Random Acts

by Spindler, Erica

  That emphatic a denial, especially considering the circumstances, usually meant someone with something to hide. “Mrs. Cook told us you often had lunch with Vivianne.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “She was a wealthy woman.”

  “Yeah, she was. She could afford to hire someone like me to keep her fitting into her designer labels. That’s it.”

  Angelo stepped in, unperturbed. “Your professional relationship was good. No arguments, anything like that?”

  “Of course.”

  It seemed to Micki he’d hesitated a moment before answering. “What time was your appointment with Mrs. Stanley?”

  Again, hesitation. “One o’clock.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem certain.”

  “Would you like to check my calendar?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  He called up the calendar on his phone, handed over the device. Sure enough, her name was entered, today at one.

  “Did you know her personal assistant?”

  “Ginny? Yeah, what about her?”

  The defensive edge in his voice could have felled and oak tree. Interesting. “I understand Mrs. Stanley fired her last week.”

  His face took on a ruddy hue. “That’s right.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Why would I?”

  “You had Mrs. Stanley’s ear. I suspect she was quite . . . fond of you.”

  “Old ladies like me. I make them feel good about themselves.”

  “And Ginny? Did she like you, too?”

  “What did Margaret tell you?”

  “Mrs. Cook? She told us all about Ginny being fired.”

  Micki acknowledged the slight misdirection and hoped he fell for it.

  He did. He found a chair and sat, demeanor changing from tough-guy to troubled. Resigned. “She was jealous of Ginny,” he said, after a moment.

  Micki took a stab. “Because the two of you had something going.”

  “Yeah.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “She made up some shit about Ginny stealing from her. Used that as an excuse to let her go.”

  He glanced down at the floor, then back up at her. “I flirt with the old birds. Make them feel attractive. Sexy. That’s it. I never take it any further. A little charm helps pay the bills, you know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” Angelo said. “I get it.”

  Micki wasn’t so nice. “Ever try making it strictly on your abilities?”

  He looked pointedly at her breasts. “Have you?”

  “Every day, actually.” Micki narrowed her eyes. “And some days it ain’t easy.”

  He flushed. “You have any idea how hard it is to make a go of it out there? Doing what I do? I’m a damn good trainer, but so are a lot of other guys.”

  Obviously, she had pushed a button. And without much effort. Somebody had a short fuse.

  Angelo stepped in. “So, you confronted Mrs. Stanley about firing Ginny? Maybe tried to get her job back.”

  Micki took over. “Maybe things got a little crazy. Heat of the moment.”

  “No.”

  “You lost your temper,” Angelo said. “I get it.”

  “No,” he said again. “God, no.”

  “When we check Mrs. Stanley’s day planner, will we find an appointment with you for today at one? Or earlier?”

  “This is bullshit. I showed you—”

  “On your phone, Mr. Stone. You could have added or edited that entry after killing her.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what? Edit the entry or kill her?”

  His demeanor changed, indignation now mixed with desperation. Micki pressed harder. “You know what I think? I think you killed her, Mr. Stone.”

  “What? No—”

  “It was easy. She turned her back on you and—”

  “Ginny needs this job! I was going to talk to Vivianne today. Try to convince her to take her back.”

  His voice broke. “I was sure she’d listen to me.”

  “But she didn’t,” Angelo said softly. “And you lost it.”

  Stone looked up, expression panicked. “I didn’t kill her! I was just—”

  “Just what?”

  “I didn’t have an appointment today. You were right, I added that in my calendar while I was waiting out on the patio. To cover my butt.”

  “Or someone else’s?” Micki offered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ginny had a motive,” Angelo said. “Opportunity, I’d bet.”

  “Ginny couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Micki manufactured a sound of sympathy. “Can you guess the percentage of witnesses and loved ones we hear that from? Close to a hundred percent, Mr. Stone.”

  “But it’s true.” He moved his gaze between them. “Besides, I was with her this morning.”

  “Lovers don’t make good alibis. Especially when they’re both suspects.”

  He went white. “Suspects? That’s nuts! This place is totally wired. The exterior. Public areas. That’s how Vivianne found out about me and Ginny. Check the surveillance tapes, you’ll see neither Ginny nor I were here before I arrived at one o’clock.”

  Video surveillance. Of course. “We plan to review them, Mr. Stone. You’re free to go now, but we’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Four

  3:20 P.M.

  The Stanley’s home security system was badass—the kind stars and politicians installed to protect their homes. The exterior and every public area was wired. Unfortunately, Stanley’s office was not.

  Micki sat in front of the monitors, Angelo beside her. They saw Bitty Vanderlund arrive in her Mercedes sedan, watched her climb out, smoothing her skirt. Typical uptown matron, perfectly assembled in a smart suit and sensible, low-heeled pumps. Pearls at her throat. Clutch bag. Everything about her shouted wealth and position.

  “Rookie move--” Micki said, not taking her gaze from the monitors “--not assuming this place was wired. I can’t believe I let that slip.”

  “Let it go, Dare. Scene techs always check for that. Our focus is questioning witnesses and identifying possible suspects.”

  “Not good enough.” She realized she was thrumming her fingers on her thighs and stilled them. “I expect better of myself.”

  “Relax. Besides, tapes are always last.”

  Because they’re tedious. She got that. But she should have considered electronic surveillance, she should have had that piece in mind as they questioned the housekeeper.

  Which set her teeth on edge. Same as Angelo’s laissez-faire attitude about it did.

  They switched to an interior camera view: Margaret Cook leaving Vanderlund in the front parlor. The woman sat primly, waiting. She looked as threatening as a lap dog.

  Micki started tapping her leg again. Anxious.

  “When’d you say you moved up to Detective Bureau, Dare?”

  “January one.”

  “Not quite two months.”

  She didn’t take her eyes from the monitor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Detective work’s tedious. Dot the i’s, cross the t’s. You seem like a cop who likes action.”

  “And you seem like a cop who doesn’t.”

  Instead of taking offense, he laughed. “True dat.”

  Micki forced her fingers to still again. “How long have you been DIU?”

  “Fifteen years, give or take.”

  On the monitor, Cook collected Vanderlund and escorted her to Vivianne Stanley’s office. A moment later, the door shut and the housekeeper hurried off.

  “Fifteen years,” she repeated. “So you’ve seen just about everything.”

  “Most days it seems that way.” He tapped fast forward. “I’ve seen a lot of good cops get burned out, that’s for sure.”

  “Is that your politically correct way of suggesting I dial it down a notch?”

  “Just trying to help. Fifteen a
dds up to a lot of cases.”

  “Advice noted, Angelo.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  She heard the amusement in his tone and grinned. “I suppose I had that coming--”

  The last died on her lips. On the monitor, Bitty Vanderlund exited Stanley’s office, proper gray suit splattered with blood. Hands, face and legs, also blood spattered. And on her head perched a rhinestone studded crown.

  Stanley’s missing crown.

  Angelo froze the image. “Well, I’ll be damned. What we were talking about before? Yeah, fifteen years, I’ve never seen this.”

  The woman looked pleased with herself. She was smiling—a small smile, turned up at the corners. As she reached the front door, she called out a cheery goodbye, just as the housekeeper said.

  They switched cameras and fast forwarded to Vanderlund climbing into her car and driving off, without even a glance back.

  Micki stood. “We’ve got our girl. Let’s go get her.”

  Chapter Five

  4:00 P.M.

  The Vanderlund residence had the wow of the Stanley’s, but not the history. “New money,” Grandma Roberta used to sneer. As a youngster, Micki had always wondered what that meant. It had taken a long time to understand that kind of ugliness was about the judge, not the subject.

  The Vanderlund housekeeper stared at their shields, then looked at them in surprise. “Mrs. Bitty isn’t here right now.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Micki asked.

  “She had a doctor’s appointment this morning, then planned to visit a friend.”

  “The friend’s name?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  Angelo stepped in. “What time did she leave for that meeting?”

  “Before nine this morning.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. I came in at eight-thirty and she was preparing to go.”

  Micki made a note. “And she hasn’t been back?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Angelo looked up from his notebook. “You say she had a doctor’s appointment? Do you know the doctor’s name?”

  The woman wrung her hands and darted a glance behind her. “Her daughter, Tori, is here. Maybe you should speak with her?”

  “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

  The woman showed them to the front parlor, one similar to the Stanley’s. Micki pictured Bitty Vanderlund sitting there waiting, expression so deceptively . . . pleasant. At that moment, had she been planning to beat the other woman to death? Had the thought, the urge, already been planted in her heart and mind, just waiting to bloom into full carnage?

  Micki stopped the housekeeper on her way out of the room. “One last question. How did she seem this morning?”

  “Mrs. Bitty? Same as always. Sweet and upbeat.”

  “Sweet and upbeat,” Micki repeated as the woman exited. She looked at Angelo, who was busying checking out framed photos placed strategically throughout the room. “Hard to reconcile that description to the blood-soaked woman in the video.”

  “What did you say?”

  Micki turned. A young woman stood in the doorway. Tall, slim and attractive, with a shoulder-length brunette bob. And obviously smart, Micki thought. Some people simply emanated intelligence.

  “Detective Dare,” Micki said, holding up her shield. “This is my partner, Detective Angelo. Are you Bitty Vanderlund’s daughter?”

  “Yes.” She moved her gaze between the two. “Tori Vanderlund. How can I help you?”

  “We’re here about your mother.”

  Alarm raced into her eyes. “What’s wrong? Has she been in an accident?”

  “Not that we know of, Ms. Vanderlund. When do you expect her back?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Why do you need to talk to her?”

  “Do you know Vivianne Stanley?”

  She stiffened. “I do.”

  “I see by your expression you don’t like her.”

  “She’s not a nice person.”

  “Not a nice person,” Micki repeated “Why do you say that?”

  “She’s a snob. And a bigot, by the way. Constantly letting my mother, who’s the sweetest person on the planet, know that in her eyes, she’s not good enough. My mother, who’s kind to everyone, volunteers all her time and—hello—doesn’t look down on anyone because of income, ethnicity, or anything else.”

  The reserved young woman had become passionate. Not with hatred toward Stanley, but in defense of her mother.

  “I’ll never understand why mom keeps working on all that woman’s pet projects.”

  “Was your mother working with Mrs. Stanley on the Queen’s Tea?”

  “Of course not. That’s work fit only for a queen. Or a queen’s hired help,” she finished, voice tight.

  Excited, Micki glanced at Angelo. She might be new to the Detective Bureau, but she’d have to be blind not to see this had motive written all over it. “Your mother must be a big fan of Mardi Gras?”

  Tori Vanderlund folded her arms across her chest, gaze sharpening. “You still haven’t told me what you want with her?”

  “Mrs. Stanley was murdered this morning,” Angelo said.

  “Murdered?” She brought a hand to her chest. “Oh, my God.”

  Micki noticed her fingertips were painted a soft, petal pink. “We understand your mother was there to see her around the same time as the murder.”

  She swayed slightly, grabbing the door casing for support. “Mom wasn’t . . . she wasn’t hurt?”

  “Your mother left the scene unharmed.”

  “Thank God. Thank—” She crossed to the couch and sank onto it. She held her hands up. “Look at me, my hands are shaking.” She dropped them to her lap, visibly pulling herself together. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “We do, Ms. Vanderlund. In fact, we have the perpetrator on surveillance video.”

  “That’s good.” She let out a long breath. “I didn’t like the woman, but that doesn’t mean—” She bit the words back. “But if you have the killer on tape . . . why do you need to talk to my mother?”

  She moved her gaze between them, disbelief growing in her wide eyes. She shook her head. “Ridiculous.”

  “What’s that, Ms. Vanderlund?”

  “That my mother could hurt anyone.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Vanderlund, but the person caught on the surveillance video was your mother.”

  “No,” she said, getting to her feet. “That’s simply not possible.”

  “It’s more than a possibility or speculation.”

  “You’re no longer welcome here, Detectives. Please leave.”

  “There’s no question she did it,” Angelo said softly. “She left the scene covered in blood and wearing Vivianne Stanley’s crown.”

  Micki stepped in. “We have a warrant for her arrest, Ms. Vanderlund. A BOLO has been issued for her and her vehicle, and it’s only a matter of time until we locate her.”

  “And I’m sure,” Angelo added, “you’d like her arrest to be as trauma-free as possible. Help us see that it goes down that way.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Micki turned. Mr. Vanderlund, she presumed. Stationed in the doorway, an indignant thundercloud.

  “Daddy!” The young woman jumped to her feet and ran to his side.

  Micki watched as she was enveloped in her father’s arms. She had never quite come to grips with the southern practice of grown women calling their fathers daddy. But maybe she didn’t understand because she’d never had one.

  Until now, anyway. Hank had become like the father she’d never known.

  But she sure-as-hell wasn’t about to call him daddy.

  “It’s okay, baby,” Vanderlund said, leading his daughter to the couch, cradling her to his side. “I’m here.”

  “They say Mom killed that awful woman!” she cried. “That Vivianne Stanley. They say they have proof!”

  “That’s ridiculous
, sweetheart. Your mother couldn’t hurt a flea. We’ll get this all straightened out, Tori baby.”

  He handed her his handkerchief and shifted his attention to them, gaze settling on Angelo. “You’d better start talking, Detective.”

  While Angelo explained, Micki studied Vanderlund’s expression. Outraged disbelief didn’t quite cover it. It took several minutes to convince him this was for real and that his wife was in deep trouble. The confident and powerful man who had burst into the room seemed to deflate before her eyes.

  “You’re absolutely certain the woman in the video was my Bitty?”

  “One hundred percent, Mr. Vanderlund. I’m so sorry.”

  “What now?” he asked, voice shaking.

  “Anything you could tell us about her state of mind would be helpful.”

  “State of mind,” he repeated. “This morning? She was fine. Cheerful. Positive.”

  “She always is,” Tori whispered. “This isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Your housekeeper said she had a doctor’s appointment this morning.”

  “Yes--” the slightest pause “--with her psychiatrist.”

  “I thought you said she’s always cheerful and positive.”

  “She is. It’s not that. Both her parents passed recently, and with Tori graduating in May, then heading to law school in the fall, she was—” He looked helplessly at his daughter.

  “Lost,” she answered for him, eyes filling with tears. “It’s been a difficult time for her.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, where’re you going to law school, Ms. Vanderlund?”

  “Harvard.”

  She’d been right about the smarts. “Congratulations. The psychiatrist’s name?”

  “Renee Blackwood.”

  Micki made a note. “This morning, did your wife mention Vivianne Stanley? That she meant to stop and see her? Anything at all about her?”

  “Not to me,” Vanderlund said. He looked at his daughter.

  She shook her head. “If she had, I would have told her not to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Mom liked to think they were friends.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “She wanted them to be friends.”

  “But they weren’t?”