by Lora Roberts
Before she could do so, the front door of the suite opened. Another uniformed cop escorted a tall, well-dressed man into the room. “Attorney for Hannah Couch,” the uniform announced, and then let himself back out.
Hannah walked around the library desk. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, doing her gracious act, holding out her hand.
The man took it. “Richard Kendall. Nice to meet you, Ms. Couch.” He looked at the police with haughty determination. “We need a private room so I can confer with my client.”
“You can use one of these bedrooms,” Scarlatti said, heading toward the kitchen. “We’re going to ask Don and Kim to come in for a while.”
I caught Hannah’s arm as she went by. “Don’t you think someone should tell Don …”
Hannah paused, taken aback. “Well, I don’t want to. It’s not really my place.”
“Tell him what?” Scarlatti thrust herself between us.
“My client has nothing more to say until I’ve had a chance to speak with her,” Richard Kendall said with authority.
“It’s nothing to do with this.” Hannah shook off Kendall, returning to her more usual brusque manner. “Don, you know, was adopted. He’s actually Naomi’s son. She gave him up at birth. A couple of months ago she had private detectives search for him, and she asked me to hire him for this tour. That’s all I know. Maybe she already told him. In any case, I can’t do it.”
She turned back to Kendall. “What are we waiting for?” Still regal, she led him through the kitchen, crunching debris as they went.
Scarlatti looked a little dazed. “You get used to it,” I said to her kindly.
“How did you know this?”
“After Hannah kidnapped me, she also abducted a friend who stopped by my house when she saw news reports that I was a dangerous criminal.”
“We faxed you the statement Bridget Montrose made,” Drake added. “I assume you’ve looked at it. It substantiates Ms. Sullivan’s statement.”
“I’ve looked at it.” Scarlatti didn’t say anything else.
I looked narrowly at her. “Perhaps I should have a word with Mr. Kendall when he’s finished being run through Hannah’s wringer. The loss of the good name I’ve been trying to build up for the past few years could be worth something.”
Scarlatti waved that away and towed me back to the sofa. “Go on. Hannah abducted you, then your friend.”
“She made us take her to the thrift store to shop for vintage linens.”
“Oh, the horror!” Scarlatti rolled her eyes.
“Well, being held at gunpoint and made to look for linens isn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me, but it’s on the list. Anyway, after that she wanted to go to Bridget’s house—my friend—because she thought they might be staking out my house. So while we were sitting around at Bridget’s, we offered to try and figure out the crime so she would let us go.” I came to a halt. “It sounds lame, but we didn’t have a lot of options until after we’d disarmed her.”
“At that point you didn’t call 911,” Scarlatti mentioned.
“I did call Drake. Bridget had promised not to call the police. I didn’t promise. Anyway, while we were hashing through it, Hannah mentioned this about Don.”
“Anything else you’re holding back?”
“I’m not holding it back,” I said, irritated. “I just feel someone should tell Don in a decent way that Naomi was his mother.”
“You’re right. Someone should.” Don spoke from behind me. We turned to see Don and Kim in the kitchen doorway, with Officer Diaz behind them. Kim had her hand to her mouth. Don was impassive, but he started blinking. He pulled one of the chairs out from the big table and sat abruptly, burying his head in his hands.
Kim patted him on the shoulder. “Don, I’m so sorry.” She looked at us. “He lost his mom—I guess his adoptive mom—last year. Maybe he and Naomi could have—” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, it’s all so awful.”
The front door opened again. “Ms. Kershay.” The officer appeared to be getting into his role as hotel butler. He almost bowed as he ushered Judi Kershay into the room.
Judi looked around at all of us, her gaze fixing on me. “Liz, are you okay? I’ve been so worried about you after the reports came out. I tried to call you on the cell phone, but you didn’t answer.
“Hannah turned off all the cell phones.”
“You thought Liz was the one to worry about?” Inspector Daly posed the question smoothly. “Not Ms. Couch?”
“Never Hannah.” Judi looked from him to Scarlatti, evidently pegging them as the authorities. “I knew Hannah was behind it as soon as I heard the report on the radio.”
“But you didn’t call to correct us,” Scarlatti said. “I wonder why?”
“We all wonder why,” Drake put in. “It would have been nice for Liz if the media had stopped branding her as an abductor. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Judi looked bewildered. “I did call the hotel and asked to be put in touch with whoever was investigating. I was put on hold, and then a voice mail said to leave a message, so I did. No one got back to me until half an hour ago. I thought you were calling me back. Who are all you people, and why should I answer anything? Am I under suspicion? Do I need an attorney?”
“There’s one in the other room, but Hannah has him sewn up.” I had an insane urge to babble. The tension in the room was getting thick, and my impulse was to try and dissipate it. “Maybe he has friends we can talk to.”
“You are not currently at risk of being charged,” Scarlatti said, sending me a quelling look before turning to Judi. “If you’re afraid anything you say could incriminate you, you should have an attorney present.”
“Well, it couldn’t incriminate me. It goes back to a promise I made Hannah the last time I drove for her.”
“We’re waiting.” Scarlatti gestured Judi into one of the chairs around the fireplace. I didn’t know why she didn’t take her aside, but perhaps she didn’t think it would be any big thing.
Judi was hesitant. “I said I would never tell anyone.”
“You can tell us.”
“All of you?”
“Just spill it, Ms. Kershay.” Scarlatti was impatient.
“Well …” Judi thought for a moment. “If you say so. Hannah uses cake mixes.”
Chapter 17
“That’s it?” Scarlatti looked puzzled. “That’s your big secret? That Hannah uses cake mix?”
“It’s not possible,” Kim squeaked. She turned away from Don to stare at Judi. “She would never, never … everything is made from scratch. Everything.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to believe. But the last tour I did for her, for Hannah Does Desserts, her food stylist quit in a huff, and Naomi wasn’t feeling well, which I took to be a euphemism for hung over. Hannah had to turn out a lot of lemon pound cake for a book event and demonstration at the Home Chef; they’d sold tickets, and everyone was expecting dessert. I walked into the kitchen in this very suite, and caught her with the mix boxes.”
“She would never compromise her standards,” Kim insisted, close to tears. “She’s always said that. Always insisted—”
“That everyone else do so.” Judi nodded. “I know. She’d told me in no uncertain terms that she had to have unsalted European butter for the demonstration part of the event, and special flour from one certain mill, and free-range eggs, and organic Meyer lemons, and a certain kind of baking powder I had never heard of. I busted my butt chasing all that stuff down, and then found out she was using shortcuts in secret. I’m afraid I gloated a bit.”
“Anyone would,” Inspector Scarlatti said, her voice unsteady. She bit her lips. “So what did you do? Blackmail her?”
“In a way,” Judi admitted. “She had a lot of complaints about my company and my employees. I said if she made her feelings known to the publisher, which was her threat, I would tell all. I wouldn’t have, not really. Confidentiality is an important part of what I do. But I might
have joked about it a bit in the media community, and she knew that could get around. So we agreed to a pact of mutual silence.”
At my side, Drake shook with silent laughter. It was hard to imagine Hannah with cake mixes, after all her self-righteous pontificating on the correct, and time-consuming, way to do things.
Kim didn’t think it was funny. “If it was an emergency,” she said haltingly, “if she had to get the cakes out on a very tight schedule—but still. Couldn’t people tell the difference?”
“People want to believe that a celebrity is perfect,” Judi said cynically. “They say, ‘Oh, this is wonderful. I’ve never tasted anything so good.’”
Don paid no attention to this tempest in a cake pan. He still sat by the table, staring at the intricate pattern of the oriental rug.
“Well, this is fascinating,” Scarlatti said briskly, “but it doesn’t get us any forwarder.” She nodded at the officer who stood by the door. “Will you take Ms. Kershay downstairs and get her statement in order, get it signed? If we need you again, Ms. Kershay, we’ll call you.”
“Fine,” Judi nodded. She caught my eye. “I might as well take the cell phone and stuff now.”
I rummaged in my backpack and got out the folder; the expense money, and the cell phone. “I kind of enjoyed it for a while,” I told her.
“I’m sorry for the trouble, Liz. When you’re in the market for a job, call me. I think you did well under a lot of pressure.”
After Judi left, there was silence for a moment. Scarlatti stared consideringly at Kim, who looked nervous at being on the receiving end of her scrutiny.
Finally the inspector said, “Liz says there have been incidents involving forget-me-nots and ivy.”
Kim looked confused. “I’m not sure …”
“That arrangement yesterday,” I prompted. “You said—”
“Please let her speak for herself,” Scarlatti said, at the same time Drake dug his elbow into my ribs. I subsided. I know better than to interrupt when the police are working, but this was the strangest investigation I’d ever seen. I raised my eyebrows at Drake, and he shrugged. Evidently he was finding it incomprehensible too.
“It’s true,” Kim said hesitantly. “We were at the airport in Boston. This messenger came rushing up to us with a cute dish of ivy and little blue flowers, done up like florists do, you know. Naomi gave him a tip, but Hannah just got this funny look on her face and walked over to the nearest trash can and dumped it”
“Did she say anything?”
“No.” Kim shook her head. “Naomi said, ‘What did you do that for?’ and then Hannah said, ‘You know why,’ or something like that. Then we got on the plane, and I’d never flown before, so I was kinda excited, and I forgot all about it until I saw Liz throwing away the same stuff yesterday.”
Scarlatti walked over to the desk and used the house phone for a brief colloquy. When she hung up she said to Inspector Daly, “No luck. Someone left the order in an envelope on the gift-shop counter, with enough cash to pay for it.”
“I don’t get it,” Kim said, her brow furrowed. “Like, everything was about Hannah, wasn’t it? That note in the car that she didn’t like getting. She said she was going to get it tested because whoever licked the envelope left their DNA on it. And the flowers. But Naomi was the one who died. Isn’t that funny?”
“Funny isn’t the word for it,” Inspector Daly said.
Scarlatti held up a hand. “Back up here. Notes Hannah didn’t like getting. Let’s talk about those. Liz said there were a couple of them. One amongst her messages when you got to the hotel.”
Kim shook her head. “I don’t—”
“You didn’t see that one. Okay. Tell us about the one you did see.”
“It was on the seat of the car after we did the TV thing last night.” Kim looked troubled. “Really, that’s all I know. I thought maybe it was fan mail, and Hannah would like that and stop—”
She halted. “Stop what?” Scarlatti was taking notes.
“Stop being such a pain. She and Naomi both. They were at each other’s throats. Naomi was so angry about the crepe maker. I’ve never seen her that angry before, not even—”
This time Scarlatti waited a little longer before prompting her. “Not even when?”
Kim looked around at all of us. Her eyes filled with tears. “I guess everyone knows what she said. What Hannah said. That Naomi—killed my uncle.”
Don stirred. “I didn’t know. Seems like there was a lot I didn’t know.” His voice was bitter.
“I’m sorry.” Kim’s tears overflowed. “I don’t know why you’re making me talk about this in front of everyone. I—of course, it couldn’t be true. My uncle had a heart attack. Everyone knew his heart was bad. He wouldn’t diet or exercise or anything the doctor told him to do. He still loved the fettuccine Alfredo with lots of cream.”
“Tell me about your uncle’s death.” Scarlatti’s voice was gentler.
“Well, okay, but it couldn’t have anything to do with this. I mean, Aunt Naomi could be a real bitch sometimes, but she wouldn’t—”
“Oh, right,” Don said heavily, as if it had just occurred to him. “I have a cousin.” He looked at Kim and his mouth quirked up for a brief moment. “At least that’s something good.”
Kim looked back, a smile trembling on her lips. “You have lots of cousins, and a couple more aunts and uncles. I have a big family. They’ll all love you.”
“More than my birth mom, evidently.” Don unfolded his lanky frame from the chair and paced across the room and back. “She didn’t even try to get to know me. I could feel her watching, always watching, but I figured she was waiting for me to make a mistake. I didn’t know she was … checking me out.”
“If we can get back to my question,” Scarlatti said. “I want to hear about the circumstances of your uncle’s death. I understand he had a big dustup with your aunt just before his heart attack.”
“It was the day before, actually,” Kim said. Her forehead creased with the effort of remembering. “He wanted to buy the business. He’d been managing it for so long, since I was little. It was always understood that at some point Naomi would sell it to him. When my aunt Mary—that’s his wife—would complain he wasn’t being paid enough for all his long hours and hard work, he would tell her he was building equity. I guess Naomi told him if he worked for less, she’d take that into account in the sale price.”
Kim took a deep breath. Her gaze went back to Don, who stood by the balcony windows watching her. “You’re not getting a good picture of my family, but really, Naomi was the meanest one.” Then she caught her breath. “Not that she wasn’t—I mean—”
Again that brief smile, more like a twitch of the lips. “That’s okay. I can’t think of her as my mother. I had a great mother, actually. Sounds like it’s a good thing I was given up for adoption.”
“Oh, dear.” Kim started to get up.
“Ms. Matthews, please. Just finish the story.” Inspector Daly looked at Scarlatti. “Maybe it would be better if we did this separately.”
“I know what I’m doing, Ian.” Scarlatti waved him back. “Kim, do you mind? We could take you into the other room.”
“Really, I don’t mind,” Kim said earnestly. “I mean, I did at first. But the thing is, I would want to tell Don all this anyway, now that I know he’s my cousin, so he might as well hear it now. And I don’t mind if Liz knows. She already knows some of it.”
“Well, tell it, then.” Scarlatti sounded like she might be losing her patience. Kim hurried into speech. “Okay. So anyway, my uncle had been saying for months that he was ready to buy. Aunt Mary had been working since my cousins started high school, and they’d saved up some money, and he’d been pressuring Naomi to set a price. I don’t know why she didn’t want to sell it. She was only there once in a while.” Kim stopped and looked at us all. “And no matter what you say about Hannah, she gave Naomi her half of the business years ago, and I know she didn’t take money for it
. So she can be generous, you see.”
Scarlatti and Daly exchanged looks.
Don straightened, and came over to Kim’s side. “Just because no money was exchanged, doesn’t mean that it wasn’t a trade.”
Kim looked confused. “I don’t understand.” Then her eyes widened. “You mean, it could have been like, blackmail? Hannah gave it to Naomi as a payment or something?”
“That’s very astute.” Hannah stood in the kitchen doorway with Richard Kendall behind her. “That’s exactly how it was, Kim.”
Chapter 18
Richard Kendall made a sound of protest, and Hannah turned to him. “I know what you want me to do, and I’ll do some of it. But it’s time to clear the decks. Naomi was not a nice person, and there’s no use sugar-coating the facts.” She smiled a little, and moved into the room. “I’m not a nice person either, most of the time. But I don’t really approve of lying.”
Scarlatti spoke mildly. “Ms. Kershay has told us about the cake mix.”
Hannah was magnificently unperturbed. “That was an emergency. I don’t approve of cake mix either, but under the circumstances, I did what I had to do.”
“Interesting.” Scarlatti motioned Hannah to a chair in the circle before the fireplace. “Do you always respond to a crisis by compromising your ethics?”
Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe that remark was called for, Officer.”
“I’m an inspector. That’s what we call homicide investigators in San Francisco.”
“How nice for you.” Hannah sat on the sofa opposite the one where Bruno, Drake, and I were lined up like the three wise monkeys. She glared at Inspector Scarlatti.
“Did you want to hear what I have to say, or have you already made up your mind?”
Scarlatti gave her a measuring look. “I keep an open mind.”
I felt like interjecting that her mind hadn’t been so open when she’d labeled me as a likely suspect because of my ex-con status, but Drake’s thigh had moved closer to mine, and I knew that was a signal to me to keep quiet. Besides, I was finding this mass interrogation fascinating. I didn’t want them to decide to take down everyone’s story separately.
