“Did the police call you?”
The question threw Caprice off balance. “No, Detective Jones called Roz’s cell. He didn’t call mine, and she didn’t say he’d left a message at the house. I told the detective who questioned me everything last night. But Roz got dizzy, so Detective Jones postponed the rest of the interview with her.”
Grant had obviously sifted through what she’d just said because he asked, “She’s staying with you?”
“She didn’t have any place to go. I didn’t think she should be alone at a motel.”
Again there was silence, but this time it seemed thoughtful on his part. She waited.
“I’m free for a few hours. Tell Mrs. Winslow I’ll meet her at the station in half an hour.”
“I’m going with her.”
“Caprice, if the police didn’t specifically direct you to go in, you should stay away.”
“We’ll meet you there.”
After a momentary pause, he said, “On second thought, I’ll pick you up. There could be reporters if the word gets out Mrs. Winslow is coming in. Be ready in half an hour.”
Although she could get home by then, she really did have a problem with his authoritative tone. “We’ll be ready,” she said tersely and hung up on him.
Now hadn’t that been a childish thing to do?
Caprice had pleaded an emergency and run out after Marge had asked questions about the contract and decided to show it to her husband. Her foot had been heavy on the accelerator on the way home, but now Caprice parked her van in front of her house. If there were going to be reporters at the station, her van was totally recognizable. Painted with swirling psychedelic colors and a few large flowers, with large turquoise lettering that read CAPRICE DE LUCA—REDESIGN AND HOME-STAGING, it was even more noticeable than her yellow Camaro. Promotion was essential in her business. But in this situation, she really should remain inconspicuous.
Before she could climb out of the van, Grant pulled up to the curb in his silver SUV. It didn’t look like a late model. She’d wondered before if it was vestige from his old life. She wondered even more now.
At Grant’s SUV, she introduced Roz, who had come outside when she’d heard the vehicles pull up, and they climbed inside. Five minutes later, they stood at the double glass front doors of the Kismet police department’s office building and jail.
To keep herself from studying Grant’s craggy face too long, Caprice concentrated on the changes the last couple of years had wrought on Kismet’s P.D.’s housing. The building had started out as red brick. Over the years the bricks had worn and the mortar had cracked. A few years ago, it had been sandblasted and repointed. The wooden door had been replaced by the double glass. Replacement windows in the front office section were state of the art. The cupola on the peaked roof had been stripped and repainted the brightest white. She’d heard there had been changes inside too. She wouldn’t know. She’d never been inside.
Grant held the door for them, murmuring, “At least we don’t have the media to deal with.”
Inside the building, a police officer at the front desk asked their business. When they told him they were there to see Detective Jones, he buzzed him.
Jones emerged from a hall office and eyed Grant disapprovingly. Then he turned his attention to Caprice. “No need for you to be here.”
“I brought Roz. I’m here for support.”
“You can support her out here.”
Since Caprice saw Grant’s warning glare and took it to heart—she didn’t want to get arrested for mouthing off to an officer of the law—she responded, “I’ll wait over there,” and pointed to a wooden bench that looked about as comfortable as a pile of rocks.
Time slid by at an incrementally slow speed as she tapped her foot. Willing herself to calm down and wait, she took a few deep breaths and tried to visualize each of the projects she had going, her lineup of clients she strove to more than satisfy. With every job she wanted a recommendation and a commendation. Her portfolio was growing along with her reputation, and she’d even begun virtual staging assessments with clients in other states.
Although she glanced frequently at the hallway that Detective Jones, Roz, and Grant had disappeared into, Caprice tried examining every detail of an open house scheduled in a few weeks that would shout a “tropical” theme. A few accent pieces she needed eluded her even from her online suppliers. But experience had taught her all would fall into place eventually. Still, she worried until it did.
Even a pastel color palette, bright airy fabric, and wicker furniture with comfortable cushions couldn’t distract her from what might be happening in a back office or an interrogation room. The hands on her watch moved ever so slowly as she posted on social media—a presence there was necessary in her line of work—and checked her messages.
An hour and twenty minutes later, Grant and Roz emerged from the doorway that led into the less-visible area of the police department.
Grant’s mouth formed a grim line as he said in a low voice to Caprice, “I’ll answer your questions, but let’s go someplace more private to talk.”
At least he realized she had questions.
“Can we go back to Caprice’s?” Roz asked. “I’m feeling a little weak in the knees.”
Roz did look as if she could collapse at any moment, and Grant must have realized that. “Sure,” he answered quickly. Then he peered outside the double glass doors. “Uh oh. Word must have leaked out that Roz is here. Reporters out there want to talk to the grieving widow.”
“I’ve gotten calls on my cell, but after the first one, I started screening,” Roz said.
“They don’t know you’re at Caprice’s or even that Caprice witnessed anything. Unless they saw Caprice’s car being towed away from your house.” After peering outside again, he said, “Wait here a minute.”
Grant crossed to the desk and spoke to the officer. Returning to them, he said, “There’s a back entrance. I’m going to pull up smack against it and you two are going to jump in. Caprice, it’s better if you remain anonymous as long as possible. Take that sash thing from around your waist and use it like a scarf over your head. And as soon as you’re in the backseat, duck down.”
“Grant—”
“Do you want a news van camped outside your house?”
Of course, she didn’t. She untied the wide sash at her waist.
A few minutes later, she was hunched down in the backseat as Grant sped out of the parking lot.
“Stay down,” he ordered her.
Caprice’s shoulder hit the door as he made a fast turn. From her position practically on the floor, she asked, “What happened in there?”
“I’m a suspect! They think I killed Ted,” Roz answered her.
“Did they say that?”
Maybe Roz was overreacting. Maybe Grant’s take on the interview session was altogether different. Yet she remembered the way his jaw was set when he’d emerged from the back of the building.
“They didn’t have to say so. It was the way they looked at me.”
“Grant?”
“Hold your questions until I lose the car and the van following us.”
Fifteen minutes later, they did. After Grant gave her the all clear, she sat up in the backseat.
Grant had never been inside her house before. She hadn’t had time to straighten up this morning before she’d left. She’d removed clothes from the dryer in the basement and the laundry basket still sat on a kitchen chair. Dylan and Sophia had made messes around their food dishes when they ate—Sophia sometimes pawed her dry food onto the floor—and she hadn’t bothered to sweep the kitchen last evening.
Why was she even worrying about this now when she should be focused on Roz?
A little voice in her head whispered, Because maybe you care about what Grant thinks?
She ignored the voice as they exited his car and hurried to the door. Barking began inside as Dylan heard their steps on the porch. After unlocking her door, Roz and Grant followed h
er inside.
Dylan yipped at Roz and Caprice.
“Easy,” Caprice directed firmly, not knowing how Dylan would react to Grant. She was a great believer in the theory that dogs and cats were a good judge of character.
After a glance up at Grant, Dylan’s barking stopped so he could sniff at Grant’s trousers and loafers. Finally, he sat at Grant’s feet, looking up at him as if he expected a pat on the head.
Grant didn’t hesitate to crouch down and ruffle the dog’s fur. “What’s your name?” he asked as if he expected the dog to tell him.
“Dylan,” Caprice filled in. “After the singer.”
As Grant rose to his feet, he appeared to assess her house. His gaze canvassed the colorful living room, the cat tree where Sophia was curled into a sleeping ball of fur, the early-seventies pop art psychedelic print framed and hung on one wall. After a glance into her dining room with its 1950s mahogany hutch, table, and buffet sideboard, he gave her a curious look.
Then he asked matter-of-factly, “Where would you like to settle?”
She gestured toward the living room. “I’ll make a pot of coffee.”
Roz picked up Dylan, and the dog quieted in her arms. “I let him out before I left, so he’s good.”
It was easy to see Dylan and Roz were forming quite a bond. Maybe he’d found a home.
Within minutes they were all seated in the living room, and questions had stacked up in Caprice’s head. She started with, “So tell me exactly what happened.”
Grant nodded to Roz. “Why don’t you tell her.”
“I did! They think I killed Ted.”
“They didn’t say that,” Grant assured her. “They’re just questioning your alibi.”
“Why would they question that?” Caprice wanted to know.
Explaining, Grant leaned forward in his chair. “An alibi only works if someone can corroborate it. No one saw Roz.”
“I saw Roz.”
“You saw her at the end of her run, not where she might have been a half hour or an hour before.”
“So what does that mean? That they’re going to charge her with Ted’s murder?” Caprice held her breath as she waited for Grant’s answer.
Chapter Six
“They’re not going to charge her with Ted’s murder . . . yet,” Grant answered, the nerve along his jaw working. “They brought her in to see if they could poke holes in her statement. She’s a person of interest.”
“She was in shock last night!” Caprice reminded him.
“Yes, she was. I reminded them of that. The fact that you were worried enough about her and took her to urgent care helps. A lot of facts are working in her favor.” He checked with Roz to see if he should go on.
“What’s working in my favor?” Roz asked.
“Because of the open house, your place was overrun with fingerprints. Except . . . The curio cabinet’s door was wiped clean and the key is gone. It wasn’t on Ted. It’s missing. That’s why the police asked for the list of what was in the cabinet.” His gaze met Caprice’s. “They showed her a photo of the cabinet after she gave them a list. Roz saw that a valuable antique dagger is missing.”
“It’s the one Ted gave me with the rubies, diamonds, and emeralds embedded in the handle,” Roz explained. “The key is usually in the cabinet unless we have guests. Then Ted pockets it. At least, he . . . used to.”
“With the back door hanging open as it was, the murder could have been about theft,” Caprice mused.
“That’s a possibility,” Grant agreed. “Maybe it had just happened, and when you rang the bell, the killer grabbed a valuable piece and took off. The rain could have already washed away valuable evidence. There’s another problem too. Roz gave her prints for elimination purposes just as you did. They might be on the dagger that killed her husband. Also, several people might have touched it at the open house—anyone who passed through that sword room.”
“So the murderer wiped the door on the glass case?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know why he or she took the key. Didn’t want to take the time to wipe it clean? A memento?”
“A memento?” Roz asked with astonishment.
“You never know what’s in the mind of a killer,” Grant said.
“And why do the police think Roz did it when the motive points to theft?”
“They believe she could have staged it.”
Grant made the statement so flatly it really shook Caprice. Because the police might be looking at Roz as their prime suspect, she knew she had to tell both Roz and Grant about Valerie Swanson.
“I have something I need to tell you both. But let me get the coffee first. I think we’re going to need it.”
The rattle of colorful mugs being collected and the refrigerator door being opened and closed brought Sophia into the kitchen. Seated by the refrigerator door, she meowed.
Grateful that she could postpone hurtful information for a few minutes longer, Caprice said, “One tablespoon of cream. Two a day, your vet said. We need some for our coffee, and I’m planning to make cannoli filling, so I’ll need the rest.”
Sophia blinked as if she understood.
Against popular folklore, Caprice knew many felines couldn’t digest cream. But she purchased hers along with other milk products from a local dairy. It was thick and rich, and Sophia loved it.
After she set the royal blue dish with a spoonful of cream in its center on the floor, Caprice arranged turquoise, yellow, and lime-green mugs on a tray with a crystal creamer and sugar bowl. She poured cinnamon-hazelnut coffee into the mugs, then carried the antique tray with its picture of pink peonies under the glass into the living room.
Grant rose immediately to take the tray from her. But she shook her head because it seemed important to show him she didn’t need his help. “Just move the silent butler.”
The brass container with its wooden handle had been unearthed at Isaac’s shop. About once a month, Caprice slipped a note inside it—an affirmation she wanted to concentrate on for a few weeks. Anything from—I will be patient with Bella’s attitude toward strays to I will do my part to clean up the environment.
With a look that seemed a bit puzzled, Grant moved the silent butler, and she set the tray on the square coffee table, whose top was inset with colorful ceramic tiles. She had found the quaint piece of furniture online when styling a client’s house.
Grant took his coffee black. Roz added cream as well as sugar. Caprice added a drip of cream. She didn’t want to drown out the flavor of the coffee.
After everyone took a sip, Caprice set down her mug. “I saw something at the open house that I was going to tell Roz about the night Ted was murdered.”
“At our open house? What could you have seen?” Roz asked.
There was no further way to postpone the inevitable. “I was checking where everyone was and if we had any interested lookers. I thought I heard voices coming from the upstairs exercise room. When I peeked in the door—” She stopped, then looked directly at Roz. “Ted was kissing Valerie Swanson.”
Roz’s green eyes grew wide with surprise, her mouth rounded, and then she dropped her head, concentrating on petting Dylan who was still settled in her lap.
Finally, she said, “I sensed something was terribly wrong between us. I mean, a woman knows when her husband comes home late every night and doesn’t seem interested in . . .” She trailed off and just waved a hand at them as if they should get her drift. “But then he asked if I wanted to go to New York, and we had a honeymoon all over again! What was that about if he was having an affair?”
Caprice glanced at Grant, and he looked terrifically uncomfortable.
“Roz, I’m sorry,” Caprice apologized. “I didn’t know if I should tell you or not. But I had decided to do it and then—” She didn’t have to finish.
Grant leaned forward in his chair. “If anyone gets hold of this information, that won’t be good for you,” he insisted, addressing Roz. “Because you now have a motive.”
; “Oh my gosh,” Roz said, dropping her head into her hands. “Maybe the police already know. Even if Ted was discreet, someone always sees. And gossip runs rampant in this town. If Ted kissed her in my house, God knows where else he kissed her!”
“My thoughts exactly. You know, Mrs. Winslow, I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I can recommend one.”
After seriously considering his comment, she shook her head. “I don’t want someone else. I feel comfortable with you. Everything’s so strange and uncomfortable right now. I want you, Mr. Weatherford.”
Although Grant looked troubled, he said, “There’s nothing more we can do for now.” Standing, he was obviously ready to end their meeting.
“Don’t you want a retainer or something?” Roz asked.
“Let’s just see what happens next. I gave Jones my card. They should contact me—not you—if they decide to question you again. If they do, then we’ll discuss my fee. I have to get back to my office.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Caprice offered.
She closed the door behind her as she and Grant stood on the small porch practically toe to toe. “Tell me what you really think. Do the police believe Roz did this?”
“They’re examining her closely.”
Caprice’s mind was racing, had been ever since Ted was murdered. “Yes, Roz has a motive. But Valerie does too.”
“How do you figure that?”
“What if Ted broke off with Valerie? What if he got tired of her?”
“That’s not what you saw,” Grant pointed out.
“No, it wasn’t. But Ted rekindled romance with Roz in New York the next day. Men are fickle. They want one woman one day and someone different the next. That’s what could have happened.”
“You have no facts.”
“Maybe I can find some,” she returned almost rebelliously. “And maybe if I call all of Roz’s neighbors, I’ll find one who saw her jogging.”
Grant was already shaking his head. “No. Don’t even think about it. You should stay out of it.”
“Would you stay out of it if your friend was accused of murder?”
“She hasn’t been accused of murder,” he replied blandly in that lawyer tone her brother used that always irked her.
Staged to Death (A Caprice De Luca Mystery) Page 7
