Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  The bathroom at the top of the stairs shared a common wall with the master bath. To the left of the landing was my bedroom door; to the right, doors to the two bedrooms over the kitchen and dining room. I had planned to use the spare bedroom in front for a guest room and make the back bedroom a combination walk-in closet and craft room. If I ever decided to take up a craft. When I arranged the downstairs and my bedroom, I shoved the extra boxes into the spare bedrooms without paying attention to what I was putting where.

  I opened the guest bathroom door and set the bucket on the small sink to the right. I could do this. First I had to move out the boxes of clothes stacked against the walls and in the tub. If the back room was going to be my closet, then the boxes of clothes should go in the guest bedroom to be unpacked. I lifted a box from the top and carried it through the hall.

  Fueled by nervous energy and the desire to accomplish my goal, I moved seven boxes out of the bathroom and into the guest bedroom while the earsplitting screech of Stan’s drill rang from the master suite. Setting the last box near the window facing the street, I stopped for a break and glanced outside.

  A blue Caprice pulled up in front of the house. Carla Pratt got out of the driver’s side in slacks and a white blouse. She lumbered up my brick path with her gun holster and handcuff pouch visible for the entire neighborhood to see. Perfect.

  I made it halfway down the steps before the doorbell rang. Erzulie darted past me up the stairs, and then darted back at the sound of Stan’s drill. The last I saw of her was a tail disappearing under the sofa.

  When I opened the door, Carla stood on the porch smiling. “Did I come at a bad time?”

  Yes. This is a bad time. Any time is a bad time. Go away. “No, not at all,” I said. “I’m unpacking boxes upstairs. What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?”

  Chilled air poured out of my house. Unless I wanted to cool down all of Studio City on my dime, lingering half in and half out wouldn’t work. I wasn’t about to sit on the front porch in the heat, talking to a gun-toting detective in full view of the neighbors.

  “Sure. Come on in.” I led her to the living room. She sat on the sofa. I crossed my legs Indian-style on my white Camden chair and faced her. “How is the investigation going? Did you zero in on the origin of the symbol yet?”

  Carla’s brows shot up.

  “Everyone knows about the symbol, Carla. I wouldn’t be surprised if the tabloids posted it online by now. I heard that Ira Ryback e-mailed a photo from the murder scene. His source called the design witchcraft.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Let’s not play coy with each other,” Carla said. “You and Mr. Garfield shared a fascination with the occult during the Darcantel investigation.”

  “The occult is Nick’s passion, not mine. I don’t have any interest in the supernatural.”

  “But you’re familiar with the symbol left on Mrs. Huber’s body,” Carla said.

  “No. I didn’t know what the pentagram meant until Nick explained the history to me last night. Did Nick’s report to Captain Eagleton help you?”

  “Ask Eagleton. I’m too busy with the investigation to read. The FBI will tell us if the dated pamphlet means anything. My theory is the killer left a symbol on the body to mislead the investigation. Until I have facts convincing me otherwise, I’m focusing on the leads I have.”

  “Such as?”

  “Yesterday you told me you ‘used to know’ Laycee, however, her husband told me Laycee came to Los Angeles to visit you.”

  “She lied to him.”

  “Yet the day before she died, you were seen with her at Game On and then again at the Dodger game.”

  My throat went dry. “Chance meetings.”

  “You didn’t mention either meeting to me last night,” Carla said.

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “And if I asked you now what really happened yesterday morning after you found Laycee asleep in your ex-husband’s bed?”

  “I didn’t find Laycee or anyone else in Jarret’s house. I didn’t go past the kitchen.”

  “The truth is you hated her. What were your words at the ballpark after you accused her of breaking up your marriage?” Carla flipped through pages of a small notebook. “Witnesses heard you tell Mrs. Huber she was dead to you.”

  My stomach knotted. So beer-toting Kyle heard at least one part of the conversation. Great. I had finally expressed my feelings to Laycee—in front of an audience.

  Carla continued, “The next morning, you walked into your old house and found Laycee in the bed. You must have been so angry, incensed even, realizing she had sex with your ex-husband while she was in town to visit you. A repeat of their fling in Atlanta. All the old feelings of betrayal returned. You went to the kitchen. Got a knife. I can understand why you couldn’t stop yourself from stabbing her while she slept. Then you realized someone might have seen you drive up to the house, so you drew a symbol on her in her blood—a witchcraft sign Mr. Garfield showed you—to make the crime appear to be a random cult killing. Where is the knife?”

  The knot in my stomach tightened to a chokehold. “Your imagination is astounding. You can turn off your recorder. This conversation is over.” I stood, knees shaking, and crossed to the foyer. I opened the front door. “Get out of my house.”

  “We’re not finished, Liz. You can tell me the truth now or we can talk at the station.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I knew Carla couldn’t force me to respond to her accusations, answer her questions, or take me to the station without cause. Thank God I always paid my parking tickets. There weren’t any random traffic warrants on me floating around to use as an excuse to take me in.

  We stared each other down. I waited, refusing to budge from my stance at the front door. She rose from the sofa and hiked the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Taking her time walking out, her eyes scanned my living room.

  “Next time you want to talk to me, contact my lawyer for an appointment.” I swept my hand toward the porch, gesturing for her to leave.

  “Have him or her call me. Today.”

  I shut the door behind her and leaned against the panel, my heart banging inside my rib cage. Erzulie scuttled from beneath the sofa to my side, arching her back against my leg. I looked down at her and said, “We need a criminal lawyer. Fast.”

  Erzulie trailed me into the den. I sat down and dialed Kitty Kirkland, our family attorney and the only lawyer I knew well enough to ask for help.

  “Liz, it’s good to hear your voice, dear. Is Lucia feeling all right?” Kitty said, referring to the woman she helped Nick and I rescue from fraud and elder abuse last spring.

  “Lucia is very well. I’ll tell her you asked,” I said. “Nick and I had dinner with her last week. But that’s not why I’m calling. I need a criminal defense lawyer.”

  “For Jarret? I saw the news about the homicide at his home. I had a bad feeling—”

  “For me.”

  “Hold on.” Her phone clattered. I heard a door click shut.

  Kitty listened in silence while I detailed the whole story from Laycee and Jarret’s fling in Atlanta all the way to Carla’s accusation.

  “Why didn’t you call me before Pratt questioned you the first time?” she said in her drill sergeant manner.

  “I didn’t think I had anything to hide.”

  “The first half of your statement is true. Does your father know about this?”

  “Not yet. You’re my first call.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll call you right back.”

  I entertained a short nervous breakdown until the phone rang.

  “Oliver Paul will meet you at his office at four o’clock,” Kitty said. “For God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone about this between now and then. If the police show up at your house with a warrant, you call Ollie and wait for him to get there. Here’s his phone number and address.”

  I scribbled the info on
a scrap of paper. “Thank you. Who is Oliver Paul?”

  “A genius. The sharpest criminal defense attorney in the Valley. He was my star student when I taught criminal motion practice at Loyola. Don’t let his attitude throw you. Trust me, you’ll love him.”

  “I trust you.” I had to—I didn’t have time to be picky. “Will you do me a favor? Don’t say anything if you talk to my mom. I want to tell my parents in person tonight.”

  “I won’t say a word. I do want you to keep me updated, though. And Liz? Good luck.”

  I pulled up a Google map on the address she gave me. I had an hour to change clothes and drive to Oliver Paul’s office in Van Nuys. I ran upstairs and at the top of the landing I spotted Stan in the now empty spare bathroom, on his knees in the tub. He raised a drill toward the wall.

  “Stan, don’t. I was going to—” Too late. Exposed pipes peeked through a gaping hole in the wall beneath the showerhead.

  “Hey, Liz. Thanks for clearing out this bathroom. It’s easier for me to get a full view of the plumbing from both sides.”

  I sagged against the doorjamb. “Maybe this will speed things up?”

  “Yeah. It should.” Stan cleared his throat. “Listen, we have to run out to an emergency job tomorrow. We’ll be back on Monday.”

  He decided to tear up my spare bathroom wall then leave me stranded for the weekend? I clenched my teeth, conscious of rule number one: don’t insult the plumber mid-job. Not if I liked running water. I decided on a new rule: don’t let the plumber off the hook.

  “Monday? What about Saturday?”

  “On the weekend?” His mouth dropped open. You’d think I asked him to work on Christmas.

  I creased my forehead and blinked as if ready to cry. It was low but I was desperate. I sighed and said, “I smell. I haven’t showered at home or had a decent bubble bath in over a month. I feel like I’m living in a tent. I’m going back to work next week and I—” I covered my face and sniffed.

  Stan waved his hands. “Don’t. Don’t do that. I’ll come Saturday morning and see how far I can get alone.”

  “Would you?” I touched his arm, sincere as a con man.

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you, Stan. You’re amazing,” I said. “By the way, I have a last-minute meeting this afternoon. I need to lock up the house before I leave. I’m so sorry. We have to call it a day.”

  Stan grunted agreement and carried his drill and equipment into the master bedroom. He and Angel began removing the tarps off the furniture and packing their tools. I took a black sundress and bronze sandals out of my closet and crossed the hall into the guest bedroom to make a quick change of clothes. They shouted their good-byes from downstairs while I dotted my lips with red lipstick in front of the dusty mirror over my vanity.

  With nervous adrenaline pumping through me, I closed up the house and jumped into my car with thirty minutes to get to my new lawyer’s office. The air-conditioning kicked in high once I turned on Riverside Drive for a four-mile drive west. The right turn to Van Nuys Boulevard took me past the dealerships on “Auto Row” and the Van Nuys Government Center. After a quick left at a pawnshop onto Victory Boulevard, I passed a tattoo parlor and pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the address Kitty gave me, a five-story bank building. I got out and shielded my eyes from the sun while I surveyed my surroundings. A derelict curled under a blanket beside a Dumpster in the alley. Across the street, a Goodwill Donation Center and two bail bonds storefronts advertised in English and Spanish.

  Granted, the bank building stood walking distance from the courthouse and jail complex, but Oliver Paul’s office location didn’t smack of elite, high-powered attorney. I entered the building, skeptical. Kitty had told me to trust her.

  The directory in the glass-and-chrome lobby listed Oliver Paul, Esq., in Rm. 404. I got off the elevator on the fourth floor and wandered down the beige corridor bookended by green plastic trees until I located “404” posted on a small plate next to the third door on the left. No name on the door, no sounds coming from inside.

  I knocked. No answer. I checked my watch. On time. I tried the doorknob. Unlocked. The door bumped a row of file cabinets lining the wall of an outer office barely large enough to house an old metal desk covered with a disaster of paper stacks, a dusty computer, and a telephone. The weathered chair behind the desk was empty.

  “Hello?” I hovered inside the doorway.

  A gravelly male voice answered from an interior hallway, “Back here.”

  As I curved around the desk and down the hall, I smelled tobacco smoke. The sickly-sweet odor drifted out of the open door to a green shag-carpeted office. A tall red Chinese cabinet took up the wall to my right. A massive mahogany desk spread in front of a window overlooking the west valley. Behind the desk, an olive-skinned mid-fortyish man with curly brown hair rocked in a leather chair, puffing on a cigar. A striped tie hung loose from the open collar of his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  With the cigar between his teeth, he stood and straightened his shirt. He stuck out his hand and with a glint in his eye said, “Oliver Paul.”

  “Liz Cooper,” I said, accepting his handshake.

  Short and slight, Oliver Paul exuded confidence as big and comfortable as the furniture surrounding us. He pointed at a banker’s chair facing the desk. “Sit down, Liz Cooper. Tell me your troubles.”

  I sat with my purse in my lap, relating an extended, detailed version of how I wound up a suspect instead of a witness at a murder scene—my history with Laycee, Jarret, and Kyle, along with my reason for being at the house. Oliver listened without comment or expression until I started to tell him about my meeting with Carla Pratt at Aroma.

  He doused his cigar in an ashtray and sat forward. “You went alone?”

  “I had nothing to hide,” I said.

  “Go on.” He dragged his hand across his mouth then rested his cheek on his fist.

  Twenty minutes later, he was up to date on every conversation I had and every movement I made over the past two days, ending with Carla’s accusation at my house. “That’s when I told her to contact my lawyer if she wanted to talk to me again.” I felt proud of my smart move to shut her down. I knew he would approve. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re doomed,” he said.

  I closed one eye, not sure I heard him right. “Excuse me?”

  “What? You want me to tell you everything is okay? Everything’s not okay. You got a homicide detective accusing you of murder. What’s okay about that?”

  “What should I do? Jarret’s lawyer is fueling her suspicions about me.”

  “Well, what can you do? Ya know?” He shrugged. “Give the cops somebody else to look at. Another schmo to tag the murder on. That’s what your ex-husband, Jerry, did.”

  “Jarret.”

  “Jerry, Jarret, whatever. I don’t know. What do you want me to do? I can bring in my private detective to follow him. Well, ah, you know, we’ll have a…” Oliver rubbed his mouth again and studied the wall behind me. “Who is Jason’s lawyer?”

  “Jarret.” I sunk into the hard-backed chair, my faith in Oliver shriveling. “My ex-husband’s name is Jarret.”

  “I know.” Oliver cracked a smile. “I know everything about Jarret Cooper. He graduated from the University of Illinois. He’s a Major League left-handed reliever with an ERA of four-point-four in his career with the Dodgers and an ERA of four-point-one-eight when he played for the Braves. Want me to recite his win-loss statistics? His history in the minors?”

  “No, I get it. You know who he is.”

  “No, you don’t get it. You see, every time you correct me, I ask myself, ‘Why does this woman care so much about me, a total stranger, getting her ex-husband’s name right when she’s accused of murdering his girlfriend?’ You’re lucky I’m not a cop, because right away I think four years after your divorce you still give a crap about him. He has a lawyer busy creating a smoke screen to cover his ass and you’re upset that I
’m getting his name wrong?” Oliver relit his cigar and blew smoke in the air. “Let’s start again. Who is Jarret’s lawyer? That’s the guy who’s pointing the finger at you.”

  “I don’t know his name,” I said.

  “Find out. Now tell me about you and Jasper. You were married a long time. What happened?”

  I sighed. “Fifteen years sounds like a long time, but we lived separate lives. Jarret spent the six or seven months during baseball season on and off the road. I buried myself in studies for my PhD, then built my career. It’s painful to admit, but I dealt with broken relationships in my practice while ignoring the destructive signs at home. Jarret’s affair with Laycee forced me to face the truth about his infidelities. He and I made a haphazard attempt to stay together after I found out, but I had stopped trusting or caring. I was done.”

  “You hated this Huber woman?” Oliver said.

  “Laycee personified all of the women he bedded. But hate? No. I wouldn’t give her that much of my energy. I didn’t respect her. I’m angry with myself for befriending her.” I fidgeted with my purse strap. Revisiting my marriage and the mistakes I made? Not my favorite subject. “How do we handle Detective Pratt? She wants to talk to me again.”

  Oliver sat back, puffing his cigar. “Let her wait. The cops got nothin’ to bring you in or hold you on. They got guesses. Everybody’s got guesses. Here’s my guess: they don’t have confirmed time of death, they don’t have the murder weapon, and they don’t have the fingerprint reports back. So Pratt is shooting out accusations at people like cardboard ducks in a carnival booth, waiting for someone to quack out a confession. Ain’t happening. Ain’t happening, honey.”

  I felt a little more encouraged, although not completely convinced about Oliver. “In other words, you want me to wait for her to find another suspect?”

  “You can bet that right now, she’s not looking at anyone but you and Jarret. Gives her something to do. That box you let her take out of your house, you know, the one she removed with your permission? What’s in it?”