by Jane Heller
I laughed. Mr. Obermeyer gave me a dirty look and shushed me. Then he took a swig of Maalox and belched.
“Under the circumstances, your Honor,” he continued, “I move that all charges be dropped against my client—the cocaine possession with intent to sell and the murder charge. Thank you.”
Judge Pickett threw the case out. Then he threw us out—but not before inflicting a punishing tongue-lashing at the prosecution for arresting me on the basis of such flimsy evidence and for embarrassing the court with its astonishing ineptitude. It was fun watching Corsini flinch every time Judge Pickett used words like “dimwitted,” “idiotic,” and the old standby “stupid” to describe the way the police had bungled the investigation thus far. I could only imagine Corsini’s relief that Court TV wasn’t videotaping the proceedings.
“This isn’t over,” he whispered as we left the courtroom.
“The judge seems to think it is,” I smiled.
“The judge isn’t out to nail you. I am.”
“Is that a threat?” I asked Corsini. “If it is, I’ll have to inform His Honor.”
“Go ahead and inform him. It’ll be your word against mine.”
“Exactly. I may be a murder suspect, but my credibility with Judge Pickett is a lot better than yours right now.”
Corsini scowled, ran his fingers through his hair, and slid out of the courtroom.
“What’s his problem?” Cullie asked, nodding in Corsini’s direction.
“Bad hair day,” I shrugged.
“What do you say we go out for dinner to celebrate your freedom?” Cullie suggested when we were back on the Marlowe. I had showered and changed and was relaxing on the settee berth.
“You mean, McGavin’s or Arnie’s or someplace like that?”
“No. I’m talking about Les Fruits de Mer or one of the other la-de-da places.”
“But they’re so expensive.”
“Yeah, but you don’t get murder charges dropped against you every day. We should celebrate in style, don’t you think?”
“You know I don’t have any money. And I can’t ask you to pay for it.”
“I just did a four-page brochure for Prestige Properties. I can certainly handle one dinner out—especially for such a momentous occasion.”
“But the dress code’s jacket and tie. Do you even own a tie?”
“Yeah, one. Fortunately, it goes very nicely with the one sport jacket I also own.”
“Great. You can change here, then we’ll stop by Maplebark Manor and I’ll put on the one nice dress I didn’t unload during my tag sale.”
“We’ll be quite the fashionable couple.”
“Oh, quite. The sailing instructor’s son and the murderous, cocaine-sniffing scullery maid.”
Les Fruits de Mer had been one of Sandy’s favorite restaurants during the early part of our marriage, those glory days of the eighties when nobody minded spending 200 bucks for a little Tuesday night supper. And I do mean little. The portions at Les Fruits de Mer were so tiny you had to eat again when you got home.
Overlooking Layton Harbor, Les Fruits de Mer served “Continental” food as opposed to strictly French fare. In other words, its menu, which had the look of a leather-bound literary classic and was printed in gold script, featured Cuisses de Grenouilles Provençale right up there along with the Wiener Schnitzel. As I mentioned, the actual meal was a lot more Schnitzel than Wiener. But hey, the place wasn’t a total rip-off. They did give you a complimentary dish of lemon sorbet so you could cleanse your pallet between courses.
“Bonsoir,” said the maître d’ as we entered the restaurant. He was dressed in the obligatory tuxedo and tried very hard to make his Brooklyn accent sound French.
“Reservation for two at seven-thirty. The name is Harrington,” Cullie said.
“Oui, Monsieur Harrington. Right this way.”
The maître d’ showed us to a lovely table by the window. I was surprised we were granted such an important table, seeing as Cullie was not exactly a regular at the place. Then again, the regulars weren’t in evidence. The restaurant was empty, except for a party of three seated at the other end of the room.
“Looks like business isn’t so good,” Cullie said. “I’m disappointed. This is my first time here and I was expecting to see some of Layton’s big shots.”
“It’s the recession, I guess,” I said. “Nobody can afford to come here anymore, except extremely talented architectural photographers, of course.”
“Of course.” He smiled. “How about a toast?”
I picked up my champagne glass. “Here’s to Janet Claiborne,” I said gaily.
“Why on earth would you want to toast her?” Cullie asked. “Because the brochure I did for her is paying for this meal?”
“No, silly. Because she brought you into my life.”
Cullie raised his glass and clinked mine. “To Janet Claiborne,” he said. “With my deepest gratitude.”
We ordered dinner, both of us opting for some fruits de mer—Cullie, the Lobster Newburg, me, the Dover Sole.
“Where’s the rest of it?” Cullie said after the waiter had brought our entrees and departed.
“Oh, you mean the portions?” I said. “Small, aren’t they?”
“You’re not kidding,” he said, looking down at the thimble-full of Lobster Newburg that rested on his plate.
“Try the bread,” I suggested. “It’ll fill you up. If not, you can always munch on the pansies.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Hey, this place was your idea, remember?” I kidded him. “Bon appetit.”
“Bon appetit yourself,” he said, then took a bite of his lobster and smiled. “There may not be much of it, but what’s here is pretty damn good.”
“Here’s to ‘pretty damn good,’” I said, raising my champagne glass for another toast.
We toasted and ate and enjoyed ourselves for another hour or so. Then I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room, which was at the far end of the restaurant. I was about to pass the table of three—the only other diners in the place besides Cullie and me—when I saw that the gruesome threesome was none other than Alistair, Bethany, and Julia. What a way to spoil a pleasant evening.
I debated whether to pretend I didn’t see them or to walk over to their table and say hello. Why shouldn’t I say hello? Why should I let Bethany think she got the best of me when she told Corsini I had Melanie’s manuscript? Why should I let her think I was rotting in a jail cell eating chipped beef on toast? Why shouldn’t I walk right over to her table and shove my freedom right up her miserable ass? Besides, Julia was at the table too, and she was my friend. At least she used to be. There was no point in snubbing her, just because she had lousy taste in dinner companions.
As I approached the table Alistair and Julia were sipping cognac, while Bethany was diving into a mile-high chocolate soufflé.
“Good evening, everyone,” I said.
Alistair stood. Julia smiled. Bethany looked up momentarily, then resumed eating.
“Oh, please don’t get up,” I told the senator. “I just stopped by to say hello.”
“Splendid of you,” Alistair chortled, his face ruddy with drink. “You know everybody, I presume?”
Of course I know everybody, you big phony. “Yes, Senator. I know everybody.”
“Well, then,” Alistair said, clearing his throat. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Yeah, Koff. Why don’t you join us?” Julia said.
“No, thanks. I’m with somebody,” I said, nodding in Cullie’s direction.
“The photographer?” Julia asked after glancing over at Cullie.
“Yup,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve moved in with him. On his sailboat, the Marlowe.”
That seemed to get Bethany’s attention. She actually stopped chewing. “You can’t mean Cullie Harrington, Paddy Harrington’s son?” she said.
“I can and I do,” I said, then watched to see if Paddy’s name would produce a reactio
n in Alistair. It didn’t.
“Where’s his boat docked these days? I haven’t seen him around the yacht club since Preston left him,” Bethany said.
I ignored her little reference to Cullie’s ex-wife. “The Marlowe is docked at the Jessup Marina,” I said.
“The Jessup Marina? That must be quite a comedown for you, Alison, after living at 33 Woodland Way.”
How did Bethany know my address? I wondered. She’d never set foot inside Maplebark Manor—certainly not at my invitation.
“Any luck selling the house?” Julia asked.
“Not yet. But my broker says we’re close. She was encouraged by our last showing,” I replied, thinking of Janet’s “customer of consequence.”
“That’s great, Koff,” said Julia. “It’s great about you and Cullie too.”
“What fun to live on his sailboat, just the two of you,” Bethany cooed as she shoveled a huge helping of soufflé into her mouth. She was every bit the big phony her father was. She wanted me to have fun on Cullie’s sailboat about as much as I wanted her to enjoy her dessert. “You may not know this, Alison, but your boyfriend’s father gave me sailing lessons at the yacht club years ago. He taught me everything I know about boats. Unfortunately, the old man had a booze problem. I certainly hope his son doesn’t have the same problem. It could be hazardous to your health.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” I said wryly. “But you needn’t worry about me, Bethany. Cullie’s a very competent sailor. I don’t anticipate any problems.”
“Just warning you,” Bethany smiled. Her improbably white teeth were smeared with chocolate. “You never know what could happen if he were to take you out for a sail and something went wrong with the boat and he’d be too drunk to handle the situation, especially since you’re not much of a sailor, are you, Alison?”
“No, but then Cullie isn’t much of a drunk,” I said.
Bethany smiled again. She put down her spoon and placed her hand across her mouth while she let forth a loud yawn. Then she tapped her father on the arm. “How about getting the check,” she said to Alistair. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“I guess that’s my cue to take off,” I laughed. Bethany had such tact. “’Night, everyone.” I strolled toward the ladies’ room.
“Who were you talking to over there?” Cullie said when I returned.
“Would you believe, Alistair, Bethany, and Julia, the three musketeers?”
“You went over to their table and talked to them? After what Bethany did to you?”
“Yup. I wanted to show her that she can’t hurt me,” I said. “None of them can.”
“I’m not so sure,” Cullie said solemnly. “Every time you tangle with Bethany, something terrible happens. Look what happened after you told her you had the manuscript. She got you thrown in jail and charged with murder.”
“I know, but what could she do to me tonight? Besides, she seemed much more interested in her chocolate soufflé than in me.”
“Chocolate soufflé? Ummm. Why didn’t we order one of those?”
“We should have. The one Bethany was eating looked really scrumptious. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It had this rich, gooey chocolate inside and this flaky, cakey stuff outside, and the whole thing was dusted with confectioner’s…” I stopped.
“Sonny, what is it?” Cullie asked.
“I know who killed Melanie,” I announced. In one split second, one random moment in time, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who the murderer was. “It was the confectioner’s sugar that sealed it.”
“What are you talking about?” Cullie said.
“Confectioner’s sugar. That’s what the powder the police found on Melanie’s desk turned out to be—not cocaine, but powdered sugar with traces of cinnamon.”
“I know. You told me. What does that have to do with Bethany’s soufflé?”
“Bethany is a sugar-holic. She’s addicted to the jelly donuts they sell in the lunch room at the newspaper. Her own desk has that powdered stuff all over it.”
“So you think the powder on Bethany’s desk is the same powder that was found on Melanie’s desk?”
“Yup. I’m sure of it. She had a motive for killing Melanie, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Sure, but why on earth would she have eaten a donut at the scene of the murder?”
“Maybe she was hungry. You’ve heard of these sickos who get sexually aroused after they commit murder? Well, maybe Bethany’s the sort of sicko who gets ravenously hungry after a good kill.”
“Jesus.”
“If I could just prove that the sugar on Bethany’s desk is the same as the sugar the police found on Melanie’s desk…”
“And prove that Bethany’s fingerprints were the ones the police found on the murder weapon…”
“And prove that Bethany was the one who left that nice little bag of cocaine in my refrigerator.”
“I think we ought to get her favorite donuts analyzed by a lab,” Cullie suggested.
“We will, we will. But first, I’ve got a plan for getting her fingerprints.”
“How?”
“Look.” I nodded in the direction of the Downs table. “They’re getting up to leave. The minute they walk out the door, I’m going over to their table and swiping Bethany’s wineglass, before the busboy clears the dishes away.”
“What’ll you do with the glass when you get it?”
“I’ll figure that out later. What I’m not going to do is give it to Corsini. I don’t trust that bastard. He won’t go after a member of the Downs family unless there’s conclusive evidence.”
“You’re probably right. Oh, look, Sonny. They’re gone.”
Alistair, Bethany, and Julia had just left the restaurant. The coast was clear.
“You pay the check and I’ll scoot over there,” I whispered.
I walked nonchalantly past the Downs table, pretending I was on my way to the ladies’ room. I stopped when I got to Bethany’s chair, grabbed her linen napkin off the table, and picked up her wineglass by its stem, making sure it was the napkin and not my hand that touched the glass. Clutching my bounty for dear life, I hurried back to the table.
“Mission accomplished,” I smiled.
“Tell you what,” Cullie said. “You slip outside and wait for me. I’ll pay the check, get our coats, and meet you in a few minutes.”
“Done.”
Instead of going straight back to the boat, we stopped at a pay phone so I could call my lawyer. He’d know what to do with the glass and any other evidence I came up with.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Mr. Obermeyer barked after answering the phone. It was ten-thirty.
“Yes, Mr. Obermeyer,” I said, “but this is important. I know who killed Melanie Moloney.”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” he asked.
“No, really it can’t. Cullie and I would like to come right over. We need to give you something too valuable to keep on the boat.”
Mr. Obermeyer grudgingly agreed, and off we went. When we arrived at his house, which, ironically, was in Bluefish Cove, where Melanie had met her tragic end, he showed us into his kitchen and demanded to know what was so important. I explained how I came to believe that Bethany had murdered Melanie, and produced the wineglass with the prints all over it.
“I’ve got a private investigator who’ll lift the prints off the glass,” he said.
“I hoped you might,” I said. “What happens after that? Can we compare these prints with the ones on the murder weapon?”
“We’ll have to petition the court to allow us to examine the evidence,” he explained. “The police have jurisdiction over the murder weapon. They don’t have to let us near it, now that the judge has thrown out all charges against you.”
“Okay, let’s petition the court. And while you’re getting that process going, I’ll check out the donut powder on Bethany’s desk to see if it matches the powder at the crime scene,” I said.
“Oh,
I’ll get the process going all right,” said Mr. Obermeyer. “But it’s gonna cost you—plenty.”
“You know, Mr. Obermeyer, your mentioning your fee at a difficult and delicate time like this reminds me of a riddle.” I paused. “Why do you bury lawyers a thousand feet under the ground?” I paused again. “Because down deep, they’re probably all right.”
“I’ll show you out,” Mr. Obermeyer said, and then he did.
Chapter 23
With Mr. Obermeyer working on the business of the fingerprints, I turned my attention to the business of the donuts. My plan was to sneak into Bethany’s office, get a sample of the powder on her desk, and have it evaluated.
But first, I had to find out when Bethany would be out of her office. Remembering the riding habit she wore during my last visit to the paper, I took a chance and called the Layton Hunt Club, where Bethany boarded her horses and bedded her trainers.
“Good morning. I wonder if you might help me,” I said, holding my nose so my voice would have a nasal quality and sound just like all the other horse-y types at the Hunt Club. “I’m supposed to meet Bethany Downs there today, and—oh, this is terribly embarrassing—I seem to have misplaced my appointment book, and I haven’t a clue what time I’m scheduled to ride with Bethany. Can you tell me when she’s due to arrive?”
“We’re expecting her within the hour,” said the receptionist.
“Oh, my,” I said. “Well then. I must be off. Tell Bethany she simply must wait for me. Ta ta.”
I grabbed my purse and left the boat. Twenty minutes later, I was sneaking into Bethany’s office at the Community Times, praying no one would see me. I scurried over to her desk, checked for telltale sugar granules, and found some, right next to a box containing a half-dozen jelly donuts. Working quickly and carefully, I tore a sheet of paper from a legal pad on the desk and used the corner of the paper to shovel the sugar into the little plastic sandwich bag I’d brought along. Then I hid the bag in my purse and fled the building. I drove straight over to Jessup Community College and found my way to the chemistry department.
