretty sure I heard the sound of a lock snapping closed.

  “Sit down.” He pointed to the chair.

  I sat. He sat on the other side of the table and dragged the first folder in his tidy lineup toward him.

  “You are Annabelle Amelia Blessingsound Britton,” he informed me as he pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and opened the folder.

  I nodded my agreement, suppressing the urge to “yes, sir” him. Not many people can loom while sitting down. That takes special talent.

  Lieutenant Blanchard asked my address. He confirmed that the house was owned by Frank Hawthorne. He glanced toward the door with a little smile.

  “Now, Miss Britton.” Lieutenant Blanchard squared off the file in front of him. He also leveled his glare at me. “Just what in the h
ell were you doing down in the basement with the coffee hippies?”

  I hadn’t liked Lieutenant Blanchard before. I definitely did not like him now. I reminded myself that he was the police (and Kenisha’s boss), and I was in a police station and talking back was not going to do anybody any good, starting with me.

  It sort of worked.

  “Jake and Miranda wanted me to paint some murals for them in their new space.” I tried very hard to meet Lieutenant Blanchard’s glower and just about managed it. “They were showing me around so I could work up an initial design for the project.”

  “You were going to paint the kitchen? Maybe a couple of bedrooms and throw in the doghouse for free?”

  I didn’t answer that. I did press my own hands flat against my purse. I really, really wished I could reach for my wand. Not that I actually wanted to work any unauthorized magic. I just wanted the help to stay focused. Being in a police interrogation room, with this man across from me, was really messing up my concentration. If my mental shields went down and I started picking up on the Vibes in the station around me, I had no idea what I’d do or say. I could, however, safely bet that it would not look good. At all.

  “You know, I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Britton,” Lieutenant Blanchard was saying. “And what I’ve heard tells me you got a serious case of Nosey Parker syndrome. In fact,” Blanchard went on, turning another page, “you’ve hooked up with Julia Parris and her whole Nosey Parker gang.”

  “Is it tough to be a cop in a town where the worst gang is the Nosey Parkers?” I muttered.

  To my surprise, that actually made him snicker. The sound was about as pleasant as his smile. “Nice one, Miss Britton. Yeah, I admit, I got worse problems. They come up from Boston and they come over from Vermont and down from Canada, but those problems”—he waved one meaty hand—“they come, and they go. What really gets under my skin are problems that are determined to stick around. So when I see a Nosey Parker teaming up with a couple of hippie types with FBI files that could choke a horse—”

  “The FBI kept files on everybody in the sixties. My grandmother has an FBI file.” I bit my tongue. Lieutenant Blanchard made a note.

  “And when this newest Nosey Parker just happens to be there when they just happen to stumble across a dead body and a wad of cash—”

  Wait. Stop. What?

  “Cash?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Blanchard looked up from under his eyebrows. Eyebrow, actually. He only had the one, and it stretched straight across the flattened bridge of his nose. Somebody at some point had landed a serious punch in the center of Blanchard’s square face. “The late Mr. Upton had five thousand dollars on him when he was killed. Didn’t you know?” Blanchard asked with exaggerated innocence.

  “No.” How did a guy who worked in a kitchen get that kind of money? Unless they were celebrity chefs with endorsement deals or TV shows, most cooks didn’t actually make that much. Back in the day, Martine and I had pinched pennies and clipped coupons together.

  It also hit me that Blanchard didn’t say “when he died.” He said “when he was killed.”

  Whatever discomfort Blanchard was reading in my expression, he was enjoying it. His shark’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Now, Miss Britton, I’m guessing you also did not know that before they became respectable businesspersons, Jake and Miranda Luce were busted for selling pot?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “No, of course you didn’t. But I did.” He pressed the tip of his index finger down in the file. “So, you gotta see this from my perspective. Here I got a couple of ex-cons, who have recently purchased a building that just happens to have a hidden tunnel, where there just happens to be a dead guy with a wad of cash. Now, just what am I supposed to make out of that?”

  It took a minute, but all of this reassembled itself in my bewildered mind. “You think Jimmy Upton was killed in a drug deal?”

  You think Jake and Miranda are dealing drugs. My hands went ice-cold and the back of my neck prickled with goose bumps.

  Blanchard’s mocking grin vanished, and somehow that made everything worse. “I could not say, at this time. But you see how it is? I’ve got to ask myself, Is coffee the only business opportunity these two upstanding citizens are taking advantage of? Now.” Blanchard leaned forward a little further. “Miss Britton, do you want to tell me just what you were doing down there with the two of them?”

  I might not have brought my lawyer with me, but I had given him a quick call before I came in. Enoch and Frank were in close agreement on two important points of interrogation-room etiquette:

  1) Only answer the questions asked.

  2) Confirm one vital fact.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Lieutenant Blanchard admitted. Which was only a little reassuring, especially since the words “that could change” were so clearly shining behind his little round eyes. “But you have hitched yourself to the Luce gravy train, or so you said?”

  “I’m painting some murals!” And I couldn’t even be sure that was still happening.

  “Because you need the money, don’t you? Being an artsy type is not exactly a secure or stable lifestyle choice.” I wouldn’t have thought it possible for the man’s voice to become any more oily. “So, Miss Britton.” Blanchard leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously, and he folded those bulging arms. “How about you walk me through it? When did you meet the Luces and what happened afterward? Take your time,” he added generously. “Any detail could be significant.”

  What happened next was not my best moment ever. I stammered and I stumbled. I tried my best to gloss over the holes where the ghosts and magic and Vibes figured in events, but they were there all the same, and Lieutenant Blanchard was busy noting down every one of them. His favorite phrase suddenly seemed to be, “So, let’s go over that again.”

  He was also suddenly very, very patient. I could feel the time crawling past on the back of my neck, and I was clutching my purse like a life preserver. There was no clock in the room, and I couldn’t check my phone, but I felt sure I had been in here at least two hours.

  “Let’s go over that again . . .”

  “Let’s go over that again . . .”

  When somebody knocked on the door, I almost let out a cry of relief. Or maybe a whimper.

  Blanchard tossed his pencil down and got up to open the door. He was shorter than I thought he was going to be. This time I did see him work the lock.

  “Lieutenant Blanchard?” Kenisha was standing on the other side of the threshold. “Telephone for you. It’s the medical examiner.”

  The lieutenant smiled. “Well, that’s all right. I think we’re done here. We’ve got all your contact information, don’t we, Miss Britton? It’s highly likely we’ll be wanting to talk with you some more.”

  “I’ll be sure not to leave town,” I muttered as I got to my feet.

  Blanchard nodded like he thought this was a very good idea. “Officer Freeman, you can escort Miss Britton out?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kenisha stood back and let me walk out of the room in front of her, but as soon as we were in the hall, she came right up to my side, like she was shielding me from something nasty that might be approaching from the back. Maybe she was.

  “I owe you an apology, Kenisha,” I whispered.

  “What for?”

  “I didn’t believe you when you told me how bad he—”

  She held up her hand. “Don’t. Not ’til we’re outside.”

  Outside had never felt so good. It was a warm autumn day, with plenty of sunshine and the scent of leaves and the fresh breeze off the river. I inhaled and rubbed my arms. The goose bumps had nothing to do with the temperature of the air.

  “Where’s Frank?” I asked.

  “Emergency at the office,” Kenisha answered. “I promised him I�
�d make sure you were okay. You are okay, right?”

  “Yeah, I think so, mostly. Jeez, that . . .” I gestured toward the station doors. “Was it just me, or has Lieutenant Blanchard got it in for Jake and Miranda?”

  Kenisha glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot. “He’s got it in for all kinds of people. Lieutenant Blanchard has very . . . specific ideas about what kind of a town Portsmouth ought to be.”

  There was a whole world of meaning waiting under those words, but I could also tell this was not something she could go into right now.

  “Listen, Anna,” breathed Kenisha. “I should not be telling you this, but the ME is a friend and he told me—”

  “Jimmy Upton was murdered, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. We were pretty sure about that from the beginning.” So was I; I just hadn’t wanted to admit it. “The real question was how.”

  “Do they know?”

  Kenisha nodded. “The medical examiner says he drowned.”

  “Drowned?” I thought about the Piscataqua River, so conveniently located right outside the door of Northeast Java. And the Harbor’s Rest hotel, with its marina, and the little cut-in for the tugboats down Ceres Street, and . . .

  But Kenisha was shaking her head again. “I know what you’re thinking, but Upton wasn’t drowned in the river. When they analyzed the water in his lungs, they found traces of fluoride and commercial cleaner.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “And they found a lot of postmortem bruising, but there were some other bruises from when he was still alive, and those were on his face and skull and neck and across his chest.”

  “Oh. Does that mean—”

  Kenisha was already nodding. “It means Jimmy Upton was in a fight, and then somebody held him facedown in a sink until he died.”

  13

  As soon as Kenisha headed back into the station, I pulled out my phone. I’d shut it off for the interview, and as a result, I’d missed the fifteen calls from Grandma B.B.

  The city bus stop in front of the police station had a bench. I sat down and hit Grandma’s number. She picked up before the first ring finished.