by Laura Durham
“No jury in the world would convict us,” Richard finally said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Not when we admit the hat as evidence.”
I ignored him and got in the car. “Okay, Leatrice, you can come, but we’re only going to be a few minutes. We’re dropping the tape off and leaving. I’m afraid it’s not going to be very exciting.”
“Don’t you worry, dearie. It beats watching reruns on the Game Show channel.”
Richard adjusted his rearview mirror in a huff. “The hat has got to go. I can’t see a thing behind me.”
“But it matches the boots.” Leatrice raised a hot pink cowboy boot in the air for inspection. They did, indeed, appear to be a matching set. “They’ll look silly without the hat.”
“I don’t think the hat deserves all the blame,” Richard muttered.
“How about you take it off for the ride over?” I bargained. “So it won’t blow away?”
“Good thinking.” Leatrice took off the hat and gave me a pat on the shoulder.
Richard glanced over at me before he gunned the engine. I’d be paying for this for the next decade.
Despite Leatrice’s insistence on singing “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall” during the drive and Richard’s noticeable acceleration as each bottle of beer happened to fall, we arrived in front of the police station in one piece.
“No singing,” I said as we walked up the sidewalk to the glass front doors. “We’re here to turn this over to Reese, explain what we’ve learned, and leave.”
Leatrice nodded silently as she bounced through the door on the toes of her boots. The officer at the desk glanced up, and then did a double take when he saw Leatrice. I guess it wasn’t every day you saw an elderly woman in pink cowgirl regalia. Especially in D.C.
“Wait here,” I said to Leatrice.
She and Kate sat on two plastic chairs lined against the wood-paneled wall while Richard followed me to the desk. Clearly he’d rather take his chances with the cops than be associated with Leatrice.
“I’m here to see Detective Reese. Is he in?” I asked the desk clerk. “I need to drop something off.”
“Oh, yeah?” The tall, pasty officer looked past me to where Leatrice sat swinging her legs. “What’s her name?”
“No, I’m not dropping off a person,” I explained.
Richard elbowed me. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Don’t be a fool. Take it.”
I shot him a look and then turned back to the cop. “I’m dropping off evidence in a murder case.” I held up the paper bag by its handles.
The officer’s eyes widened and he stroked his thin blond mustache. “He’s questioning someone, but I’ll see if he can be disturbed.”
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Richard whispered as the cop disappeared in the back. “I’m sure they’d take good care of her.”
“Very funny, Richard. You know Leatrice isn’t crazy. She’s just a bit colorful.” I followed Richard’s gaze and saw that Leatrice had twisted her boots around so that her feet looked like they pointed in the wrong direction. She and Kate were giggling like fiends.
Richard put his hands on his hips. “I say we leave them both.”
“What’s this about evidence?” Detective Reese’s gruff voice startled me and I spun around. He wore a rumpled shirt and at least a day’s growth of stubble. “We’re kind of swamped with homicides right now.”
My cheeks got warm when I saw him, but immediately cooled when I remembered his bleached blonde cupcake at the restaurant. I cleared my throat. “We didn’t mean to disturb you, but we have something that might change your mind about Georgia.”
“I doubt it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m finishing an interview with another hotel witness, and it’s not looking good for your friend.”
I held out the bag. “Wait until you watch this. The wedding videographer inadvertently caught the murder on tape through the glass walls while she filmed in the courtyard.”
Reese took the bag from me and pulled out the video. “You’ve watched it?”
I nodded. “It’s not crystal clear, but you can tell that the person who killed Henri had dark hair and wore a chef’s jacket.”
Reese raised an eyebrow and tapped his fingers on the black cassette. “This might be interesting.”
“And we talked to the chefs in the hotel today,” I said, pausing to take a quick breath. “They all have alibis, but the sous chef, Gunter, seemed to be hiding something. We think he may be covering for someone. The general manager cleared out the Colonnade for a photographer to take room shots, but the photographer wasn’t even in the hotel at the time. Maybe Gunter saw the GM with Henri but is afraid to say anything because he might lose his job and his chance for a green card.”
“So much for letting us do our job.” Reese leveled his eyes at me. “If you’re doing so well on your own, why give this to me?”
“For God’s sake, don’t encourage her,” Richard groaned.
“We don’t think that we can get any more information out of the suspects. We figured we’d turn over our evidence and you could interrogate Gunter and the general manager and let Georgia go.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple.” Reese dropped the cassette back in the bag. “Gunter won’t implicate the GM.”
I balled my hands into fists. “How do you know unless you try?”
“I know because he’s dead. We got a call only a couple of minutes ago that one of the Fairmont chefs accidentally electrocuted himself. I was about to head out to join the investigation when you arrived.”
“You’re sure it’s Gunter?” I felt light-headed.
“Yep. It’s a hard name to forget.” Reese patted me on the shoulder. “Bad luck for him and you, huh?”
I felt numb. Gunter’s death didn’t have anything to do with bad luck. I felt more convinced than ever that he’d known something about Henri’s death. And unfortunately the murderer had made sure he’d never get the chance to tell anyone.
Chapter 22
“You don’t look so good, dearie.” Leatrice watched me collapse onto my couch. “Maybe you need something cool to drink.”
“I’ll check out the refrigerator,” Richard called over his shoulder as he walked from my living room to the kitchen. He pulled open the wooden shutters that created a window between the two rooms. “Make sure she doesn’t faint.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. Richard had threatened to throw Leatrice’s hat into traffic if she sang again, so the ride home from the police station had been mercifully quiet, but my head still throbbed. It was hard to believe that we’d spoken to Gunter only a couple of hours ago and now he was dead. I couldn’t help thinking that my meddling was the reason.
“You didn’t get this upset when you saw Henri’s body.” Kate tossed her shoes off and perched on the arm of the couch. “What gives?”
“What if we’re the reason he’s dead?” I asked, my throat dry. “Obviously he was killed so he couldn’t talk, and we’re the ones trying to get people to talk.”
“You can’t blame yourself for this.” Kate shook her head. “Maybe it was an accident.”
“Too coincidental,” I said firmly. “I’m starting to think Richard is right about my car, too. Maybe the real killer is sending us some warnings to back off.”
“Did I hear you say that I’m right? Will wonders never cease?” Richard bounced out of the kitchen carrying a glass of something brown. He handed it to me. “It’s slightly flat Coke, but in this case it’ll be good for you.”
I took a drink. Sad to say, I was getting used to flat soda. “Poor Gunter. Now we’ll never know what he was hiding.”
“But we can be pretty sure he saw something that someone didn’t want him to share with you or the police,” Leatrice said. “You must have struck a nerve with your questioning.”
“That’s right, Annabelle,” Kate agreed. “We must have been on the right track or the real killer wouldn’t have felt threatened enough to murd
er again.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Richard shuddered. “You girls are lucky you got out of there alive.”
“I don’t think we’re in danger,” I said, dismissing Richard’s concern.
“Oh really?” Richard began pacing in front of my windows. “A smart killer would go straight to the source. Why not get rid of the two people who are poking around and stirring up trouble? The police aren’t looking for more suspects, so the murderer is home free as long as you two don’t mess everything up.”
I opened my mouth to argue and then stopped. He had a point. Maybe our harmless investigation wasn’t so harmless after all. “But who’s the most likely killer out of the people who knew we were asking questions about Henri’s death?”
“I don’t think we can assume that only the people we talked to knew we were there,” Kate said. “Word travels fast.”
“Why don’t we write down all the suspects?” Leatrice began searching for some blank paper on my coffee table. She produced a legal pad from under a pile of magazines and pulled a miniature pencil from her pocket.
Richard let out a long breath. “This seems rather pointless since you’re officially retired from your investigation, right?”
“It can’t hurt to talk about the case.” I shifted in my seat and avoided his eyes.
“There’s Mr. Elliott, the hotel’s general manager,” Kate began. “Nobody likes him, and he wanted to get rid of both Georgia and Henri. He got everyone out of the room where the murder took place under false pretense, too.”
Leatrice scratched feverishly in the pad. “That’s good. Motive and opportunity. Who’s next?”
“I guess the remaining chefs we spoke to. Jean and Emilio. Neither of them were too fond of their boss, and both were in the room prior to the murder. But they have alibis.” I downed the last of the flat soda and put the glass on the floor. “Jean is a bit of a prima donna, and Emilio is the in-house Casanova.”
“Is he still chasing skirts?” Richard smirked. “He worked for me a few years back. I was always afraid I’d open a kitchen door and find him romancing a prep cook on the counter.”
Leatrice’s eyebrows popped up. “That doesn’t sound very sanitary.”
“I doubt Emilio’s love life has anything to do with the murder.” I tried to change the subject before Leatrice asked for more details. “I would normally list the banquet captain, Reg, as a suspect but I think he’s too in love with Georgia to frame her for murder.”
“He could have committed the crime without meaning for Georgia to get arrested for it,” Kate suggested.
“Good point.” I nodded. “That would explain why he’s so distraught over her arrest. Maybe he killed Henri to help Georgia, then his plan backfired.”
“But do you really think Reg could have murdered someone?” Kate asked me. “He can barely get two sentences out without tripping over his words.”
“I know, but if we eliminate everyone we think is too nice to be a killer, our list will only have one name—Mr. Elliott. And Darcy and Hugh swear that he’s too spineless to do it.”
“Who are Darcy and Hugh?” Leatrice started to write their names down.
“Darcy has been Georgia’s assistant for the past three years and Hugh is the head concierge,” Kate explained.
“Talk about people who are too mild mannered to kill someone, unless Hugh could get first row Kennedy Center tickets out of it.” I grinned. “Neither of them have motives, either.”
Leatrice frowned and tapped the notepad with her pencil. “I’ll leave them on the list, anyway. Do you have any suspects who don’t work in the hotel? It sounds like your victim might have had enemies all over town.”
I avoided Richard’s gaze. “There is another chef who hated Henri enough to kill him.”
“There is no way Marcello could have had anything to do with Henri’s death,” Richard insisted. “I was with him setting up for a wedding at Dumbarton House at the precise time Henri was murdered.”
Leatrice shook her head. “That doesn’t make him a very good suspect, then.”
“No, it does put a wrinkle in things,” I admitted.
Leatrice looked at her notes and then looked up at us. “Someone isn’t what they seem to be.”
I snapped my fingers. “She’s right. What do we really know about these people? We need to research our suspects. Find out about their pasts. Where else they worked in town, their reputations, their personal lives. Maybe that will give us the clues we need to piece it all together.”
Richard glared at me. “Might I remind you that you swore off meddling only an hour ago?”
“Annabelle doesn’t have to do it.” Kate hopped up. “I’ve got lots of contacts in hotels.”
“Do you mean contacts or ex-boyfriends?” Richard batted his eyelashes at her.
Kate stuck her tongue out at him. “Jealous?”
“Hardly.” Richard snatched my empty glass from the floor and flounced off to the kitchen.
“Listen.” Kate lowered her voice. “I have to run a few errands tomorrow, so why don’t I pop by some of the hotels and see what I can dig up?”
“Alone?” I asked. “After what happened today, are you sure that’s safe?”
“I could go with you,” Leatrice offered.
“No,” Kate said forcefully, and then relaxed into a smile. “I’ll be fine. None of the other hotels have murderers on the loose, remember?”
“I should stay in the office and get some paperwork done. And it’ll keep Richard off my back about meddling.” I shook a finger at her. “As long as you promise to call me as soon as you find out anything.”
“I’ll come back with a full report,” Kate assured me.
Richard emerged from the kitchen with his hands on his hips. “I would like to lodge a formal protest against this harebrained idea.”
“What harebrained idea?” I gave him my most innocent look. “Kate is perfectly capable of gathering information.”
“If she comes back with anything more than a stack of men’s phone numbers, I’ll die of shock.”
Kate stood up and slipped her feet into her shoes. “You wait and see what I find out.” She grabbed her purse from the floor and marched over to the door. “Sticks and scones may break my bones…”
Richard watched as Kate slammed the door behind her and he shook his head slowly. “I rest my case.”
Chapter 23
“Have you heard anything from Kate yet?” Leatrice caught me as I tried to stealthily open my mailbox in the building foyer.
“It’s barely afternoon.” I sighed, looking at my watch. I scooped my mail out of the metal mailbox and snapped the door shut. “She’s probably still getting started.” Truth be told, she probably just rolled out of bed. Not that I was one to talk. I aspired to make it out of my yoga pants by afternoon. Not that I’d actually made it to yoga class, but I figured getting dressed for it was a step in the right direction. Tomorrow I’d actually attempt a sun salutation.
Leatrice followed me back upstairs. “I’ve been thinking about the murders. I think we’re missing something.”
“Like the killer,” I replied absentmindedly as I padded up the stairs in my sock feet. I’d spent the morning printing updated “to-do” lists for clients and returning phone calls. For once my mind was focused on marriage, not murder.
As I reached my landing, I heard my business line ringing. It figured the second I left my desk, the phone would ring. I opened the door and rushed down the hall to get the call in time. I snatched the phone off my desk and steadied my voice. “Wedding Belles. This is Annabelle.”
Crap. Nothing but dial tone.
“Did you miss an important call?” Leatrice stood in the hallway behind me, slightly out of breath.
I looked at the caller ID. The Fairmont Hotel. I wondered who could be calling me from there. Hugh the concierge with some juicy gossip? Darcy on the verge of a nervous breakdown? I punched in my voice-mail code.
“We
ll?” Leatrice rocked back and forth on her heels, making her gold jingle bell necklace ring.
“Isn’t that a Christmas necklace?” I asked as I listened to the message.
She gave me a look like I was a simpleton. “On the Style channel they say you should have a signature piece of jewelry, and this is mine.”
Somehow I didn’t think that was what the Style channel had in mind.
I hung up the phone and put it back on my desk. “They found my car. But it’s been scraped up. I’d better grab a cab to the hotel. No way am I calling Richard and having him say ‘I told you so’ the entire ride there.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. We can take my car.”
I stared at Leatrice for a few seconds. “You have a car?”
“Of course I have a car. I don’t drive it much, of course. Not much need when you have everything within walking distance.”
“Do you have a license?” I hesitated to ask.
Leatrice gave me a curious look. “Of course. You’re not supposed to drive without one, you know.”
I didn’t dare ask if she’d updated it since the Carter administration. “Okay. Give me a second to get dressed and we can go.”
“Perfect.” Leatrice clapped her hands. “I’ll go warm her up and meet you out front.”
I ran into my bedroom as I heard Leatrice close the front door. I tugged on a pair of black pants that I salvaged from the top of the hamper and pulled the plastic dry cleaning bag off a blue silk sweater. I figured the recently cleaned sweater would make up for the not-so-fresh pants. I threw my hair into a ponytail, snatched my black purse from the floor, and headed out the door.
Although the yellow Ford circa 1980 only had four doors, it took up almost as much space as a small stretch limo as it idled loudly in the middle of the street. I didn’t see Leatrice at first glance, but I had little doubt that this was her car. They didn’t make cars like this anymore. For a reason. I couldn’t imagine where in Georgetown she could find a parking space large enough for this monstrosity.
