by Sandra Balzo
AnnaLise ignored his use of third person. 'Did you know Chuck was coming with Duende?'
'Of course not,' Tucker said. 'I didn't even know Duende would be here now. Do you think I'd have let you into the apartment if I had? Come on, let's get out of here.'
AnnaLise waved for him to stay close to the building's footprint as they circled it, so neither Chuck Greystone nor James Duende could catch sight of them if either man happened to look out a window.
'The police chief and the freelancer,' she mulled as they walked. 'Sounds to me like Duende is interviewing Chuck for his story.'
'He couldn't do it at the station?' Tucker seemed to have lost his taste for investigation. Falling bodies, even live ones, could to that to a person, AnnaLise supposed.
'Maybe he's one of those "literary" types who need to soak up the atmosphere,' AnnaLise said.
She was thinking of her own bare bones, fact-driven articles. The couple of times she'd tried to add a 'what if', 'why not', or 'how come' to the Who, What, When, Where, Why and How of news-reporting, she'd been shot down.
Ahh, but cheer up. Writing Dickens Hart memoirs would no doubt allow all sorts of license, literary — and literal — included.
Tucker decided Torch needed his attention, though AnnaLise had a feeling it was his own injuries he'd be nursing.
She thanked him again and resisted the impulse to apologize yet again. As Tucker got gingerly into his jeep and drove away, she worked her own shoulder up and down.
'Huh?' she said. 'Feels better.' Earth — or Tucker Stanton — as chiropractor.
Need to visit the doctor's office empirically eliminated, AnnaLise walked to her Spyder, parked at the far end of the building. Glancing back, she saw Chuck exit the main entrance. She ducked around the corner, but he'd turned the other way, toward his patrol car.
AnnaLise waited until Chuck pulled out and then climbed into hers.
So James Duende was a writer. AnnaLise should have guessed it by all the red Flair marks he'd made on the newspaper that morning she'd seen him at Mama's. AnnaLise did the same thing when she read papers and magazines, underlining or circling story ideas and other items of interest in red, which didn't obscure the black type beneath it but would remind the 'Flairer' to clip.
It also explained his hanging out in the restaurant to listen. Again, looking for ideas, rumors — maybe even something that would help him land the job of writing Hart's memoir.
But Hart had given the job to AnnaLise, instead of this supposedly big-time 'ghost'. Why?
There was the local angle, of course. As her new employer had said, AnnaLise was familiar with the people and places of Sutherton. She could bring a sense of heart and depth to the story that an outsider never could.
And Dickens Hart, despite everything negative you could say about him, was an intelligent, successful businessman. People like that had an eye for spotting untapped, but applicable talent.
Hart said he'd read her stuff and been impressed. Was AnnaLise, despite not having the opportunity to flex her 'literary' muscles, truly that good? Or did Hart believe that AnnaLise would be more malleable than a seasoned professional? More willing to show her hometown — and, in Hart's mind, that hometown's hero — in a good light. And, perhaps in the process, bury the skeletons he wanted to keep hidden.
If so, he was a bad judge of character. That should have become eminently clear to Hart when AnnaLise laid down her conditions of her employment.
So, again, why? Unless... unless AnnaLise had underpriced herself, despite her attempt to achieve just the diametric opposite.
Now that would really suck. She sat back in the Spyder's driver seat, the wind taken out of her sails as thoroughly as she'd full-body Heimliched it out of poor Tucker Stanton's lungs.
How much money did someone like James Duende get for a book?
AnnaLise didn't know, though she'd once met a writer at a cocktail party who claimed she made 'half a mill a book' to ghost the novels of a New York Times best-selling romance writer.
'But, shh — ' manicured finger to Botoxed lips — 'don't tell anyone.'
Five hundred thousand dollars? And AnnaLise had settled for — hell, herself requested — a measly...
AnnaLise stopped. Talk about looking a gift-horse in the mouth, as Mama would no doubt say. The Hart project would allow AnnaLise to try something she'd never done and, if she proved good enough at it, maybe someday command that magnitude of fee.
AnnaLise started the car, still scolding herself. As she went to put the car into reverse, though, she paused.
Five hundred thousand dollars for just one romance novel? If true, then what the hell did the Kitty Kelleys of the world make? And even if James Duende wasn't in that pantheon, he certainly could make at least as much off Dickens Hart as the egomaniac proved himself willing to pay a young, untried journalist.
Giving Duende reason to curry favor with said 'egomaniac' and motive to put the person threatening that paycheck — our aforementioned 'young journalist' — out of commission. Like by a heavy garage door rendering her unable to type.
Suddenly, Chuck's flip comment about the shooter at Dickens Hart's mansion not being 'worth a damn' didn't seem so far off the mark.
Though the same couldn't be said for Duende, if he indeed had been aiming for AnnaLise and nearly killed his prospective patron by mistake.
AnnaLise assumed she'd find Bobby Bradenham in the mayor's office. A blessing, since questioning him at home about his father in front of his mother was not high on the reporter's wish list.
As she drove to Town Hall, AnnaLise shelved the possibility that Duende had targeted her, both by bullet and garage door. Why?
Because that still left two other victims, both of them dead. What possible motive — rival 'ghost' or not — could James Duende have had for killing Ichiro Katou and Rance Smoaks?
AnnaLise pulled into the town hall lot, shared by Sutherton's police department. Presumably Chuck's patrol car was one of the two parked there, not a problem now that AnnaLise could no longer be caught bleeding on files or jumping from decks.
When she entered the municipal building, the buxom strawberry blonde at the desk was a stranger.
'Hello, I'm AnnaLise Griggs. Is Melba Lee still working here?'
'Melba retired two years ago,' the blonde said. She stuck out her hand. 'I'm Judi, with an "i".'
'Good to meet you, Judi. Is Mayor Bradenham available?'
'Bobby sure is here, but Chief Chuck just went in with him. You mind waiting a sec?' She handed AnnaLise a 'visitor' pass, also something new.
AnnaLise alligator-clipped it to her blouse and sat down with a magazine.
One Us and two People later, AnnaLise was still waiting. She checked her watch. Nearly one. The six thirty Coffee Time cake was seeming like fuel taken on an awfully long time ago. She got up to make sure Judi hadn't forgotten her, a chronic fear of AnnaLise's since the time she waited an hour in the exam room for her doctor, only to find everyone gone and the lights out when she'd finally emerged in her blue paper robe to check.
A chronic fear, not a cute one.
As AnnaLise approached the desk, the door to the office beyond opened and Chuck stalked out. AnnaLise raised her hand in greeting, but the chief of police barely nodded and kept on walking.
'Maybe this isn't the best time,' AnnaLise started to say to Judi.
Before the woman could answer, Bobby stuck his head around the door frame.
'AnnaLise? Did you want to see me?' If Chuck looked frustrated, Bobby looked defeated.
'Only if you have time,' AnnaLise said. 'I don't want to―'
'No, no,' Bobby said, sputtering and passing his hand over his face like he'd just surfaced from a deep dive. 'Come on in.' Bobby stepped aside to let her pass.
Judi threw her a 'good luck' look and AnnaLise preceded Bobby into his office.
'You remodeled,' she said, kind of missing the former dark wood and slight tang of mildew.
Bobby plopped himself
into the chair behind his desk, elbows now on the blotter with eyes fixed there, too, but seemingly seeing nothing.
Then he looked up. 'What?'
'The renovations?'
'Oh, yeah. A year ago, give or take.'
'Bobby, what's wrong?' AnnaLise said softly. Whatever had just happened with Chuck, she didn't want to add to it now with questions about Dickens Hart.
'Wrong?' Bobby raised his eyes ceiling-ward and AnnaLise thought she saw the glitter of... tears? 'Let's see: for starters, Dickens Hart is my father and our chief thinks I might've tried to kill him for his money.'
Well, apparently that cat had fully wormed its way out of the proverbial bag. 'So, you didn't know?'
'Absolutely not.' Bobby's eyes narrowed. 'Why? Did you?'
AnnaLise tried to answer honestly. 'I heard a couple of rumors, but only over the past few days I've been back in Sutherton. Do you think it's true?'
'I guess the biological father should know, right?'
'Not as surely as the biological mother. I take it you haven't talked with her?'
'I started to call Ma as soon as Chuck left the office, but then decided this wasn't exactly a conversation appropriate for telephone. Besides, she's having people over for tea.'
Yeah, right. Wouldn't want to distract Mum from logistical preparations with pesky questions like, 'Have you lied to me all my life?'
AnnaLise cleared her throat.
Bobby held up his hands. 'I know how stupid that sounds, believe me.'
'Well, stupid or not, it's probably better that you take some time to think before you confront Ema. What had she told you about your dad?'
'Pretty much what I said to you or anybody else who's ever asked. I practically had it memorized. Quote: "Your father was driving and another car crossed the center line and hit us straight on. I woke up four days later in the hospital with this — " she'd point at the scar on her temple — "and they told me your father was dead and already buried. Before I could start crying, they brought you in. So tiny, but miraculously without a scratch thanks to that infant seat. My miracle baby." Unquote.'
The mayor picked up a pen, then stared it down, seemingly at a loss for why he had it in his hand. 'Every time, exactly the same. Words, cadence, expressions on her face. I should have known it was a lie. Carefully rehearsed and perfectly repeated, but a lie nonetheless.' He slammed the pen back onto his desktop. 'I'll bet by now, even she believes it.'
'Maybe Ema didn't want you to be hurt,' AnnaLise said. 'You know, the gossip and all. Now, granted, it doesn't matter. But back then?'
'The person she didn't want hurt was herself. Mrs. Bradenham. Probably even made up the name, or stole it from a next-door neighbor or some poor, pious shmuck who died in church. But no matter, Ma comes back pure as the driven snow — brave widow, single mother. Her reputation intact, she gets a big house as a bonus. Hart, he gets to keep his lifestyle. The even bigger money, the perpetual rotation of broads.
'But me?' Bobby looked up. 'What did I get?'
A pretty damned nice life to date, though AnnaLise had no intention of saying that. Bobby hadn't been judgmental during her emotional meltdown on Labor Day. The least she could do now was to give her friend equally unconditional love and support.
But again, Bobby seemed to read her mind. 'I know, Annie. I know I didn't exactly suffer. I lived in a nice house, went to a good school, had great — ' he gestured to her — 'friends. Thing is — ' his hand dropped — 'my entire life is built on a lie.'
'Not your life, Bobby. Hers.' AnnaLise came around the desk and leaned down to hug him, her shoulder still remarkably recovered. 'Everything about you is genuine and good.'
She tapped him on the forehead. 'Especially your taste in friends.'
The mayor mustered a smile. Then a shadow crossed his features. 'I didn't even tell you the worst. Rance Smoaks' shooting wasn't an accident.'
'So I heard,' AnnaLise said, settling on the edge of Bobby's mayoral desk. 'And apparently with the same gun used on...' The slightest pause. 'Dickens Hart.'
'Whatever you do,' Bobby said. 'Don't start calling him my father.'
'Got it,' AnnaLise promised. 'So, Chuck thinks you shot Hart?'
'I'm the only one who benefits from his death.'
'What about his business partner — Sabatino?'
'Apparently their agreement stipulates that Hart's interest goes to any heirs, not the surviving partner.'
'And the only heir is you,' AnnaLise said.
'You got it.' Bobby was looking defeated.
'So does that mean you're supposed to have killed Rance Smoaks, too?'
'What the chief thinks and what he says are two different things. Chuck can be surprisingly wily.'
As AnnaLise had suspected when the chief 'nodded off' at Sheree's inn. 'So what is Chuck saying, at least?'
'First off, that he thought I had a right to know about Hart.'
'Which you do.'
'Agreed. But then he casually mentioned the will, in which Hart acknowledges me as his son and then leaves everything to... me.'
Even after all the gossipy speculation, AnnaLise was stunned. She couldn't imagine how Bobby must have felt at hearing those same words. 'Chuck probably wanted to see if you'd show surprise.'
'Well, I did. And he sure should've seen that.'
'Which is a positive for you on the motive front,' AnnaLise said, trying to be reassuring. 'What happened next?'
'Chuck did one of those pauses at the door — you know, a Lieutenant Columbo-like afterthought? Then he said, "Oh, by the way, both Rance Smoaks and Dickens Hart were shot by the same firearm. Quite the coincidence, eh?"'
'Again, looking for your reaction.'
'And again, I gave it to him. I was shocked.'
'Did Chuck say anything else?' The two men had certainly been together in the mayor's office long enough.
Bobby closed his eyes, then seeming to reach a decision, opened them. 'Only that he knew Kathleen Smoaks and I had been having an active affair for the better part of the last five years.'
AnnaLise felt her own eyes go round. 'And what did you say to that?'
'What do you think?' Bobby picked up the receiver of his desk phone. 'I told friend Chuck, Chief of Police Greystone, to get the fuck out of my office so I could call my lawyer. And...' Tone softening. 'I'd appreciate your doing the same without the accompanying obscenity.'
Chapter Twenty-Two
AnnaLise had tried to say the right things before leaving Bobby Bradenham's office, but that usually requires knowing what those things are.
And, quite frankly, she was at a loss.
The evidence against Bobby might be circumstantial, but AnnaLise had seen prosecutors in Wisconsin build ironclad cases from less. The fact he was Sutherton's mayor might be all the more reason somebody would delight in — or benefit from — toppling him.
For that matter, all the more reason the whole shebang should be turned over to at least the county authorities, if not the state of North Carolina. Chuck, wily police chief or not, shouldn't be investigating a homicide in which his boss was a prime — hell, the primary — suspect.
AnnaLise found a parking spot on Main Street next to Tucker Stanton's jeep and right around the corner from her home. The majority of the summer folk — especially those with kids who needed to start school elsewhere — had already left. Most of the rest would head out sometime this month, leaving October largely to day-trippers or weekenders, coming to marvel at Sutherton's foliage turning colors on the trees.
As AnnaLise exited the car with Ichiro Katou's 'genome' file folder and personal letters, she could almost feel the town putting its collective feet up to relax until ski-season arrived — snow willing — in late November. Mama's was relatively busy, but there were no lines of people waiting to pay or be seated. It seemed as though everybody was hanging out, catching up, moving on.
Passing Torch, AnnaLise again fought the impulse to drop in. A bad idea on two fronts. First, she'd gotten t
he distinct impression that Tucker preferred to get far away from the 'intrepid reporter's investigation', at least until he could walk without whimpering.
Second, she really wanted to discuss Bobby Bradenham's situation, but doing so with Tucker, a newcomer by Sutherton's let's-see-your-birth-certificate-and-your-daddy's-too standards, would feel like a betrayal of her old friend's confidence.
Talking to Daisy, on the other hand, wouldn't count. Family exemption and all. But, when AnnaLise unlocked the door, there was no sign of her mother.
'Hello?' she called out, dropping the folder and letters on the kitchen table.
AnnaLise went to the stairs and tried again. Still no answer. She eyed the gun cabinet on the landing. Daisy had always kept the key for it in her bedroom dresser. Now would be a perfect time to make sure all the guns were there.
Which begged the question, what if they weren't?
Prosecutor Ben Rosewood, a Gulf War vet, had once told AnnaLise he never asked any witness a question to which he didn't already know the answer. 'It's a minefield,' he'd said, 'and once the device blows up, you can't replant it. Only thing left is trying to deal with the aftermath.'
Words. The cat that won't go back into the bag. At least not without leaving you bloodied.
A 'bing' from the laptop she'd left on the end table by the couch gave her a momentary reprieve. 'Chicken,' she said to herself, crossing to the computer and tapping a key to bring up the screen.
One new message from her editor at the newspaper: 'I'm so sorry to hear about your mom. Stay for whatever you need to do, and I'll notify Human Resources we won't be seeing you before the end of the month. You and I can revisit your mother's situation then and go from there. Just keep me informed. All the best, Jan.'
Bosses didn't come any better. AnnaLise hoped she really would be back working for her by October 1.
She typed a quick thank-you reply. As AnnaLise hit 'send', a second message popped up, also from Jan: 'Forgot. Ben Rosewood has been calling. Are you working on a story I need to reassign or maybe delay?'
