“You mean act like this has nothing to do with us?” It had been exactly what I was thinking. I think I actually licked my lips in anticipation.
He nodded. “Yep. Because it actually doesn’t.” He leaned toward me over the table.
“I found the body, Garrett,” I pointed out, leaning back and gesturing toward him with my fork.
“So you’re a minor witness for the prosecution. Then it’s peace out for you, baby.” He made the safe motion as if I’d slid into first rather than found my ex-husband’s assistant’s body floating in a tub.
“For the prosecution? I don’t want to be part of the team that convicts Antoine.” Maybe I hadn’t heard him right.
“I know, but that’s how it works. The prosecution is the one that lays out all that information. How the body was found. When it was found. Like it or not, you’re batting for the other side.” He took another bite of chili.
“Then I’ll be a switch-hitter. I’ll bat for the other side.” I set my spoon down.
“That’s not what a switch-hitter is,” Dan said.
I threw my hands in the air. “I will be whatever a person would be who’s called by the prosecution, but is actually on the side of the defense.”
Garrett sighed. “I know exactly what that’s called.”
“What?” I asked.
“It’s called trouble.”
And that’s when Dan’s phone rang. He frowned at it and then answered. After listening for a few seconds, he handed it across the table. “It’s for you,” he said.
“Ms. Anderson? It’s Cynthia Harlen,” said that sweet contralto voice on the phone. “I tried to reach you on your cell phone, but it kept going to voice mail and that appears to be full.”
“Sorry. I turned it off when the press started calling. I forgot to turn it back on.” I scooted back from the table and went into the kitchen, but not before I heard Dan say, “Speak of the devil . . .” Why did I have a feeling that there was a whole lot more to the Cynthia/Garrett story than a breakup?
“Has the press been bothering you?” she asked.
“They showed up in front of my store right before closing. Then my phone started ringing.” And ringing and ringing.
“Did you speak to anyone?” Cynthia’s voice became sharp.
“Beyond to say no comment, no.”
“Excellent. Let me handle that. You might want to change your voice mail to ask the media to call my office number. Believe it or not, this is good news. Antoine is already a beloved media presence. We’ll make sure to stoke those flames.” She paused. “We do have a little bit of a problem, though, Rebecca. Antoine refuses to sign the papers hiring me unless you’re present.”
“He what?” I didn’t actually need her to repeat herself. I’d heard and understood exactly what she’d said. She repeated it anyway.
“Could you come down to the jail for a little bit? I don’t want him to say too much more to me without it being covered by attorney-client privilege.”
I peeked through the swinging door into the dining room. No one at that table was going to be happy if I announced I was leaving in the middle of Friday-night dinner to do something for Antoine. On the other hand, I doubted I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror if I didn’t.
I knew I was being manipulated. I wasn’t stupid. Or at least not that stupid. I knew Antoine was trying everything he could to keep me in his life.
I also knew that he was probably terrified. Who wouldn’t be?
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I told Cynthia Harlen, and then went in to face the shit storm that was about to erupt at my sister’s table.
* * *
I left the warmth of family dinner behind me in more ways than one. I had not been mistaken in thinking that everyone would be pissed at me if I left to help Antoine. Haley had looked at me and said, “No. Just no.”
“I’m not asking for your permission, Leelee. I’m not in high school anymore.” I felt like I was, but we all knew I wasn’t.
She’d scowled, rubbed her belly and said, “Well, you have pretty much the same lack of judgment you did back then.”
I’d turned to Garrett. “It’s your ex-girlfriend who’s asking me to go down there.”
It apparently wasn’t the correct argument. “You’re setting a bad precedent,” was all he’d said. I could tell he was angry, but he’d offered to keep Sprocket and helped me with my coat. So how angry could he actually be?
On the other hand, Dan had said nothing. He’d just kept eating chili as if I wasn’t even in the room. It scared me a little.
Outside it had gotten cool. I walked fast to stay warm. The moon was half full, but I could see the outline of the rest of it in the clear sky. The stars winked over the black abyss of the lake. It was a night for hayrides and bonfires, not ex-husbands and ex-girlfriends and murder charges.
I walked up to the jail not really sure how I felt. Worried? Yes. Antoine was in some serious trouble. Irritated? Definitely. With Antoine for dragging me over here and with Garrett for being jealous and with my sister for being focused only on the coming baby. Guilty? A little bit. Somehow there wasn’t a way to deal with the situation that didn’t leave me disappointing or hurting someone I cared about. I wasn’t crazy about the combination. They weren’t great tastes and they definitely didn’t taste great together.
Vera Bailey at the front desk was expecting me this time. Vera and I had gone to high school with each other. Actually, she’d been in Haley’s year, two years ahead of me. She hadn’t aged quite as well, though. She’d thickened in the middle and the cop uniform didn’t do much to downplay it. Her light brown hair was pulled back so tight in its bun that I could see the pink of her scalp through some of it. “Hey, Rebecca. How’s it going?” she asked as she signed me in.
“Pretty good except for this mess.” I handed over my cell phone and keys.
“Looks like your shop is taking off,” she observed.
“So far so good.” I slid my belt out of its loops and put it in the bin. I wasn’t sure how I felt about being this used to the routine of visiting people in jail.
“Dan brought in some of that Coco Pop Fudge. Good stuff.” She patted her hips. “Definitely not figure friendly, though. I don’t suppose much in that shop of yours is, though.”
I froze a second. A bit of a brainstorm flitted through my head. I was missing out on an important demographic. “You know what, Vera? I’m going to see what I can do about that.”
She smiled. “You are?”
“Yeah. It would be a great idea to have some popcorn snacks that were a little more diet friendly. Thanks for the idea.”
She drew herself up a little taller. “You’re welcome. Come on this way. Mr. Belanger and his fancy lawyer lady are waiting for you.”
Cynthia Harlen was not what I expected. I didn’t think I’d been creating mental pictures of her in my mind, but apparently I had. First of all, she was bigger than I expected. She was easily as tall as me, but where I was kind of a straight line from shoulders to hips, she was all curves. I mean all curves. Even in her conservative lawyer lady suit that looked like it cost more than my utility bill for the year, she could only be described as a bombshell. Her hair was pulled back into some kind of bun on the back of her head, but I could tell it was probably thick. It was definitely shiny and smooth and a beautiful russet color. Then there were her skin and eyes. Beautiful smooth, porcelain, poreless skin with these huge, luminous, hazel-green eyes shining out.
Garrett had gone from this to me? What on earth had he been thinking? Or maybe I was the one who should be thinking. Was I his rebound girl? Because if he was used to a Cadillac like this, I wasn’t sure what he was doing with my beat-up Honda Civic ass.
“You must be Rebecca.” She put out her hand. Her voice was low, throaty. Sexy as hell. I was about ready to ask her out.
<
br /> “And you’re Cynthia?”
She smiled. “One and the same. Shall we get started, then?”
“Yes,” Antoine said. “Now we can get started.”
Cynthia slid a stack of papers toward me. “This is my standard contract for representation. Understand that the amount listed is only a retainer. My fees could end up being much higher depending on what kind of investigative help or expert witnesses we need as the case continues.”
The number listed on the paper made my eyebrows shoot up, but I knew Antoine had the money. Besides, how can you put a price on personal freedom? “Is this okay with you, Antoine?” I asked.
He nodded. “It is fine.”
I glanced through a few more pages, but there were an awful lot of therefores and werewithals. I’d never been great with legalese. Antoine, however, was usually able to decipher it. “Did you read this?” I asked him.
“Of course.”
“And it’s okay with you?”
“It seems reasonable considering the work we are asking Mademoiselle Harlen to do,” he said.
I slammed the pen down on the table in front of him. “Then sign it, Antoine. Stop playing games.”
He looked over at Cynthia and did one of his one-shouldered wildly Gallic shrugs. Then he picked up the pen and signed the contract.
Cynthia smiled and took the pages from him. “To be completely honest, Rebecca, getting you over here was partly my idea.”
I looked back and forth between them. “Really? Why?” I wasn’t sure I wanted my ex-husband and my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend/high-powered lawyer colluding against me.
She shrugged and pulled away from the wall she’d been leaning against. “I wanted to see you two together and I wanted to talk to you about finding the body.”
“Couldn’t we have done that tomorrow or the next day?” Like not when I was having a family dinner?
“I didn’t want you to have time to prepare, to put on a game face, as it were. I wanted a more unvarnished sense of you.” She was watching me like I was a zoo animal.
“Do you have one now?” I knew my face was probably red. It was quite possible steam might have been coming out of my ears. I don’t like a lot of games, not even Monopoly. I especially didn’t like head games. Maybe I was getting a sense of why Garrett and Cynthia had broken up.
She smiled. It was a slow, lazy thing that spread across her face. “I do. And I think I like it. Now, as long as you’re here. Let’s sit down. I’d like to hear your account of finding the body firsthand.”
That smile took some of the steam out of my kettle. I took her through the sequence: Melanie setting up the meeting, me showing up, not getting an answer, walking in, finding her. Cynthia typed her notes into a tablet.
“So the door wasn’t fully closed?” she asked.
“I guess not. It swung open.”
“But not the first time you knocked? Or the second?”
“No. The third time.” I hadn’t touched the knob. It must have been partly latched, like maybe whoever had closed it had been in a hurry and hadn’t made sure it closed properly.
She jotted more notes down. “And she had clothing laid out on the bed. What kind of clothing?”
“You know when you’re trying to decide what to wear and you lay out things across the bed to compare them?” I asked. We all do it.
She nodded, a quirk of a smile at the corner of her full lips. “I do.”
“It looked like that. Kind of chaotic, but chaos with a purpose.” And the purpose hadn’t been electrocuting herself in the tub.
“Based on those clothes, what kind of thing would you think she was planning on doing that evening?” Cynthia asked.
I closed my eyes and saw again the ruffled top with the distressed jeans and high-heeled wedges, the short skirt with the long-sleeved top and flats, the little black dress. I already knew my answer, but my memory confirmed it. “It looked like she was going out on a date. She wanted to look good, but like she wasn’t trying too hard. Does that make sense?”
She snorted. “Totally.”
I smiled. Damn it. I liked her. I wasn’t sure I liked that I liked her, though. “It makes sense with the bath, too. You know, soak off the day’s dirt and tension so you can go out relaxed and fresh?”
“Absolutely.” She leaned in. “So what bothered you about the scene?”
“The blow-dryer bugged me. I knew right away it couldn’t be hers.” I leaned in, too.
Her eyebrows went up. “Why not?”
“No diffuser. Melanie’s hair was like mine. Curly. Using a blow-dryer on it without a diffuser would have turned it into a huge mass of frizz.”
Cynthia sighed. “A nice problem to have. Mine’s as straight as spaghetti no matter what I do.”
“Trust me, curly isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I feel like it has a life of its own some days.” I’d spent years trying to tame my hair and now just let it have its own way. I’m not that proud. I can admit defeat.
“At least it has life!” she exclaimed.
Antoine cleared his throat and we both glanced over at him, then back at each other. “Sorry. Got off track there,” Cynthia said. “So you knew right away the blow-dryer wasn’t hers. Did you notice anything else about it? Anything about the cord?” she asked.
I hadn’t. If it had been tampered with, I hadn’t noticed it. “No. Sorry. That escaped me completely.”
She tapped another note into the tablet. “Can you think of anyone who might have been able to do the kind of rewiring necessary to remove the GFCI protection?”
“Anyone on Antoine’s crew would have known how to do it. It’s a TV show that travels. Everyone has to know how to make everything electrical and digital work. I probably could have figured out how to do it given an hour and the Internet.” I’d occasionally been pressed into service backstage at the show when Antoine and I were married.
She stopped typing. “Would Antoine have known how to do it?”
“I did not touch that blow-dryer,” he cried, full of indignation.
She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “I know, Antoine. I have to know whether you could have done it so I can build a defense about how you didn’t do it.”
He settled back down.
“He could have done it in his sleep,” I said, with a glance over at him. He knew it was true. It wouldn’t help to lie.
Cynthia nodded and made a hmmming noise as she typed. “Now, tell me why someone might think you would want to hurt Melanie.”
Antoine suddenly became extremely engrossed in examining his fingernails. They were immaculate. They always were. Cynthia sighed and looked over at me.
I couldn’t believe he was leaving the dirty work to me. “She was stealing from him.”
“Money, then.” She nodded. She cocked her head to one side and asked, “Is there proof of that?”
I looked over at Antoine. He shrugged. Cynthia sighed. “Antoine, I can’t help if you won’t talk to me. Did you have proof that she was stealing your money?”
“It will be in the accounts,” was all he said.
Cynthia made that hmmming noise and tapped more notes into her tablet. “So where were you two nights ago?”
“We arrived in town at around two. We went immediately to Rebecca’s shop to see what we were working with.” He smiled at me. “You have done a beautiful job, darling. Truly it is like an exquisite little jewel box. It will look magnificent on television.”
Cynthia looked over at me, beautifully sculpted eyebrows slightly arched. “I own a popcorn shop here in Grand Lake. Antoine was going to feature my breakfast bars and popcorn fudge on his show,” I explained.
She nodded and typed a little more. “Okay. You went to Rebecca’s shop. Then what?”
“The crew was hungry. We went to the diner down the
street,” he said.
“Melanie was with you?” Cynthia asked.
“Of course,” Antoine said. “I would be lost without her. She is an excellent assistant.”
“Except for the part where she was stealing from you,” Cynthia said, almost like it was an afterthought.
“Yes, well, but I did not know that then. Then she was still the person who knew all the plans and schedules and what papers needed to be signed and when.” Antoine rubbed at his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “Then she was still the best assistant I have ever had.”
“What happened after the diner?” she asked.
Antoine snorted. “Besides indigestion?” He turned back to me. “Chérie, that diner is horrific. Have you thought about opening a restaurant here? There would be no competition.”
“Your schedule, Antoine?” Cynthia interrupted.
He sighed. “We checked into the hotel. Everyone was tired. We all went to our rooms.”
“You all stayed at the same hotel.” It was a statement more than a question.
“There is not much to choose from here in Grand Lake. Many bed-and-breakfast establishments along the lake, but that is not really appropriate for a group such as ours.” I couldn’t imagine the havoc Antoine’s entire crew would wreak on the average B&B. All the equipment. All the tramping in and out at strange hours. “The Grand Lake Inn was really our only option.”
“What happened after you checked into the hotel?” Cynthia prompted, still typing.
“I checked e-mail, then social media. That is when I saw it.” Antoine let his head fall forward.
Cynthia stopped typing and looked up. “Saw what?”
Antoine hesitated. “I saw what led me to believe Melanie was stealing from me.”
“So you called Melanie to confront her? Around what time was that?” Cynthia asked.
Antoine ran his hand down his face in an effort to calm himself. I knew that gesture. He was near his breaking point. I knew I could help. The calmer he was, the easier it would be for him to answer Cynthia’s questions; the faster he answered the questions, the sooner I could be out of here and home; the sooner I was home, the less angry everyone there would be with me. I got up, went behind Antoine and rubbed his neck. His shoulders relaxed beneath my hands. Cynthia shot me a look. I shrugged. It probably wasn’t as expressive as one of Antoine’s shrugs, but she seemed to get the point.
Pop Goes the Murder Page 8
