by Terry Odell
Scott looked at the selection of DVDs in the television cabinet. “Both, apparently.”
“Another check in the homicide column.” Kovak said.
Scott crossed to the closet. He paused at the half-open door. There was a light switch on the outside wall, and he flipped it on, standing at the threshold. Breathing. Collecting himself.
It’s a clothes closet, asshole. Do your job.
“Anything?” Kovak asked.
Hearing the detective’s voice snapped Scott into the present. He stepped inside, ignoring the sweat trickling down his spine. Exercise attire, including at least five different kinds of shoes. Boxes, neatly labeled, filled the shelf above the clothes rod. He reached up and wrestled down one marked Sweaters and handed it to Kovak, who opened it and peered inside.
“Well, what do you know?” he said. “It’s full of sweaters.”
After they opened a couple more, labeled Hats and Scarves, Scott said, “I’m going out on a limb here and saying the rest of these are going to contain exactly what they say they do.”
“We need to find her phone, or address book, or whatever she used to keep track of things,” Kovak said. “That might lead us to the boyfriends.” He looked at Scott like a kid waiting for approval.
“Makes sense. She’s converted what was a breakfast nook to a home office. That’s probably where she keeps everything.”
Everything, aside from pens, pencils and typical desk detritus, turned out to be a laptop and two flash drives. No cell phone. They hadn’t found a purse with the body, and a search of the apartment revealed a few empty ones in her closet. The everyday female catch-all was conspicuous in its absence.
“What woman doesn’t take a purse with her when she goes out?” Kovak asked. “Janie would have to be surgically removed from hers. So if it’s not here, and wasn’t with the body—”
“Then it’s likely the killer took it.”
“I guess we’ll take her laptop and let the geeks see what they can find.”
“Better them than me,” Scott said.
After bagging and tagging the flash drives, they took them, along with the laptop, to Kovak’s car.
“Where to?” Kovak asked.
“It’s your case,” Scott said. “But if you’re asking for my advice, I’d head to the victim’s store.”
“Yeah, she probably has a lot more records there.”
Arriving at the tea shop, Kovak slipped his unit into a slot on the street. Although Felicitea had a “Closed” sign in the window, a moving shadow indicated someone was inside.
Kovak unsnapped his holster again. “Wait here.” He left the engine running and strode to the door. Standing to one side, he pushed on the handle. Must have been locked, because he pounded on the glass. “Pine Hills Police.”
The door opened, revealing a slender woman. Five-six, mid-twenties. A short cap of light brown curls framed her face. Kovak said something, the woman frowned, fisted her hands at her hips. Shook her head, but opened the door wider and stepped aside.
Scott flipped the engine off and joined the pair inside the shop.
“Scott Whelan, meet Paige Haeber. She worked for Felicity Markham.”
“I have every right to be here,” she said. “Felicity owed me money. I want what’s mine.”
“And I’m sure you’ll get it,” Kovak said. “Right now, though, you shouldn’t be interfering with our investigation.”
“Interfering? I’m not doing anything wrong. I work here.” She paused. Frowned. “At least I did work here.” She tilted her head. “I don’t suppose I can keep things running?”
“That’s something the lawyers will have to work out,” Kovak said. “Meanwhile, we have a few questions. We can do it at the station, or we can go to Sadie’s for coffee.”
Paige crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t drink coffee.”
***
Ashley stared at the man standing in front of her, aware her mouth gaped. Pig was all she could think. Little eyes, fat nose. Sausage fingers. “What?”
He cleared his throat, a snorting sound that added to the image. “I said, what was it like—?”
Fury mounted, threatening to erupt like a pan of melting chocolate left unattended on too high a heat. “I know what you said. I can’t believe you’d actually have the nerve to come here and shove that recorder in my face and ask the stupidest question imaginable. A woman died. A young woman. What do you think it felt like? How many dead bodies have shown up where you work? How would you feel?”
Distantly aware that she needed to stop talking before this … this porky little man had enough ammunition to put together a quote taken totally out of context, she waited until her brain caught up with her mouth.
Porky the Reporter stood there like a deer caught in the headlights. Okay, so she was mixing her analogies. Did pigs freeze when they got caught in the headlights? And why would pigs be anywhere there were headlights to begin with.
Get a grip.
She clenched her fists, but forced the rest of her to relax. “Mr.—?”
“Vossler. Howard Vossler.”
“Right. Mr. Vossler. You can tell your readers that I’m greatly saddened by the death of Felicity Markham, and I offer my condolences to her family.”
“How well did you know her? Why do you think she died in your establishment?”
“I hardly knew her, other than as a fellow merchant in Pine Hills. And I’m sure the police are working diligently to uncover all the circumstances of her death.”
“Speaking of the police—”
“I think your questions might be better directed there, Mr. Vossler. If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” She reached for the door and started swinging it closed.
He grabbed the edge. “One more quote, please Miss Eagan. Are you still planning your grand opening?”
Should she answer? Would it sound like she was using Felicity’s death as a publicity stunt? But she wasn’t going to delay the opening, and was it so terrible to have her bakery mentioned in the paper? Hadn’t Scott said that people would come because of Felicity’s death?
She schooled her features into a sad, but calm expression. “The police have taken down the crime scene tape, Mr. Vossler. I’m sure you know that means there’s no official reason to postpone my opening. Everything will go on as scheduled.”
This time, she swung the door with enough force to make Porky the Reporter jump back.
She stood, frozen to the spot, until her heart stopped its frantic pounding and her knees stopped shaking.
Another half hour of scrubbing couldn’t erase the fear that all her hard work and sacrifices had been for nothing. That somehow, Porky the Reporter would ruin her business.
No way was she crawling back home, where her father would pull strings so she could work for his cousin Norm. She’d flip burgers before that would happen.
After stowing her cleaning supplies, she locked up and went to the grocery store for one more batch of ingredients. If nothing else, the Pine Hills Police Department would have the best dessert spread in the history of the town.
Arms filled with her purchases, Ashley shouldered open the door to her apartment building. Mr. Spencer intercepted her before she could get to the elevator. “You’re quite the popular tenant, Miss Eagan.”
“What?”
“Had at least five people wanting to talk to you. Can’t say that I appreciate them knocking at my door.”
Her heart jumped to her throat. “Who? When? What did you tell them?”
“Reporters, I think. At least the first two were. After the third, I stopped answering the door, but they started calling on the phone. When they couldn’t find you, they wanted to know what I knew about a dead body. What kind of a tenant you were.” He scowled. “None of their damn—excuse me—darn business. Told ‘em you never caused any trouble, I didn’t know where you were, and your business was your own.”
“Thanks, Mr. Spencer. And I’m sorry you got pulled into this
.”
“Not your fault. By the way, I went upstairs about an hour ago, to check on things. Found one camped out by your door. Told him I’d call the cops if he didn’t vacate the premises.”
“You said five people? But Pine Hills only has a weekly paper. And no television stations. Where did they come from?”
“Salem, probably.” He shoved his glasses up his nose. “Thought I ought to let you know. Might not want to answer your door. At least not without making sure you know who’s on the other side.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.”
Mr. Spencer reached for one of her canvas grocery bags. “Let me help you with those.”
“I can manage.”
“No trouble at all,” he said. “I have to check the laundry room on three, anyway.”
Before she could protest, he took one of her bags and pressed the elevator button, pointedly avoiding her gaze.
She’d always considered him a watered-down male version of Maggie, with less busybody and more grandparent. But he’d never really paid her much attention, nor she him. He seemed to care more about the building than the actual people who lived in it. She and Mr. Spencer exchanged nods and polite greetings when their paths crossed, rarely anything more.
The elevator opened and he pressed the button for her floor. He glanced her way, then shifted his gaze to the display. She took the time to study him as a person, not as Mr. Spencer, the manager. Tall, lean, white hair with a matching goatee. Definitely grandfatherly. It dawned on her that he didn’t have any tools or supplies. She wondered if he really needed to check the laundry room. He shot her another quick glance, then cleared his throat. The chime dinged. The doors opened. He preceded her out of the elevator, peering down the hall toward her apartment.
He’s protecting you.
Thankful the hallway was empty, she followed him to her door. She unlocked it, then took her bag from Mr. Spencer. “Thanks again.”
He nodded, then walked toward the elevator. Not the laundry room. Warmth suffused her. Her eyes misted. She made a mental note to bring him a platter of goodies when she finished baking.
She set her bags on her island counter, then locked her door, exhaling deeply as the deadbolt snicked into place. Her hands shook as she separated the first egg for her chocolate Pavé, but by the third, the familiar routine had settled her. She was midway through the prep when she noticed the seventeen messages on her answering machine. Reporters? The police? Her stomach clenched. Should she bother checking them? She’d been using her cell phone for her business contacts. But what if it was important—what if something had happened to her family?
Knowing her curiosity would nag at her until she knew, despite being virtually positive she already did, she walked over to the machine and pressed the button. But to prove to herself she didn’t really care, she went back to work, adding softened butter to her chocolate, egg and sugars, pretending that if she wasn’t hovering over the answering machine, it wasn’t like she thought the messages were important.
Yeah, right.
She sampled one of the brandied cherries destined for the Pavé. Definitely packed a kick. After she tipped them into the bowl, she paused. Would there be a problem serving this to police officers? She’d have to check with Scott.
And what was he doing? Would he have some answers when he got home?
A man’s voice, vaguely familiar, coming from the answering machine interrupted her thoughts.
“Miss Eagan? This is Willie Duncan. I think maybe there’s something you ought to know about. Please call me.”
Chapter 13
Scott shot Kovak a questioning look as the threesome walked toward Kovak’s car. Did the detective want him to sit in on the interview with Paige Haeber? There was probably a lot of information to be gleaned from an inspection of the tea shop, but since officially, Scott wasn’t anything more than a consultant, Kovak shouldn’t leave him here to investigate on his own.
Paige had locked the shop, and Scott figured things ought to be secure until they could get back. Back on the job, he’d have left a cop to make sure nobody got into the place.
He eased himself into the passenger seat of Kovak’s Stratus and let the detective settle Paige into the backseat. Kovak hadn’t cuffed her—she’d seemed cooperative enough—but the hair on the back of Scott’s neck prickled, and he was glad for the partition between them.
At the station, Kovak put Paige into an interview room, then motioned for Scott to follow him to his office. “How do you want to play this?”
Scott shrugged. “It’s your case. I’m the humble consultant.”
Kovak sat behind his desk and pulled out two notepads and pens. “I’m consulting you. You want to do the good cop-bad cop thing, or a straight interview?”
“You think she’s anything more than a disgruntled employee?”
Kovak narrowed his eyes. “Unlike the court system, I thought we assumed everyone was guilty until we prove them innocent.”
Scott chuckled. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. How do you and your partner normally handle things?”
Kovak gave a wry smile. “Since we don’t normally deal with homicide, we’re usually playing solo. Mostly we kick things around, but we handle our own interviews. In this case, I don’t want any Ts uncrossed or Is undotted.”
“Understood. I don’t think there’s any reason to badger her. Unless she turns out to be hinky. How about you run the interview, and I’ll chime in if I think it’ll help.”
Kovak stood. “Sounds like a plan.”
“You want me to grab some water? I’ll join you in about ten minutes. Give her time to stew.”
Kovak grinned. “The old water bottle trick. You’re planning to grab her prints. You think she’s got a fake ID?”
Scott returned the smile. “You’re the one who said guilty until proven innocent. Might as well run a background check and make sure everything matches.”
Kovak headed to the interview room while Scott went to the break room fridge and took out three bottles of water. He debated taking his pain meds, trying to decide whether he’d be sharper dealing with the pain rather than muddle-headed from the pills.
Didn’t really matter. Kovak was on top of things. As a matter of fact, Scott was getting the feeling Kovak wanted confirmation of his investigative techniques more than he wanted help.
Fine. Scott was happy to be Kovak’s audience. And, since he was a mere consultant, he’d be able to beg off if his body rebelled against too many hours.
He sat on the edge of Kovak’s desk, sipped his water, let his mind drift. Could Paige Haeber be their killer?
The wrinkle, though, was the discovery of the body in Ashley’s bakery. How had someone gained entrance? And why leave her there?
Maybe the killer hadn’t meant to kill her. Maybe he hadn’t realized how much drug he’d administered.
His head throbbed, joining his leg and shoulder. Sighing, he pulled the pill container from his pocket and swallowed half a dose.
He stood, walked stiffly around the small office until his leg muscles loosened. His cell vibrated at his waist. He checked the display. Ashley.
Not exactly sure why seeing her name accelerated his heart rate and brought a smile to his face, he forced a professional tone when he answered.
“Scott Whelan.”
“It’s Ashley. Can you come to the bakery?”
“Now?” He was already heading down the hall.
“If it’s not too much trouble. I think there’s something you should see.”
Another body, was his first reaction. But she didn’t sound upset, at least not “Someone else is dead” upset.
“Is it a police matter? I’m not official, you know. Hang on.” He muted the phone, then went into the interview room and dropped two water bottles on the table. Kovak nodded. Paige Haeber sat across from him, her arms folded across her chest, staring at the recorder sitting on the center of the table. Scott motioned Kovak outside.
“Y
ou have things under control?” Scott asked. “Ashley Eagan called. Something’s come up. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Kovak lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t press for more. “I’m about to cut Paige Haeber loose. My gut says her attitude stems from thinking she’s out her back wages, and that we’re the cause.”
“Leads to the boyfriends?”
“She insists that she and the victim had a strictly professional relationship. They never discussed lives outside of work. Didn’t socialize. Paige came in, did her job, and went home.”
Scott frowned. “Doesn’t sound like most women I know. None of that coming in starry-eyed one morning? Showing off trinkets? Leaving early on a date night?”
“I’ll push a little longer, I guess.”
“Right now, she’s the closest link we have to the victim. You want me to sit in?”
“No, Ashley Eagan is another link. You take care of that one. We can regroup here.”
“Works for me,” Scott said, although he was already thinking too much about Ashley and too little about the case. He forced himself to modify his priorities.
“Oh, and the missing cell phone?” Kovak added. “Turns out the victim didn’t own one. She thought it would fry her brain. Total health freak.”
“Then I’ll start the paperwork for her home and store phone records as soon as I get back.” He paused. “Unless you need me to do it now.”
“Nah. I can handle it. You can listen to the interview recording when you get back.”
Scott let Ashley know he was on his way. When he arrived, she opened the bakery door within seconds of his knock.
“Thanks for coming.” She closed the door behind him, pivoted, and went toward the restrooms. He followed, getting that little thrum that seemed to flutter through his chest as he watched the gentle sway of her hips. He decided he might as well enjoy it.
Ashley spoke as she walked. “Willie Duncan—he’s one of the workers—told me he noticed this about three days ago. He didn’t say anything because—well, he’s a bit on the slow side, and I don’t think it registered that it wasn’t supposed to be here, but—”
