by Lois Winston
"Dicky's the first good thing that's ever happened to me," she said as if reading my thoughts.
Of that I had no doubt. I raised my coffee cup in a toast. "Here's to the first of many."
Her eyebrows knit together. "I don't want many boyfriends. I just want Dicky."
"Of many good things in your life."
She blushed. "Oh" Then she raised her coffee cup to meet mine.
Before we could click Styrofoam to Styrofoam, a knock sounded at the door. Batswin entered between my and Erica's simultaneous "Come" and "in," catching us with our cups in mid-toast.
"Celebrating something?"
Erica cringed at the sound of Batswin's voice. Her hand shook so hard, she nearly dropped her cup.
"In a manner of speaking," I said, "but it's personal. Nothing to do with your investigation."
Batswin walked over to the coffeepot and helped herself to a cup. "I'll be the judge of that," she said, her back turned to us.
I glanced at Erica. Her features froze into a tense mask, but I figured it was better to be truthful than to let Batswin assume we had something to hide from her. "Erica has a new boyfriend."
At the sound of new, the terror and tension melted from Erica's face, and she offered me a slight smile. Poor kid. She didn't want Batswin to think she was a loser, that she had never had a boyfriend before Dicky.
Batswin lowered herself into one of the remaining chairs, directly opposite me, her large form appearing less than comfortable squeezed into the cheap molded plastic seat. "Congratulations" She raised her cup toward Erica before taking a long sip.
"Thank you," mumbled Erica.
"Is there something we can help you with, Detective, or did you only come in for a hit of caffeine?" I asked.
Batswin lowered her cup to the table and held it between both her hands. She leveled her midnight eyes at me. I fought back the shiver that threatened to claim my body. Wheels were turning behind those sharp black orbs, and I wasn't sure they were necessar ily the wheels of justice. At least not justice for me, no matter what she said about believing I didn't kill Marlys.
"I just spoke with the coroner," she said.
Erica sank deeper into her chair, as if trying to become invisible. I leaned forward, clutching my coffee cup. "You know who killed Marlys?"
"Not who. What"
"And?"
Batswin's stare grew darker, more pointed. "Marlys Vandenburg was killed with your glue gun, Mrs. Pollack, and the only prints on it are yours."
I COULDN'T WRAP MY mind around the preposterous idea of my trusty hot glue gun as a murder weapon. After all, a glue gun wasn't the weapon of choice for most murderers. Didn't killers tend to favor guns with bullets? You could get a pretty nasty burn from a hot glue gun if you weren't careful, but that was about all.
Unless... "Was she hit over the head with it?" I didn't remember seeing any lumps or bruises on Marlys, but I was too freaked at the time to take inventory.
"She was suffocated with the glue," said Batswin.
Suffocated? With a glue gun? I studied Batswin to see if she was trying to trick me in some way. Her features remained expressionless, a blank expanse between the two dream catchers swaying from her ear lobes.
I voiced my skepticism. "Are you sure the medical examiner didn't inhale one too many whiffs of formaldehyde, Detective?"
"Our coroner is quite competent, Mrs. Pollack. He found Fluni- trazepam in her system. Whoever killed Marlys Vandenburg first knocked her out with the drug, then sealed her mouth and nostrils with glue."
"Eeewwww!" Erica clapped her hands over her mouth and bent forward, making gagging noises.
I tamped down my own urge to gag. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to concentrate on my own breathing, but behind my closed lids I saw Marlys, glue strings streaming from her body like waxy spider webs. No matter how lousy an excuse for a human being, Marlys didn't deserve death by glue gun.
I took a final deep breath and opened my eyes. "What's Fluni- trazepam?" I asked Batswin.
"It's a benzodiazepine, a very potent tranquilizer similar to Valium, only many times stronger. You might know it better as Rohypnol or Roofies."
"The date rape drug?" asked Erica.
"Exactly," said Batswin. "You wouldn't happen to know how it got into your boss's Merlot, would you?"
Erica's eyes grew wide, her face filled with horror. "I didn't do it!"
"I'm not saying you did, Miss Milano"
"We don't keep alcohol in the office. It's against company policy.
"You always follow the rules?"
Erica cringed as if Batswin had slapped her. With her eyes averted, her voice timid and defensive, she answered, "Of course. I don't want to get fired."
"Not that rules ever stopped Marlys," I said. "She may have kept a bottle in her office."
Erica turned to look at me and shook her head. "I would have known."
I challenged Batswin, "Seems to me your killer is whoever shared a drink with Marlys last night, and that certainly wasn't me or Erica. Marlys wouldn't stoop to socializing with either of us."
"Mrs. Pollack, why do you keep handing me reasons to suspect you?"
I was beginning to wonder what the police academy taught in Basic Detectiving 101. Maybe Batswin needed a refresher course. Or a copy of The Dunderhead's Step-by-Step Guide to How to Catch a Killer.
"Being dissed by a snob isn't grounds for murder, Detective. At least not as far as I'm concerned. Why are you wasting your time with me when you should be finding out who Marlys was with last night? By now the real killer is probably skinny-dipping in Aruba."
Detective Batswin leaned across the table. "Are you telling me how to do my job, Mrs. Pollack?"
"Heaven forbid, Detective. I have enough problems of my own.
"So you've mentioned."
That's when it hit me. Batswin wanted to wrap this case up as soon as possible. Whether she had the real killer or not. In her eyes I had motive, opportunity, and the murder weapon at my disposal. Why look any further?
I was getting the distinct impression that Batswin's latest theory involved Erica and me in cahoots to bump off Marlys. Erica drugged her. Then together we dragged her body into my office, where I went to work with my handy-dandy, trusty hot glue gun.
Tie a red satin bow around us and hand us over to the district attorney. Case closed.
I almost laughed at the absurdity except that Batswin sounded dead serious. Pun intended. With so little violent crime in Morris County, how many murders had she actually investigated, let alone solved?
I had no desire to spend the next thirty or forty years dressed in a neon orange jumpsuit as a guest of the state of New Jersey. If I wanted to save my tush, I needed to find the real killer. And fast. After all, I didn't have any money for a defense attorney.
Maybe I needed a copy of The Dunderhead's Step-by-Step Guide to How to Catch a Killer.
First, though, I needed a computer, and since Batswin and Robbins had locked mine up in the Morris County hoosegow, I borrowed Cloris's. In exchange, I caught her up on my latest interrogation by Batswin and Erica's bombshell of a boyfriend announcement.
"That's crazy," she said around a mouthful of angel food cake, one of the spares from her early morning wedding cake photo shoot for the June issue.
I eyed the cake sitting on the counter. My mouth watered. My Carb Junkie Gene shouted, "Feed me!" but I ignored its screams.
"What's crazy? Me bumping off Marlys with my trusty Smith and Wesson glue gun or Erica having a boyfriend?"
She shoveled another forkful of cake into her mouth. "Both, come to think of it. What would you have to gain by killing Marlys?"
"Money."
She nearly choked on her cake, reached for a cup of coffee, and raised one eyebrow high enough that it disappeared under her wispy gingerbread-colored bangs. "Want to explain that one?" she asked after washing the cake down with a gulp of java sludge.
Not really. I had hoped to keep Karl's financial infide
lity a secret from my coworkers, but since Batswin and Robbins now knew about my money mess and Ricardo's fifty-thousand-dollars-orelse demand, I figured it wouldn't be long before word spread.
I gave Cloris the Reader's Digest condensed version.
"So the dynamic detective duo think you killed Marlys for the diamonds to pay off Ricardo?"
"Looks that way."
"Those diamonds were worth a hell of a lot more than fifty grand."
"Which would certainly get me out of the financial quagmire Karl created."
Cloris groaned. "You do have a problem." She placed her plate on the table and leaned over my shoulder as I scrolled down a page of book titles listed on barnesandnoble.com. "How can I help?"
I glanced over my shoulder. "Are you serious?"
"Of course, Sherlock." She stepped over to the counter and sliced herself another helping of wedding cake. "I know you didn't kill Marlys. Want some?"
"Thanks. For both the offer of help and the cake." I turned my attention back to the website. "Okay, Doctor Watson, now all we need to do is learn how to snare ourselves a murderer."
"On the Barnes and Noble website?"
"I'm looking for The Dunderhead's Step-by-Step Guide to How to Catch a Killer."
"Is there such a book?"
I focused on the screen. "Apparently not. They've got everything else, including a completely illustrated, step-by-step guide to becoming a clairvoyant."
"That could work."
"I wish."
I exited the website, and grabbed the plate of wedding cake Cloris had cut for me. In the great diet game of life the score was Carb Junkie Genes one, Anastasia's Willpower zero.
"So now what?" asked Cloris.
"You bake me a cake with a file in it?"
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
"Let's hope what doesn't come to what?"
Cloris and I exchanged a quick glance and turned to find Naomi standing at the cubicle entrance. She wore a deep plum two-piece Dior suit and as usual, looked Grace-Kelly-elegant. But then again, Naomi was the kind of woman who'd look GraceKelly-elegant in Lucille's ratty chenille robe. No Carb Junkie Gene allowed in Naomi's family tree.
Behind her, Kim, her ever-present, ever-efficient assistant, clutched a stack of papers while talking on a portable phone she held in place with her shoulder. With her free hand she jotted notes on a legal pad.
Kim could juggle seventeen tasks at once and never break a sweat. Never show the slightest sign of frazzledom on that pert, freckled face of hers. I figured beside a combination of Chinese and Irish genes, she had to have a sprinkling of Speedy Gonzales in her blood line.
I also couldn't help but notice the serenity that emanated from Naomi this morning. I wondered if Grace Kelly had ever played a nun or a saint. If so, she would have looked exactly like Naomi looked at that moment.
Gone was the thick coil of tension that had snaked around her from the day Hugo brought Marlys aboard. Coincidence? Or something else?
I shook the thought of Naomi committing murder from my head and answered her with a lie I hoped she couldn't see through. "I'm having a bit of a problem getting my computer back from the police."
She turned to Kim. "See what you can do to expedite getting Anastasia's computer released."
Kim nodded as she continued to listen to the caller and take notes.
Naomi turned back to me. "How much of a problem do we have?"
"None as far as editorial. I have everything backed up on the server.
"Good. I'll get IT to hook up another computer for you. What time are you shooting today?"
"That's the problem." I grimaced as she raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. "I had to cancel the photo session. The police also took the models for the June spread. I had planned to finish the final pieces last night..." I shrugged instead of finishing my sentence. Naomi knew all about last night.
"So now we have no models to shoot?"
"Exactly. Either we reschedule photography or pick up projects from an old issue."
I knew the latter was not an option. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor wind, nor murder in the dead of night would cause Naomi to run an old column or project. In the cut-throat world of women's magazine publishing, Rule Number One was: Never give your readers any reason to switch to a competitor's publication. And readers got really pissed when they plunked down three-fifty at the supermarket check-out counter only to get home to find the new issue contained repeats from past issues.
"Can you get new models made by the end of the day?" asked Naomi.
Not wanting to tarnish my miracle worker image-or jeopardize my job-I agreed. Even if I was at the same time kicking myself for being so accommodating.
"Fine. We'll shoot first thing tomorrow morning." She turned to Kim. "Take care of rescheduling."
Kim continued to listen and jot as she once again nodded, her shoulder length hair sweeping back and forth like an auburn silk curtain.
"By the way," said Naomi, "I'm going to give Erica a shot at Marlys's job."
Cloris and I exchanged glances.
Naomi cocked her head, waiting for some comment from either of us, but we were both speechless. "Either of you see a problem with that?"
"Not me," said Cloris.
"I suppose it makes sense," I said. "Erica always did most of Marlys's work anyway."
"But?"
Cloris wrinkled her nose. "But behind the scenes. She's a glaring Fashion Don't."
"With zero self-esteem," I added. "There's no way she'd survive the vultures of Seventh Avenue. And what about Fashion Week?"
"The press and tabloids will use her for target practice," said Cloris.
"But instead of arrows, they'll pierce her heart with a volley of Manolo Blahnik stilettos," I said.
"Right," said Cloris. "Don't get us wrong, Naomi. We all like Erica, but she's not exactly anyone's idea of a fashionista"
Naomi offered up one of her serene Grace Kelly smiles. "She will be."
"What do you mean?"
"Have faith." Naomi turned and headed down the hall, waving her Movado clad wrist in the air, Kim scurrying behind her. "Ciao, ladies. Let's get back to work."
I groaned.
"What?" asked Cloris. "You worried about Erica?"
"Right now I'm more worried about myself. I was hoping Naomi would cave for once and let me pull a wedding spread from an old issue. I didn't get to bed until nearly three last night."
And now besides crafting several pairs of bridal tennies, I'd have to remake three dozen birdseed roses before tomorrow morning.
Since I couldn't work at the office until Kim bailed my supplies and models out of the brig, I headed home, stopping along the way to pick up replacement materials for both projects.
I had planned to spend the evening cleaning out the apartment above the garage for the new tenant, but that would have to wait. At least I still had three more days before he moved in, as long as no new disasters hit between now and then. Too bad I couldn't appropriate a few of Kim's Speedy Gonzales genes.
Between the commuting time and a stop at A.C. Moore for supplies, I didn't arrive home until nearly two o'clock. Two police cruisers were parked in front of my house.
A million possibilities raced through my brain. None of them good. All of them somehow or other connected to the recurring theme of what-else-had-Karl-done?
I COULDN'T BLAME THIS additional dose of Bad Luckitis on my dearly departed husband, though. In a classic case of Murphy's Law, some entrepreneurial burglar had decided to do a little postChristmas shopping and chose the Pollack homestead over bucking the traffic at the local mall.
"He did a real number on your place," said a lumbering uniformed officer who met me at the door. His name badge read Fogarty. He ushered me around a puddle of orange and white glop that covered my foyer floor and led me into my ransacked living room.
"Lucky me."
"Huh?"
"Forgive my sarcasm," I said. "I'm having a really
bad week."
Avoiding eye contact, he shuffled his oversized black Oxfords on my hardwood floor. "Uhm ... right. Your mother mentioned your recent loss."
I turned my attention to Mama. She sat on the sofa, her clasped hands shaking in her lap. A second officer, an older man whose name badge read Harley, sat beside her, his pencil stub poised over a small notebook. I guess even in the wealthier suburbs pencil stubs and small, lined notepads were standard issue. Made me wonder just what my local taxes paid for.
I crossed the room and knelt beside my mother. "Mama, are you all right?"
"Oh, Anastasia, it was awful. Simply awful."
"You were here?"
"I was coming back from visiting that dear, sweet Bernadette McPhearson down the street. Her brother recently lost his wife, you know."
"You saw him?"
"Her brother? No dear. He lives way up in Moosehead, Maine. Or was it New Hampshire? I'm so rattled, now I forget what Bernadette said."
"Not her brother, Mama. The burglar."
"The burglar? Of course I saw him. He nearly trampled me on his way out! Knocked Bernadette's Ambrosia Surprise right out of my hands. And after she went to all that trouble to make it for you and the boys."
That explained the mysterious orange and white glop on the floor.
"At least I prevented him from stealing anything," said Mama. "He ran out empty-handed"
"Did he hurt you?"
She shook her head. "Scared the bejeebers out of me at first, but I think I scared him more."
"From the way he tossed the place," said Officer Fogarty, "it appears he was searching for something specific."
"What do you mean?"
"Either that or he was more interested in vandalizing than stealing. I don't see any evidence of missing electronics equipment. All the computers, stereos, and TVs are still plugged in. You'll have to check to see if he grabbed any of your jewelry or any cash you have around the house. And check out the stuff you keep in the garage and the apartment above it. Looks like he ransacked those before he hit the house. But again, from what I could see, nothing's missing."
