Dead Certain

by Mariah Stewart

  People often committed murder in the heat of the moment, he could have reminded her.

  So here he had a prime suspect. She had motive. She had opportunity. After all, he had only her word that Derek had not arrived at her house that night.

  He heard his name and snapped out of the zone he’d drifted into.

  “Chief Mercer, since you’re here, perhaps you’d like to add something to what I’ve said?” She stood with her hands on her hips, her voice just slightly mocking, as if confident that she knew as much—maybe more—about this particular crime as he did.

  “No, I think you’ve about covered it all.” He nodded. “I can’t think of a thing to add.”

  “Perhaps you could run through the process by which a victim might obtain a protection from abuse order?”

  “Oh. Well, sure . . .”

  She gestured for him to join her at the front of the room. He cursed her silently as he made his way up the aisle. He really hadn’t been prepared for this, had wanted to attend tonight only to watch her, see what he could learn about her. He didn’t appreciate being pulled into the spotlight.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you can add to what we’ve already discussed about what you should do if you suspect you’re being stalked?” She smiled sweetly. “After all, you are the expert.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, he shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, I think the advice you gave—document the incidents—is really important.”

  “And if one were interested in obtaining a protection from abuse order, how would one go about doing that?”

  “You come right on down to the station, bringing everything—tapes, photos, whatever you have—and I’ll get in touch with the district attorney’s office. We’ll help you put the wheels in motion.”

  “But what if you don’t have any documentation? What if there are no answering machine tapes, for example?”

  “You can always record the dates and times you received the calls. Use the return call feature on your phone to see if the number can be traced. Make a note of it. In some areas you can report the call directly to the police by dialing a specific number. And if you haven’t done any of those things, just bring yourself in and tell me what’s been going on. We’ll do our best to help you. Of course, it’s easier if we know who the stalker is.” He looked directly at Amanda. “Things get a bit dicier if we’re starting from scratch, trying to figure out who an anonymous caller is, for example.”

  “Questions for the chief?” Amanda moved right past that last remark.

  Q and A ran out the rest of the clock. Some were starting to get a little antsy to leave, and Amanda had announced they’d run past time by twenty minutes. She closed by reminding them that if they suspected that someone’s attention was becoming a bit more than they could deal with, they should talk to someone.

  “If there’s no one else, you can always talk to me,” she assured them. “My phone number is right there at the top of the first sheet.”

  Several of the women in attendance stopped on their way to the door to tell Amanda how informative her talk had been, or to relate a story, or just to thank her for giving them a way to fight back through the legal system. When the last of the group had filed out, Amanda turned to Sean and said, “I’m assuming that you didn’t hang around because you wanted some tips on what to do if someone starts leaving unwanted gifts in your mailbox.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, she said, “I know that you talked with my friends today. With Iona and with Marian. I know what they told you. I’m not going to deny it, so leave them both out of it, okay? I mean, Iona is so upset. She’s positive I’m going to be arrested for Derek’s murder because of what she said.”

  Her hands shook slightly with barely repressed anger. “I understand why you spoke with them. I understand why you felt it was necessary to lean on them. My brother’s a cop, remember? I know the drill.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. “But don’t upset them anymore, all right? You have the voice mail I left for Derek. You know what I said.” She slammed her leather binder that held her notes and extra copies of her handouts on the table and glared at him. “I did say it. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t even see Derek that night.”

  “We only have your word of that.”

  Color flushed her cheeks. “I’m not used to being called a liar.” She gathered her things to leave. “I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not calling you a liar, Ms. Crosby, but the truth is, I don’t know what happened that night.”

  “Neither do I. But it seems to me that you’re spending an awful lot of time trying to fit me into the scenario when you could be looking for the real killer.”

  “We have every available officer working on this case, looking for leads. Actually, that’s why I’m here tonight.”

  She stopped near the door and turned. He was closer behind her than she’d expected him to be. Somehow he looked bigger, more formidable, in jeans and a shirt than he did in his uniform. She took a short step back without realizing she’d done so.

  “You mentioned that Derek told you he had a buyer for the goblet. Have you given any thought who that might have been?”

  “Yes, and I haven’t been able to come up with anyone. You’d think that if someone was waiting for it, they’d call and ask me about it. Unfortunately, I don’t know who all his clients were.”

  “His clients? I thought you co-owned the business.”

  “We are—were—equal partners. But we each had some of our own clients, people for whom we shopped for specific items. For example, I have several customers who like certain kinds of art pottery. When I go to sales, I’ll look for pieces I know they don’t have and would want. I know they’ll buy what I bring them. Derek was the same. There are some who deal directly with him.”

  “But you don’t have a list of his customers.”

  “No. I know he kept an address book. And I can go through the Rolodex. Maybe he made some comments on some of the cards. You know, Has no conscience, is willing to buy black market—that sort of thing. I can make a list for you.”

  “Call me when you get it together. I’m going to want to talk to everyone on that list as soon as possible.”

  “Or maybe . . .” She hesitated. “Maybe Derek kept some of the information on the computer.”

  “Mr. Lehmann said Derek didn’t own a computer.”

  “He didn’t. He used my laptop when he came into the shop. He kept his sales records on disks.”

  “Where’s your laptop now?”

  “In my car. But the disks are at the shop.”

  “Can I stop by and pick them up tomorrow? I have a few appointments in the morning, but I’ll be free around four.”

  “Just in time for tea.” She smiled weakly. “I’ll look over the names and see if any of them stand out for any reason.”

  “Great. I guess we’re done here, then?” He paused in the doorway.

  “Yes. If you’d just snap off the light . . . thanks.”

  They walked down the dimly lit hall together, their shoes making tiny squeaky sounds on the tile floor.

  “I stopped in to see your old friend Lowell this morning.”

  “You did?” She frowned. “When were you going to tell me that?”

  “I just did.”

  They had reached the front entrance. Sean waved to the guard as he held the door open for Amanda. He followed her through it.

  “And . . . ?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, there was an odd vibe there. At first, he seemed genuinely shocked when I told him that it was starting to look like someone was stalking you.”

  “Maybe he was acting.”

  “You’ve met Archer Lowell. You think he’s that good an actor?”

  “You have a point. Where does the odd vibe come in?”

  “All of a sudden, it was like he had a little light go on someplace.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. And as slow
as he is . . .”

  “Any little bit of light looks like a beacon.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, what was it you said that might have set that off?”

  “I’m not sure.” Sean stopped at the back of her car while she unlocked it. “We were talking about the roses and how the public had not been informed that he’d left roses at your house. He says he never told anyone that he’d done that.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then again, maybe he just got a thrill thinking about me again,” she said dryly.

  “Not to disappoint you, but he doesn’t seem all that interested in you anymore.”

  “Shucks. Ya think there’s another woman in his life now?”

  “Well, you know, there are a lot of women who are attracted to men who wear a uniform.”

  “Personal experience, Chief?”

  “Nah. I wish,” he laughed self-consciously.

  She opened the driver’s side door and leaned in to drop her things onto the passenger’s seat.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re not wanting for female companionship.” She smiled. Like that hot-looking redhead with all those tattoos.

  “I haven’t had a whole lot of time lately for female companionship.”

  She slid behind the wheel of the car without comment. She knew better. “Well, Chief, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  He nodded and slammed her car door for her. She rolled down the window and put the car in gear.

  “Chief Mercer,” she said just as he turned to walk to his own car two rows down. “Do you think I did it? Do you think I killed Derek?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he told her. “The only thing that matters is what the evidence shows.”

  “Thanks. Always good to know where you stand.”

  “Be careful driving home, Ms. Crosby.”

  “Thanks.”

  She was halfway home when she realized he was following her. When she pulled into her drive, he parked across the street in the shadow of a long hedge. Going into the house, she ignored his presence and the blinking light on her answering machine and went into the kitchen to rummage for something to replace the dinner she hadn’t had time to eat that night, thinking that while the woman she was today was far better equipped to deal with a possible stalker situation than she’d been a year ago, it still gave her some measure of comfort to know that someone was watching her back.

  There was something coolly reassuring about Chief Sean Mercer, with his deep dark eyes and soft voice and his way of looking at you that could stop you cold. If she were a bad guy and he turned that gaze on her, she’d abandon any plans to break the law.

  Of course, she reminded herself ruefully, he had turned that gaze on her. On several occasions. But she’d been able to meet him head-on. She was innocent. She should have nothing to fear.

  Oh, but the thought that she might be a suspect in Derek’s death was unbearably painful. That Sean Mercer could believe she might be a murderer somehow made the cut that much deeper. Well, she’d just have to do whatever she had to to prove her innocence and, at the same time, turn over every stone in search of Derek’s killer.

  Maybe Mercer was right. Maybe there was a connection to the goblet. Maybe she’d been wrong to dismiss the possibility so quickly. Tomorrow she’d find Derek’s client list. If she had to call everyone in his address book, everyone on his Rolodex, everyone he’d ever made a sale to, she’d track down the person he had in mind to sell the goblet to. Then she’d do whatever it took to find out just how badly he—or she—wanted it.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  For the first time in all the years she’d been in business, Amanda was happy to have no customers in the shop to distract her. She’d awakened a little before five that morning, eager to begin going through the lists of Derek’s customers in the hope of identifying a possible buyer for the goblet. She showered, then breakfasted on an English muffin and some chocolate yogurt, planning on stopping at the convenience store at the end of her street for coffee on her way to St. Mark’s. Dressed in a denim skirt and a yellow cotton twin set, she slipped into flat leather sandals and out the door.

  The sun was barely up and the grass still wet and slick with dew. Her feet kicked up dots of water that tossed themselves onto the backs of her legs as she walked to the end of the driveway to pick up her morning newspaper. The air was rich with the scent of apples from the trees on her neighbor’s property and the sweet autumn clematis that covered one side of her garage and had just started to bloom. It was still warm, but there was no question that summer, however reluctantly, was slipping away.

  Amanda pulled into the parking lot at St. Mark’s, expecting to be the first of the shopkeepers to arrive, and was surprised to see Marian’s car already there.

  She must have gotten in touch with her out-of-town buyer for the miniature, Amanda supposed as she walked to the front of her own shop, keys in one hand, coffee in the other. Before sliding the key into the lock, she tried Marian’s door, but it was locked. She peeked through the front window but couldn’t see anyone inside. There was a light on in Marian’s office in the back of the shop, however, and Amanda assumed she was there, perhaps doing paperwork or preparing a new display. Amanda returned to her own door, thinking she’d work for a while and then give Marian a call later on in the morning to share some break time, as they often did.

  Derek’s disks were in the top desk drawer, stacked in no particular order. Amanda booted up her laptop, popped in a disk, and, one by one, scanned the files wherein her late partner had recorded all his sales transactions. Not finding anything that rang a bell, she went on to the next disk, then the third, which contained a list of all of Derek’s customers. Thinking this list might be more useful, she sat down at the desk and sipped at the last of her coffee while she scrolled through the names. Next to each, Derek had typed in the customer’s preferences. She went from J. Adams, early American stoneware, to H. Zelinski, Mission Oak. The nearest she’d come to a notation of anything even remotely akin to the goblet was K. Minnette, Turkish bronzes.

  A search through the remaining disks didn’t seem to be any more useful. Maybe Derek’s intended customer was another dealer, she theorized. Maybe one of his contacts in New York or Chicago or Boston . . .

  Amanda raised the coffee cup to her lips and realized it was empty. Frowning, she decided now was as good a time as any to take a break. She’d been working since six-thirty, and it was now closing in on eleven. She walked to the front of the shop and opened the door to take in a bit of the morning. It was then that she noticed that the CLOSED sign was still hanging on Marian’s door.

  She tapped on the window. When there was no response, Amanda rang the bell, which she’d been hesitant to do, because Marian said the sound of it always startled her. When the bell went unanswered, Amanda went back to her own shop and dialed Marian’s number. When there was no answer, she searched the top drawer of her desk for the spare key Marian had asked her to keep on hand for the inevitable day when Marian forgot her own. Amanda returned to Marian’s shop and unlocked the door.

  “Marian?” Amanda called from the doorway.

  She’d gone but three steps into the shop when she realized that something was wrong. Something smelled wrong.

  Tiny inner alarms began to clang with increasing intensity as she made her way toward the back of the shop. The door to Marian’s office was partially closed, but she could see a sliver of light spilling out under it. Light deepened in spots by something else. Something dark.

  Even as she pushed against the door, the hairs on the back of her neck, on her arms, began to rise.

  “Marian?”

  She pushed again and fell forward, landing partly on what was left of Marian O’Connor.

  “Marian . . . Oh my God, no . . . oh my God . . .”

  Her hands covering her mouth, Amanda scrambled away from the body. She rose on shaking legs and
backed into the main room, oblivious to the blood that clung to her face, her hands, her clothes.

  Gagging, knees about to give out on her, Amanda stumbled toward the counter, searching for the phone. She found it on the shelf behind the cash register, where it usually sat, but couldn’t make her fingers punch in the three numbers that would bring the police. Over and over she tried, until she finally was able to hit 911. When the dispatcher picked up, Amanda was barely coherent. By the time Sean Mercer arrived, she’d already been sick twice and was barely able to string two words together to make a sentence.

  “Try to tell me what happened.” Mercer had taken her outside, away from the gore, away from the bloodied body of the woman who had been her friend. He sat with her on the bench outside Marian’s shop, waiting for the medical examiner to arrive. “Take your time, Amanda. You’ve had a terrible shock. Take a deep breath, and tell me what you saw.”

  “She didn’t answer the door. So I used my key—she’d given me a key. I went in and I called her but she didn’t answer and I saw the light from her office and I went back there but there was something on the floor and I couldn’t get the door open. . . .” She wished she could stop rambling but didn’t seem able to focus. “I pushed on the door. I pushed and I fell. She was on the floor and I fell on her.”

  “Take another deep breath. Go on. Okay, let’s start again,” Sean said softly. “What time did you get to your shop this morning?”

  “Around six-thirty.”

  “Any idea what time Marian O’Connor arrived?”

  “No. She was here. Her car was already in the lot. . . .”

  “So she arrived before six-thirty.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t open till ten. But she bought some things at a sale the other day and was eager to turn them over. She was excited. She said she had clients who’d want certain of the pieces. She’d make a great profit, and she was so pleased with herself.”

  “These pieces—were they similar in any way to the goblet?”