Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Menzies

“So?” he said. “Not very happy?”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “I’m inclined to doubt. But that may be because he’s so likable. As a matter of fact, a lot of murderers are very likable.”

  “But if he isn’t guilty, who is? Peter Martin?”

  “I could make a case for him. Or for Hildy Reimer, although I can’t see her framing Nick. Or for Bart Brodie, though we still have no proven motive. Or for the Fischers, but while they may be guilty of a lot of foolishness, I don’t believe either of them is a murderer. Then we have Kendall and George Brodie. If Nick is protecting someone, it would be Kendall. Nick says he was awake and Kendall was asleep while Crystal was killed. If Nick isn’t the murderer, he could be giving Kendall an alibi. But George and Kendall were together when Jillian was killed.

  “Could there be two murderers?”

  “I sincerely hope not.” Manziuk sighed. “But we can’t rule it out. Maybe Nick killed Jillian, and then Kendall killed Crystal to protect him.”

  “How would we ever prove that?” Ryan asked.

  “A confession would be nice.”

  “Yeah, right.” She thought for a moment. “What about Peter Martin? Have we ruled him out?”

  “I don’t see how he could have drugged Fellowes.”

  “So it has to be Nick Donovan?”

  “It seems that way. And if by any chance it isn’t, holding him might make the real murderer relax and make a mistake.”

  “So we wait?”

  “We wait. And we continue to sift every bit of information we have.”

  She turned to leave. “Oh, did you want this?”

  “What is it?”

  “The list of the contents of Nick Donovan’s possessions when he was booked.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Okay, put it on the desk. I’ll look at it later. I want to have a talk with Ford. See if there’s anything Forensics could have missed.”

  Ellen was busy in the kitchen. George would be home soon and she wanted to make sure everything was perfect. She’d cooked all his favorite foods.

  She added a hot cup of tea to a supper tray and carried it in to her housekeeper. It had been a long day for Mrs. Winston. She’d been by turns hysterical, weeping, tired, querulous about making funeral arrangements, and worried about what was going to happen to her. She’d taken it into her head that George would fire her because of what had happened, and Ellen had used a good deal of her remaining energy to persuade her housekeeper that George would do no such thing.

  Right now, Mrs. Winston was relatively calm. She’d been crying again, but she wasn’t anguished as she’d been earlier. More like shock, Ellen thought. Crying, but not quite knowing why.

  Ellen helped her sit up in bed and made sure the tray was in the right spot.

  “I’m shivering. That air conditioning makes it so cold when you aren’t working.”

  After three tries, Ellen found the right sweater. She had to move the tray to help Mrs. Winston get the sweater on. Then she arranged the tray again. “Just call when you’ve finished. Or if you need anything. I’m getting George’s supper ready, so I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Her housekeeper nodded.

  “Would you like the TV on?”

  “Yes. It might take my mind off things.”

  Ellen found the remote, turned the TV on, and left the control at Mrs. Winston’s right hand.

  She went back to the kitchen, found one of the cups she’d kept from their old set of dishes, and poured some tea for herself. She was about to sit down when the phone rang.

  “Ellen?”

  “Yes, George.”

  “How is everything?”

  “Not too bad. We’re having the funeral Friday. Jillian’s is Thursday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. I’ve got a lot of work here. And since I’ll be going to the two funerals, I thought maybe I should work late so I can keep on top of things. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “You aren’t afraid of being alone there, are you?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll make sure the gates are locked. And the doors.”

  “The police could send someone over if you were worried. Goodness knows we pay enough taxes.”

  “That’s silly. There’s nothing for me to worry about.”

  “Speaking of that, Kendall just got a call from Nick. He’s been arrested.”

  She jumped. “Nick?”

  “From what he told Kendall, sounds like a pretty strong case. I’m sure glad Nick hadn’t joined the firm. If he had, the press would be twice as bad. Anyway, with him arrested, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Don’t wait up for me. I have my keys.”

  She hung up the receiver and sat for a long time staring through the patio doors. All thoughts of the food cooling on the counter were gone. She didn’t hear Mrs. Winston calling for her to come get the tray. “Oh, Nick,” she said at last, shaking her head. “Not you.”

  In his office, George pulled out a file and began reading through the notes his law clerk had made. He’d had his secretary order up a ham on rye and a bagel with cream cheese. As he read, he ate. But after a while, the words blurred. He went over to the water machine and poured a glass of water. Two pills went down. That would help his ulcer.

  So they’d arrested Nick. When Kendall had called to let him know, George had at first felt relief that the case had been solved and then anguish at what the arrest would mean. George had already phoned Bradley and Pattison to make sure Nick had the best defense possible.

  George considered the trial. He wondered what evidence the police had. Likely circumstantial. Bradley and Pattison were the best. They’d get Nick off, all right. But it would be messy. They’d all be called as witnesses. And the press would have a field day. George’s feeling of impending doom sank onto him. He’d been so hopeful that when the police made the arrest, it would be over. But of course, this was only the beginning of the next act. And there was nothing he or anybody else could do about it.

  Trying to shake the feeling off, he sat down and began reading, willing himself to concentrate.

  Kendall Brodie was pacing in his apartment, wondering how Nick was enjoying his prison cell. Kendall picked up a pillow and slammed it against the wall. Nick wasn’t guilty. Not of murder, at least. Of being an idiot, maybe. But if Nick wasn’t guilty, who was? And why couldn’t the police solve this without hurting innocent people?

  He kicked the back of a chair.

  He’d been so angry with Nick for not wanting to join the firm, and now he couldn’t care less about that. Nick could ski until he was ninety, if he wanted! Funny how a person’s perspective changed.

  Of course, that was assuming Nick got out of jail.

  Kendall grabbed the pillow and threw it against the sofa. It had about as much effect on the sofa as he was having on the police investigation. This helplessness was horrible. But when he’d asked his dad what he could do to get Nick off, his dad had said to stay out of the way and let Bradley and Pattison handle it. They were the experts.

  Come to think of it, that was what Nick had ordered him to do, too. Sit tight. Only he didn’t want to sit! He wanted to do something!

  He threw a second pillow, but the storm in his eyes didn’t abate.

  Was this what it felt like to have a brother? Was this what it felt to love somebody? He would have laughed if anyone had said he loved Nick. But he did. And he wasn’t going to let Nick be the hero this time. No matter what it cost.

  Shauna was finished at the hairdresser by five-thirty. They had supper at a small Italian restaurant. Then she asked Bart to take her to a certain address. She wouldn’t tell him why.

  When they arrived at a plain, brick, three-story office building, she went inside alone. She came back a few minutes later and thrust a brochure at Bart. It wa
s from Alcoholics Anonymous.

  “I don’t need this,” he protested.

  “From what I saw this weekend, you need it.”

  “Give some people an inch and they take a mile.”

  “That’s a cliché.”

  “Maybe it is, Miss Librarian. But it’s also true. I only said I liked you.”

  “No, you said you were intrigued by me.”

  “Did you know that half the time I have to keep myself from wringing your neck?”

  “And the other half?”

  “Never mind.” He started the car. “And if I want to stop drinking, I’ll stop. Notice, I said if I want to stop.”

  “You’d better stop smoking while you’re at it. Or don’t you read the newspapers?”

  As he pulled out of the parking spot, he said, “Did anyone ever tell you you’re bossy?”

  Her face lit up. “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never had a chance before.”

  He glared at her. “So? The first guy you meet who doesn’t ignore you and you think you have to boss him around?”

  “Watch where you’re going,” she said.

  When his eyes were on the road again, she said, “It’s for your own good. You don’t want to end up like my father, do you?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never met your father.”

  “He’s back at Peter’s apartment. He’ll drink with you. Smoke with you, too. And you can tell each other about all the jobs you’ve lost.”

  “I’ve never lost a job.”

  “Don’t you mean you’ve never had a job?”

  “Do you have to assume that if I’d had a job, I would have lost it?”

  She just looked at him.

  “Battle-ax,” he said.

  She smiled, her eyes dancing, and he nearly lost control of the wheel.

  Anne and Douglass Fischer forgot about supper until eight o’clock. They had been in such intense conversation that nothing else seemed to matter. When Jason came up to the bedroom to ask what he was supposed to eat, he found his parents sitting together on the love seat in the bay window. His father’s right arm was around his mother’s shoulders, her left hand holding his.

  “Send out for pizza,” Douglass said lazily.

  “Suits me,” Jason replied and went downstairs to comply.

  “I should have made supper,” Anne protested.

  “Pizza will be fine.”

  “Yes. I guess it will. Douglass?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think the counseling will be expensive?”

  “I don’t care. We’re worth it. I can’t believe what a fool I’ve become.”

  “You’re not a fool.”

  “A man who’s so caught up in his job that he has no time for his wife or family is a fool.”

  “Well, you aren’t one anymore.”

  “I hope not. Don’t ever let me forget again what’s most important.”

  “And don’t ever let me be the witch I’ve been.”

  At nine o’clock, Manziuk was in his office going over the report from Forensics for the third time. Maybe there was something they’d missed. Some little detail that would lead them to the murderer. But nothing rang a bell. Maybe he should quit. Nick Donovan was the obvious choice. So why wasn’t he satisfied?

  There was a knock on his door and Ryan strode in. “Guess what.”

  “You found something?”

  “I didn’t. But one of the men checking restaurants did.”

  “What?”

  “Are you ready for a shock?”

  “I should tell you I don’t care for high drama. Just give me the facts.”

  Ryan rolled her eyes and leaned toward him. “Okay.” Her voice became Jack Webb’s from Dragnet. “You want the facts, nothing but the facts?”

  Manziuk stared at her in astonishment.

  “Oops,” she said, jumping back. Then, quickly, she added, “She was seen at a restaurant with someone other than Peter Martin. Apparently, she met him there several times, the last one being Friday morning.”

  “Who?”

  “You remember this morning you said to widen the search? Include Douglass Fischer?”

  “Yes. So it was—”

  “Not him. They added pictures of all the men involved. At my suggestion.” She paused for him to digest this. “She was meeting Kendall Brodie.”

  Manziuk was silent for several minutes. Finally, he said, “He claimed he’d never met her.”

  “He lied.”

  “Maybe we’d better have a talk with him.”

  They were walking out of the station when Kendall came running up behind them. Unfortunately, he was behind three reporters who had been hanging around looking for news.

  “What can you tell us, Inspector?” a dark-haired woman with a black umbrella and tan trench coat asked.

  “Who’s this? You new to Homicide, miss?” This from a young man in a hooded jacket.

  “How’s Woody doing, Paul? Don’t tell me they replaced him with a woman!” A white-haired man with a leather jacket and cigar spat in disgust.

  “No comment,” Manziuk said. “Talk to Benson.”

  Kendall ignored the reporters. “Inspector Manziuk, I was up at your office and they said you had just gone out. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Aren’t you Kendall Brodie?” the female reporter asked. “I understand that Nick Donovan has been arrested. He’s your roommate, isn’t he? Do you have any comments on his arrest?

  “Nick is completely innocent,” Kendall said.

  “Inspector?” The young man wanted agreement.

  “No one has yet been arrested for murder,” Manziuk said. “Now if you’ll excuse us—Mr. Brodie, I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you.” Manziuk was pushing back toward the station, taking Ryan and Kendall with him, the reporters blocking every step.

  “Get out of my way.” Ryan pushed against the young man in the hooded jacket. “Move or I’ll arrest you for impeding justice.”

  “Who’s the spitfire, Manziuk?” asked the older man with a grin.

  They ducked into the building, leaving the reporters behind.

  “We were going to look for you,” Manziuk said to Kendall.

  “Nick told you?” Kendall sounded surprised.

  Ignoring the question, Manziuk said, “Why don’t we go to my office where we can be comfortable?”

  A few minutes later, seated in his office, Manziuk studied the younger man. Pale, definitely nervous. “You remembered something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well?”

  “Didn’t Nick tell you?”

  “Nick hasn’t said anything that concerns you,” Manziuk replied.

  Kendall relaxed. “I didn’t think he would.” He seemed to be putting his thoughts in order. “Okay. Nick called to tell me he’d been arrested. He says you claim the Coke he gave the police officer was drugged. I don’t know anything about that, except I was with Nick all evening up to a few minutes before he gave the officer the Coke, and I think you’re crazy to think he put drugs in it. When would he have gotten them? And how would they have dissolved so quickly? He came upstairs a couple of minutes after I did.”

  “So you don’t think there was time?”

  “No, I don’t. And I don’t believe Nick would have done anything like that, anyway. We’ve shared an apartment for three years. I think I’d know if he was capable of murder.”

  “Or perhaps you would feel bound to help out a friend.”

  Kendall stood up suddenly. “Never!”

  “That’s what you came to tell me?” Manziuk sounded bored.

  Kendall sat down again. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s about the garden. Nick wasn’t in the wrong garden.” He took a deep breath. “Jillian was.”

  “And you know that because…?”

  Kendall rose once more and walked to the window. “She’d told Nick to meet her in the rose garden. I told her Nick wanted to meet in the Japanese g
arden instead, because it was more secluded.”

  “When did you tell her this?”

  “I was watching for her. When she came out of her room about twenty-five after three, I went out and talked to her. I told her Nick had asked me to give her the message, and that he might be a few minutes late because he had to get away without Lorry.”

  “Mrs. Martin believed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you lie to her?”

  “Because I wanted to talk to her myself, and she wouldn’t give me a chance. I knew that we would be all alone in the garden, and I thought I could make her listen.” Kendall’s voice had become a whisper, his head drooping.

  “So you followed her into the garden and tried to make her listen, and she wouldn’t. And you became angry and killed her.”

  “No. That isn’t what happened.” Kendall’s voice was barely audible.

  Ryan couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Kendall, we’ve found the restaurant where you and Jillian used to meet.”

  He looked up. “I wondered if you would think about that.”

  “How long have you known her?” Manziuk asked.

  “About a month. She called me one day and asked if I’d have lunch with her. She said she wanted to get to know everyone connected with the firm, and since I was George’s son, she wanted to meet me.”

  “So you met her.”

  “Yes.” His voice had once more become a whisper.

  “What happened?”

  Kendall looked up, his cheeks red. “I fell for her.”

  “She encouraged you?”

  “Oh, yes.” His voice was bitter. “I think you could say she did everything she could to encourage me. She told me that she would leave Peter for me once my position with the firm was secure.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, at the time, I thought it was because she was in love with me, but now—I really don’t know.” His voice rose. “When I met her for lunch last Friday, she basically told me it was over.” His voice was slow and sounded honestly perplexed. “She acted like she was telling me I couldn’t have another cup of coffee. Like she didn’t care one bit.”

  “Is that why you killed her?”

  “Let me finish! I didn’t kill her. When I saw her at my parents’ on Friday, I tried to talk to her, but she ignored me. I wrote her a note Friday night, but when I handed it to her in the hallway, she tore it in half without even reading it and threw the pieces on the floor.”