by Tracy Weber
Nicole jolted as if she’d been slapped. Her angry-teenager expression snapped firmly back into place.
I felt like an idiot, which made total sense since I’d just acted like one. I placed my hand on Nicole’s arm. “I’m a moron, Nicole. I should never make light of murder, but especially not now. I’m sorry about your stepfather.”
She frowned. “I’m not. Sorry about his death, that is. Dickhead was a jerk.” She flinched. “Don’t tell Mom I called him that.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” I knew the answer, but I asked anyway, hoping she’d volunteer more information. “You didn’t get along with your stepfather?”
“Richard liked me about as much as he liked that kitten. He was nice enough until my dad died and I had to move in with Mom and him. After that, he just wanted to get rid of me.”
“Get rid of you?”
Nicole’s expression was tough but her voice quavered. “He was going to send me to boarding school, like some untrainable dog that you send to the pound. I guess he wanted to make me someone else’s problem.”
I watched Nicole closely, trying to unlock the secrets that lay behind her dark, unreadable eyes. She didn’t regret her stepfather’s death—that much was obvious. But did she cause it? I didn’t sense violence in her energy, but I didn’t sense drug addiction, either.
I softened my voice. “Nicole, I overheard your mom and your stepfather fighting. Are you using drugs?”
She squeezed Jeff so tightly, I was afraid she might hurt him. “No! Why does everybody always take Richard’s side?”
The puppy squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. I was about to ask Nicole to loosen her grip when she kissed the top of his head and set him on the ground. He scampered off to join his littermate, unscathed.
When the girl faced me again, her eyes were wet. “Look. I got into some trouble after Dad died, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Richard made it out to be. I stole some tranquilizers from my grandmother’s house, and I got caught smoking pot at school. Getting high made me feel better. It was dumb, but Richard made it seem like I was smoking crystal and shooting up heroin on the side. I hated the rehab place he and Mom sent me to, but it worked. I’ll never smoke weed again if I have to go back to that hellhole.”
“Your stepfather said he was missing some money. Did you steal it?”
Nicole looked down at her shoelaces. She gave a single small nod.
“Why?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She tossed the towel on the counter. “I’ll wait for you outside.” The kitchen door slammed behind her.
I stared after her, conflicted. Nicole was hiding something. What, why, and how it related to Dr. Dick’s death remained a mystery. My heart would break if Nicole was the killer, but that didn’t make the possibility any less likely. Did I really want to uncover the truth?
I shoved the unwelcome thought firmly to the back of my mind, moved the puppies’ crate upstairs to the bedroom, and locked them inside it. I double-checked to make sure the bedroom door was latched shut. Twice.
“Let’s see you get out of there, you little tricksters.”
Hopefully they wouldn’t take that as a challenge.
“What do you think, Bella Girl? Want to leave the little monsters alone and go to the studio with me?” Bella didn’t answer verbally, but her eyes clearly said yes. I clipped on her leash and joined Nicole outside. She stood next to my Honda, smoking.
My mouth opened before I could stop it. “Don’t you know how bad smoking is for your health?”
“This isn’t a cigarette. It’s an e-vape.”
I had a feeling the distinction wasn’t nearly as important as she thought.
She cringed and stared down at her feet. “You won’t tell my mom though, right?”
I shook my head no. Nicole and her mother had much bigger issues to deal with than steamy inhaled nicotine. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s head back. I’ll bet your mom’s already done with the police. She’s probably waiting for us at the studio.”
Nicole didn’t reply. Then again, she didn’t need to. Her grim expression made it clear that she didn’t believe me.
Eleven
The instant Nicole and I walked through the studio’s back door, I could tell something was wrong. Tiffany greeted us in the yoga room, clearly fighting off tears. “Nicole, someone’s here waiting for you.”
Justine stood up from the bench in the lobby. A weak smile touched her lips, but her eyes remained hollow. “Hey guys.”
Nicole’s face—in fact, her entire body—sagged. The sulking teenager who’d attended my yoga classes disappeared. The smiling young woman who’d frolicked with the puppies left, too. For the first time in the six weeks I’d known her, Nicole looked defeated.
“You’re here for me, aren’t you.” Nicole’s words were a statement, not a question.
Justine hesitantly lifted her arms as if to hug her, then lowered them. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Yes. You’re going to stay with me for a while. Your mother has been arrested for your stepfather’s murder.”
For several seemingly interminable moments, I kept my eyes locked on Nicole. Her face cycled through multiple emotions. Horror, disbelief, anger, fear. It landed on resignation. When she spoke, her voice was devoid of emotion.
“I’ll need to go home and pack.”
“Of course,” Justine replied. “But we have to go now.”
I hesitated, wondering how I could help. Part of me wanted to reassure Nicole—to find the magic words that would convince her that everything was going to be okay. But we both would have known I was lying. Another part wanted to wrap her in my arms and give her the hug Justine hadn’t, but she looked too fragile—like the slightest touch would shatter her into a million pieces.
In the end, I did nothing. I stared helplessly out the window and watched her trudge disconsolately to Justine’s car.
Tiffany dropped heavily into the chair behind the check-in desk and buried her face in her hands. “This sucks. Big time.”
For what was likely the first time in history, I agreed with her. Frustrated dread congealed in my stomach. Rachel’s arrest wasn’t right. It couldn’t possibly be right. My eyes followed Justine’s car out of the parking lot, but I spoke to Tiffany. “Go back to Pete’s Pets and help Michael. Your studio work can wait.”
“What are you going to do?”
I ignored her and rummaged around in my purse until I found Detective Martinez’s card. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” I set my purse on the desk and reached for the phone.
Tiffany placed her hand over the receiver and pulled the phone toward her, blocking me. “Seriously, Kate, who are you calling?”
I stopped for a moment, surprised by the determined look on her face. “Detective Martinez. She’s one of the detectives working the case.”
“Then I’m not going anywhere. I like that kid. I want to help.”
I had no idea how Tiffany could help, but I wasn’t sure how she could hurt, either. “We only have one phone, and I can’t put it on speaker,” I told her. “Detective Martinez may not speak freely if she knows someone else is listening.”
“I understand.”
I held up my index finger. “I mean it. She can’t know you’re here.”
“I’ll be quiet, I promise.” Tiffany stood and offered me the chair next to the phone.
I took a deep breath before dialing, vowing not to take my frustration out on Detective Martinez. She wasn’t the enemy. She was simply a cop—a good one—doing her job. I vowed to keep my voice low, calm, and even. My words, respectful.
Martinez answered on the second ring.
My voice seemed to jump three octaves. “You arrested her? You promised me that you’d look at other suspects!” Tiffany winced and scooted several inches away.
Martinez sighed. “Hey, Kate. I figured you’d call. I promised you that I’d look at the evidence. I know you think your friend’s innocent, but the evidence disagrees.”
I spoke at twice my normal speed, as if by saying the words faster, I’d become more convincing. “Look. I’ll agree that what I saw at the hospital was suspicious, but it’s far from conclusive. Dr. Jones—”
“Stop right there, Kate,” Martinez interrupted. “We didn’t arrest Mrs. Jones based on your statement. At least not exclusively.”
Tiffany slid a sticky note in front of me. Slow down. I closed my eyes and counted to three. “Please, hear me out. Dr. Jones wasn’t exactly a Boy Scout. Lots of people might have wanted him dead.”
“Maybe so, Kate, but—”
“And the hospital was packed on Saturday.” I started to speed up again. “Hundreds of people went to the open house. Not to mention the staff and all the patients who were on site. Any of them could have stabbed Dr. Jones. The murderer could have cleaned up and gone right back to the party.”
“So could Mrs. Jones, and she was the only one seen running from the crime scene.”
“She left the break room in a hurry, sure. But like I told you, it might not have had anything to do with Dr. Jones’s death. She probably didn’t even know his body was in the restroom.”
I paused and waited for Martinez’s reply. After several moments of stress-filled silence, she spoke. “I’m sorry, Kate. Mrs. Jones’s fingerprints were on the knife.”
“How on earth did you have time to run her prints already?” I asked, surprised. Fingerprint analysis took time. “You only arrested her a few hours ago.”
Martinez sighed. “We know how to do our jobs, Kate. Mrs. Jones’s prints were already on file. The state did a fingerprint background check when she applied for her nursing license.”
“Were hers the only prints on the knife?”
“No, but that’s not surprising. Anyone who cut a piece of that cake touched it.”
“Then they don’t mean anything. Rachel might have used the knife to cut the cake herself. Even if she didn’t, that knife is probably kept in the staff room. She could have touched it on an entirely different day. What did she say when you asked her about it?”
“She didn’t say anything. She lawyered up and is exercising her right to remain silent.”
Tiffany slid me another note. Nicole said that the police searched her house. Did they find something?
The search warrant. Martinez had waited until after today’s search to arrest Rachel. There had to be a reason beyond Rachel’s fingerprints on the knife. She was holding back on me.
I readied myself for bad news. “There’s something else. Something you’re not telling me.”
Martinez paused, as if carefully considering her words. “John O’Connell says you’re trustworthy. From what I’ve seen, I’m inclined to agree with him. Am I wrong?”
“No. Whatever you say will stay between you and me.” And Tiffany. And maybe Michael. And Dale, if he ever gets back from Mexico and returns my phone call.
“We haven’t released this to the press, so I’m counting on you to keep it confidential. The body was moved.”
“Moved? From where?”
“Not far. Probably just from the break room. We think Mrs. Jones killed her husband in the break room and dragged his body into the women’s restroom, hoping it wouldn’t be found right away.” I imagined Martinez leaning forward and placing her forearms on one of the police department’s cheap metal desks. “Most of the victim’s bleeding was internal, but not all of it. Mrs. Jones cleaned up as best she could—likely with some paper towels—and she was careful not to get blood on her clothes. We think she might have worn a lab coat or scrubs.”
“I saw her when she ran out of the break room, remember? She was wearing a sundress—the same dress she had on at the party.”
I heard Martinez shuffle through paper. “I have a photo from the open house here. When Mrs. Jones ran past you, was she carrying anything?”
Dull pain throbbed behind my eyes. “Yes. A red shoulder bag.” A big one. Big enough to hide bloody clothes, a roll or two of paper towels, and a spare outfit for good measure.
“That sounds like the purse in the picture.” She paused. “So here’s the thing. We searched Mrs. Jones’s house today. We found that entire outfit. Dress, nylons, jewelry, shoes. Everything except that red shoulder bag. Mrs. Jones isn’t answering any questions, but we have a theory. She stabbed her husband, then panicked. She hid the body, cleaned up the blood, and stashed the paper towels, lab coat, and whatever else she used in that bag. Then she ditched it somewhere in the hours it took us to find her.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. If she was smart enough to move the body and clean up the blood, why didn’t she take the knife and dump it with everything else?”
“Like I said, Kate. She panicked. This wouldn’t be the first case I’ve worked on where the killer cleaned up the scene but left the murder weapon behind.”
I hated Martinez’s theory. Big time. Especially since it made sense.
She continued. “Unfortunately for Mrs. Jones, we don’t need the bag to convict her. When she cleaned up the blood, she missed some spots, and she forgot to cover her shoes. We found traces of blood on a sandal in her closet. The shoe is still at the lab, but trust me. The blood came from the murder scene. The marks on the sole match a blood smear we found near the restroom door.”
The throbbing behind my eyes amped up to pounding. That damned burgundy smudge. “Anything else?”
“Yes. We found divorce papers in Dr. Jones’s desk.” She waited a beat. “Kate, I’m sorry. We’ve arrested the right person.”
“What about Dr. Jones’s mistress, Mariella?”
“She claims she never left the party until after the police arrived. Besides, what motive would she have had? The victim was about to leave his wife, presumably to be with her.”
I tapped a pen against the desktop. “Maybe Mariella didn’t know about the divorce papers.”
Detective Martinez sighed. “If you were planning to leave your wife, wouldn’t your lover be the first person you told?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Not one that would help Rachel, anyway.
Tiffany slid another note across the table. Bail?
“Has bail been set?” I asked.
“Mrs. Jones hasn’t been arraigned yet, but we’ve charged her with first-degree murder. I’d be shocked if the judge granted bail.”
I met Tiffany’s eyes and shook my head no. I added two words to her note and passed it back to her. Other questions?
She shrugged.
I had about a million, but I only asked one. “Mariella, the girlfriend. What’s her last name?”
Martinez’s tone left no room for argument. “I’m not going to connect you with any other witnesses, Kate. I only told you this much so you’d stop feeling guilty. It’s time for you to accept that Mrs. Jones killed her husband and move on with your life.”
I opened my mouth to tell her I would, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie. I settled for avoidance instead. “Thank you for speaking with me. I appreciate your candor.”
Tiffany spoke as soon as I hung up the phone. “Was that as bad as it sounded?”
“Worse. Martinez and Henderson are convinced that Rachel’s the killer.” I frowned. “They won’t spend much more time on the case.”
My comment wasn’t a criticism. The Seattle Police Department was over budget and understaffed. Every case Martinez and Henderson closed allowed them to focus on the backlog they still had open. I didn’t blame them, but I couldn’t step aside and let Rachel get railroaded, either.
“What do we do now?” Tiffany asked.
“I don’t know.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Seriously, I don�
��t.” I thought for a moment. “Though I’d sure like to have a chat with the mistress.”
“Mariella?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how to find her.” I flashed on an image of Dr. Dick and Mariella at ABBA. For the first time since walking into the studio, I smiled. “But I think I know someone who does.”
Twelve
The person I was thinking of was Summer. If the saying was true, there were at most six degrees of separation between myself and Dr. Dick’s murderer. If Mariella was the killer, I’d only need two. Summer could connect me with Tamara, the nurse Summer apparently “had a history with” at ABBA. Tamara (I hoped) could connect me with Mariella. She’d certainly seemed to know Mariella that night at ABBA.
A few minutes after I hung up the phone with Detective Martinez, I picked it up again. Summer was on her way to a birth, but I convinced her to meet me for a walk at Gasworks Park the next evening, provided she was done supporting the birth by then. I told her I needed to ask some questions about Rene’s birth plan. I felt bad about the fib, but I wasn’t sure how Summer would react if she knew my real intentions.
Tiffany made me promise to keep her posted about Rachel and Nicole, then left to take over for Michael at Pete’s Pets. I led my five o’clock private client through a short movement and breath practice to help ease depression, then turned the studio over to the teacher of our Monday evening Yoga for Round Bodies class. After I put out more pigeon food for Mister Feathers, I joined Bella at my car and headed home, praying that Michael hadn’t taken one look at his garden and committed puppicide.
The reality was worse.
He’d decided to cook.
This time, the culinary tornado had touched down on the stovetop. Chopped onions, tomatoes, and green peppers were scattered across the stone kitchen floor. A legume rainbow of red, lima, black, and garbanzo beans colored the countertop. Seitan crumbles peppered the stove like a fine powder of fresh snow. The spicy aroma of simmering onions and chili powder could mean only one thing: Michael was making his famous vegan fire-alarm chili. He stood at the stove, stirring the bubbling concoction with an oversized wooden spoon while belting out an off-tune rendition of “If I were a Rich Man.”
