“No way,” he said in a steely voice. “Look, I appreciate Geoff’s concern that we do this right. I was happy to have you come take a look at this, but it’s time to call a halt. Please stick with the terms of the gift contract and the valuation of the art which, as you said the other day, may need to be adjusted for insurance purposes, and let it go at that.”
In his place, I’d be tempted to think the same thing, or at least I might if two people weren’t dead. It was a glittering prize and unless there was something hiding in plain sight on those two lists, I couldn’t tie anything illicit to the twenty million dollars or the art collection. There was no evidence that Vince Margoletti couldn’t make good on his pledge, only a nagging concern that he wanted to close the deal awfully quickly, maybe before anyone looked closer at it.
“The only other specific issue I’ve come across that might be cause for concern is several discrepancies between listings of the art that is coming to Lynthorpe. You mentioned the other night that Vince might sell off paintings he could otherwise give Lynthorpe. Did Larry mention anything about that to you?”
“He said something about Vince possibly holding back a few pieces. We can hardly object to that without seeming to be grasping, can we? He said he’d confirm which ones with Vince directly.”
“Do you know if he did that, and which ones they are?”
“I don’t recall. That might be something for you to take care of, a better use of your expertise, I think, than looking for skeletons under the bed.” He smiled at me as he said it to let me know he had forgiven my misplaced emphasis on trivial matters.
I didn’t see what else I could do without Brennan’s support, and his impatience was real, so I tried to fold as gracefully as possible. I agreed to write up my recommendation to have a second appraisal done on the art, to get the staffs of Margoletti’s firm and Lynthorpe’s to iron out any discrepancies on the gift lists that I could show them, and to suggest a few modifications in the contract to bring it in line with similar agreements I had collaborated on for the Devor.
I left Brennan’s office relieved that the sense of some unnamed danger last night had faded, but feeling I had done a mediocre job for Geoff even though I had at least raised the issues necessary to be doing my job.
****
The day was sparkling and the air soft. I was a little stressed from the meeting, so I decided to take a walk around the perimeter of the campus to think about the next steps in my project before heading back to the hotel. After all, spending time in this part of the world in full-on spring was supposed to be a perk. Gardeners were clipping hedges, kids in shorts and sunglasses were lying on towels on the freshly cut grass, and I saw a faculty member sitting and talking with a circle of students on another lawn, punctuating his comments now and then with karate-style chops with one hand.
I thought about Dermott, so happy a few days ago with his teaching job, and about Gabby, so energetic and in love. I recalled what I’d heard about Larry Saylor, a man with integrity, and wondered, not for the first time, why fate and cruelty so often cut down the best among us. I stood for a long time looking at a sweep of blooming azaleas between the paved path I was on and one of the perimeter parking lots, sniffing the elusive scent that seemed to represent the season here at Lynthorpe. Too bad it would always remind me of death now.
While I was musing, a sleek black town car pulled into the parking lot near where I was standing and Vince Margoletti stepped out of the back door. He didn’t look in my direction, but smoothed the side of his suit jacket and walked toward Brennan’s building, briefcase in hand. For an instant, I fantasized the briefcase was full of money, like a crime scene in the movies. The town car pulled away slowly and, just as slowly, a sports car followed it out of the lot, undoubtedly cruising for a parking spot. There’s never enough parking on any college campus and students usually get the worst of it, having to park in the farthest lots or on the street.
****
I turned and walked back to where I had parked my rental car in a visitor’s section near the president’s office. As I cut across the asphalt, the muffled sound of vintage Rolling Stones reached me. It was seeping from another idling sports car. It reminded me of President Brennan’s car, although it couldn’t be. Rory Brennan a Stones fan? You’re kidding, right? said my inner voice. Some student had a car that looked like his, that was all. What was it with all these nice cars? I remembered that Dickie told me he got his first Porsche when he was accepted at Princeton. Not all college students are strapped for money and some are even loyal to the world’s oldest rockers, my alter ego pointed out. Get over it, scholarship student.
Still slightly distracted, I made a wrong turn leaving campus and had to circle through several residential streets looking for the main one back to town. As I started moving forward at one four-way stop sign on a street where the trees made a lovely canopy, I heard a loud engine to my left in time to see a car came barreling through the intersection. It happened so fast. I slammed on the brakes but the other car smashed into mine and sent my car spinning. I did what every smart driver would do in a situation like that. I closed my eyes.
I smelled something at the same time the airbag came up and slapped me. The car stopped, and it was silent except for the tick of the engine. The bag had already begun to deflate, leaving a white powder on my clothes and in my face. I waited for the other driver to come and when he or she didn’t, I peered out, worried that the person was more seriously hurt. No car. I opened my door and stepped out on shaky legs, walking a couple of steps so I could see the whole intersection. No car. A hit and run? How dare he?
****
Two other cars had come to the same intersection, and one driver stopped while the other drove slowly by, staring at me openmouthed.
“You okay?” the woman who had stopped asked. “I was at the other end of the block, so I didn’t see much, but I sure heard it. Scary.”
“I think I’m okay, just shaky. You didn’t see the car then?”
“No. I was behind you,” she said and pointed in the direction I’d come from. “Dark car ignored the stop sign, moving fast. It didn’t even come to a full stop after it hit you, just slowed to stay out of your way while you were sliding around. Want me to call the police?”
The damage to my car seemed to be mostly a half-detached front fender. I asked her to wait while I checked to see if my car would start. When it did, I thanked her and said I had less than a mile to drive. She looked at her car, where a toddler in a car seat was beginning to fuss, and asked if I was sure. I was, sort of, but kept my reservations to myself. There was something I needed to process, something about the hit and run car, and I wanted to get back to the safety of my hotel room to do it.
****
What is it about room service that is so comforting? I eat out a lot, enjoy better food in livelier settings, but having salmon, grilled vegetables, and a little bottle of white wine brought to me on a tray in my very own room never fails to make me feel special, like Eloise, I guess. As I unpacked the silverware and set myself up to eat in bed, I pushed the blinking light on the room phone and promptly forgot anything I was going to think about.
A message, sent less than an hour ago while I was taking a hot shower to relax the stiff neck and sore shoulder I hadn’t even realized I had until I walked through the lobby. The voice and what it said killed my appetite and my cozy feelings in a nanosecond.
“If you didn’t like that, you won’t like what comes next. Stop poking around and go back to where you came from. Now.”
CHAPTER 16
I didn’t sleep well, not even after I checked the triple door locks several times. I had poked a hornet’s nest, but the problem was I didn’t know what or how. Was it about Vince Margoletti’s shady dealings? I didn’t have any information that wasn’t already published, and the president of Lynthorpe already knew about that. Was it something about the two lists? I couldn’t see how that could be because I only talked about it with Gabby. Not s
o, my inner voice reminded me. You brought it up in your meeting with Rory Brennan, the meeting you had just left when your car was rammed.
I tossed and turned with the implications of that for a few hours. When I finally fell asleep, I had unsettling dreams that left me more tired in the morning than when I closed my eyes at two a.m. After another hot shower at six, which only proved I was sore and achy, I got back in bed to watch it get light and to face up to the fact that I was in trouble. Whoever killed Gabby, and maybe Larry Saylor, was literally aiming at me now. Did I have to solve her murder in order to save myself?
Okay then, my inner voice said, we’re in this for Gabby and for us. Not that I planned to play cop, but from this moment on, it would be my highest priority to help Detective Kirby and the local police force find the bastard who killed her. The first thing would be to call Kirby and tell him what happened.
Of course, he wasn’t available. My forward momentum banged up against reality, but I left a message that it was urgent, called down for coffee and a big basket of pastries because I needed strength, and focused on polishing the parts of the report for Brennan that I could do easily. I’d deal with the two lists later, when I could call Margoletti’s accountant in California, assuming I could find his name and number in the bulging set of papers I now had. In the meantime, I called the car rental company. They didn’t like it, but agreed to deliver a replacement and pick up the damaged one. There was a lot of talk about insurance.
Finally, I pushed everything on the hotel room desk to one side, stacked up my notes and sat down at my laptop to write my final report in sections. My boss, Peter, was right. I would include enough of my concern so that no one could come back later and complain I hadn’t given them fair warning should this gift turn out to be less than it seemed. The consultant works at the pleasure of the person who hired her, though, and I’d heard Brennan loud and clear. He intended to run with Margoletti’s offer in the absence of a screaming red flag. I dug in and only came up for air when the last of the room service coffee was cold and the phone rang.
It was Detective Kirby returning my call. He listened to my tale about the hit and run drivers, and asked why I hadn’t filed an accident report. I told him I’d been too flustered and, anyway, the mystery car had long since disappeared.
“Traffic accidents didn’t usually get reported to me, even when I’m not on rotation as the lead officer in a murder investigation.” He sounded impatient, even annoyed.
“I know that, but there’s more.” When I added the information about the anonymous call, he was silent for a minute, then said he was going to send someone over to get a full report from me and see if they could find out about the call from the hotel switchboard. Maybe the recording was still available.
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“No more than I recognized the car, although I have to say the car, or at least the kind of car, seemed familiar.”
“Okay, you tell that to the officer I’m sending over. Any detail is worth giving us, seeing as how you’ve been threatened.”
“May I go home soon?” I said. “I can be easily reached there and I don’t feel safe. Whatever’s going on around me is a hell of a lot more complicated than my simple assignment was.”
“We’d prefer you stay in Bridgetown a little longer, Ms. O’Rourke. We’ve got a lot to sort out and you’re pretty much in the center of it.”
I started to protest, but he talked right through me. “I may need you to identify someone if we pick up the other driver, or to corroborate something a suspect tells us about the Flores shooting, and I know you don’t want to have to turn around and fly right back if that happens in the next twenty-four hours.”
He had a point. I hesitated, but realized I could stay locked in my room when I was alone and get the consulting recommendations done. I’d be relieved when I could hand the business over to Brennan and be done with the project.
When I got off the phone, I checked my email. Peter’s assistant, Dorie, had emailed an hour before to say Peter needed to talk to me. Teeni had sent me a heads up that Dickie had called late yesterday to ask if I was back at Lynthorpe. I looked at my watch. It was ten in the morning here, only seven in San Francisco, but Dorie and Teeni were already moving at top speed.
My cell rang as I was polishing off the last of the crumbly pastry, and when I checked the caller I.D., I did a double take. Teeni might be up and functioning at seven, but no way would my ex-husband be. Unless there was something catastrophic he had to tell me. “Dickie?”
“Ah, sunshine, there you are. Actually, where are you?”
“At the hotel in Bridgetown, working on the Lynthorpe job. Is something wrong?”
“That’s why I’m calling you. I heard someone got killed at Lynthorpe last week and I got to worrying. You do have a way of getting in the middle of things. Tell me you were far away when it happened, please.”
“Actually, I was down the hall—”
“I knew it, I damn well knew it. Geez, Dani…are you okay?”
I wanted to say I was fine. I wanted to tell him I could handle this on my own and that he didn’t need to hover. But instead I heard myself saying, “It’s a mess and a tragedy. The police want me to stay here and…” My voice wobbled and I had to stop and swallow hard. I had been holding everything at bay, but yesterday’s drama increased the stress more than I realized until that moment.
“I’ll be right there,” Dickie said.
“I’m in New England, remember? But thanks.”
“And I’m at my school reunion. I arrived last night. Are you at the hotel right downtown? Stay put and I’ll be over in thirty minutes max. Don’t move.”
I sat motionless for a moment on the edge of the bed. Dickie here. A shoulder to lean on, an ally in a strange place. That was the soothing part. Dickie, though. Overly protective, pushy, untrustworthy, mercurial, as likely to complicate things as to help. I sighed. I would maybe have lunch with him, tell him part of what had happened, not so much he would get ideas about how to help, because that was when having him around was too much like letting an untrained puppy loose at a pool party.
The hotel phone rang and Coe Anderson’s assistant wondered if I could meet the dean of the liberal arts school for lunch. I told her I was already booked, and, after asking me to hold, she came on again to suggest a quick dinner tomorrow. “It will have to be early,” the assistant said. “The dean has a faculty meeting later in the evening. The recent incident on campus has everyone in overdrive.” I bet it did. I agreed, and she said he would meet me at my hotel.
I’d hardly hung up when there was a knock on the door. The distorted image of my ex through the peephole was almost enough to make me laugh. Dickie is a handsome man, but these weird, tiny windows do funny things to foreheads and noses, and it cheered me up to see him staring back at me looking like a particularly geeky character in a sitcom.
He knew better than to hug me. A squeeze of the arm was as close as he got these days, which was good since I was still sore. I was glad for the friendly contact and for the physical presence of someone who was in my corner, and I told him so. “It’s been awful,” I said as he took the room’s only chair and I plopped down on the edge of the bed. I filled him in on what I knew happened to Gabby, and explained the possible connection with her research on Lynthorpe’s big donor.
“Is that why you were asking about J.P.?” he said. “I wish you’d told me everything last Sunday.”
“No, actually that was entirely different. Peter’s trying to work a connection to a collector’s heir and thought the polo-playing Margoletti might do.”
I shared the concern all three college executives had expressed about finishing up my consulting work quickly.
“I can’t believe you’re mixed up in another suspicious death,” he said, having waited with uncharacteristic quiet while I ran through the details. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were bad luck. Ah, don’t cry, I was only kidding.” He handed me a
tissue and started pacing. “Okay, so no more talking to the cops. I’ll call Jerry—you remember him, right? He’s so networked it’s crazy. He’ll know the best lawyer in the area. We’ll get him on the team right away.”
“Lawyer? Why do I need a lawyer?” I said, blowing my nose. “Or a team, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t do anything, Dickie.”
“You know how it is, cupcake. These small town cops want to close the investigation quickly and you’re an outsider. What’s simpler than to point at you?”
“Without a motive? Without a gun? Because she and I were meeting before it happened? I don’t buy it, and, Dickie, wouldn’t it make me look guilty to refuse to help and to hide behind a lawyer? I want them to catch the bastard.”
“Only if you were guilty. I’m going to call Jerry right now.” Which, being Dickie, a man well known for lack of impulse control, he promptly did.
While he was persuading his buddy’s assistant to drag her attorney boss out of a meeting, I debated with myself. Dickie’s perspective was a welcome dash of cold water. I had been muddling around in a daze, wanting to help but not thinking clearly about my own position. Charlie had warned me too. For once, I thought, I’m going to listen to their advice. I would call the police and explain my friends had advised me to lawyer up, not because I was guilty, but as a sensible precaution. I also needed to call the airline, to change my reservation again.
Dickie was talking, presumably to Jerry, when there was a sharp rap on the door. I went to the peephole again, but there weren’t any laughs this time. It was my new best friend, Officer Clayton McManus, mirrored shades and all. I groaned as I opened the door.
“Hi there, ma’am. How are you today?”
“Busy, actually,” I said without opening the door too far.
“Detective Kirby instructed me to escort you down to the police station so you can file a report on that hit and run.”
Mixed Up With Murder Page 12
