by Anne Canadeo
Suzanne didn’t want to set a bad example, though she was itching to know who had called and why.
“Just my phone. I’ll see who called later,” she said above the ring tone.
“You know the rule, Mom,” Jamie chided in a parent-like voice.
She glanced at him, but had to smile. The kid was a total wise apple. But she knew it was genetic; he couldn’t help it.
“I know the rule and I’m keeping it. See?” she put both hands in the air just as the ringing stopped.
There was a moment of silence as they all continued eating. Then Kevin’s phone rang. He glanced at her across the table.
“I guess someone is trying to reach us. Could be important. I’d better get it.”
He stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter where his phone was charging. Suzanne felt a frisson of nerves. She hoped it wasn’t a family emergency. Was it her sister, calling about her mom, or dad, down in Connecticut? They weren’t that old but they weren’t that young anymore either, and both had a myriad of health complaints lately.
Kevin stood with his back turned toward the table and spoke in a quiet voice. She couldn’t make out a word of the call. Which made her even more anxious.
“Sure . . . I understand. We’re just finishing dinner. Be there in half an hour. Or sooner,” she heard him say.
“Who’s Dad talking to?” Ryan asked.
“I don’t know, honey. Maybe somebody from work.” The answer seemed logical. Kevin sometimes had calls from clients who had suddenly sprung a leak, or flipped a circuit breaker. Or had some other little complaint he had to solve.
She met his glance as he walked back to the table. His expression was grim, making her worry all over again.
“What’s up, honey? Did something go screwy at one of your jobs?”
“That was Charles. He needs to ask you a few more questions. He wants you to go down to . . . to his office.”
Suzanne’s mouth grew dry. Kevin had been about to say “police station” and had caught himself just in time. So the kids wouldn’t start asking a million questions.
Quick thinking. She doubted that Charles even had an office.
“Tonight?”
Kevin nodded. “That’s right. It’s okay,” he added quickly. “No big deal. I’ll go with you.”
“Um . . . okay.” Suzanne tried her best to sound calm. “I guess we’re all done here. Kids, can you just put your dishes in the sink? I’ll put the leftovers away and we can go.”
She and Kevin exchanged another glance. They hadn’t told the children, not even Alexis, where she’d really been last night, and it still didn’t seem the right moment to tell them she’d found a dead body.
Alexis picked up a few dirty dishes and followed Suzanne to the sink. “So I guess I’m in charge of the gruesome twosome again. You’d better tell them to behave. I have a ton of homework.”
“Daddy will talk to them,” Suzanne promised. She looked over at Kevin. “Tell those boys if they act out, no video games for a week.”
“Two weeks. And no pizza either,” Alexis chimed in as Kevin headed out of the kitchen to lay down the law to his sons.
Suzanne loaded a few dishes into the dishwasher, but quickly shut it and left the rest in the sink. Her hands were shaking. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want her daughter to see.
Alexis gazed into the refrigerator, looking for something else to eat. She ate more than Kevin these days, bless her, and was built like a string bean. A lean, mean string bean.
“Are you going to talk to Charles Mossbacher, Maggie’s boyfriend? Isn’t he a police detective?”
Suzanne was glad her daughter couldn’t see her face. She rinsed her hands and wiped them on a paper towel.
“Yes, I am. Something happened last night. I wasn’t stuck in town with car trouble. We told you that because . . . well, it was sort of upsetting and we didn’t want you and the boys to get scared.”
Alexis had chosen a large Macintosh apple. She turned to Suzanne, looking puzzled. “You can tell me, Mom. I’m not a baby.”
“I know that.” Suzanne nodded. “I’m telling you this because you’re old enough to understand. But don’t tell the boys. Dad and I will explain this to them soon.”
“Okay.” Alexis looked even more curious now.
“Do you remember that woman I work with, Liza Devereaux?”
“Sure. The one you always say you hate?”
Suzanne sighed. Her ill-considered words were going to haunt her, weren’t they?
“I didn’t hate her. Not really. Hate is a very strong word. We should never say that about anybody,” she added, knowing full well she was facing the typical “do as I say, not as I do” parenting conundrum. “The thing is, I went back to the office last night after the knitting meeting. And she was dead. I found her, in her office.”
“OMG . . . you’re kidding? Did you scream and stuff? Was her body all cold and stiff? Like they show in the movies?”
Suzanne knew that a full reel of horror flicks was now running through her daughter’s head . . . starring her mother. She thought it best to downplay her reaction.
“I may have screamed a little. Not that much,” Suzanne replied.
Alexis squinched up her face. “How did you know she was dead? Did you have to touch her?”
“Of course I touched her. I wasn’t sure if she was . . . I mean, I had to check her pulse. To make sure.”
Her daughter didn’t answer, just stared, the apple hanging limply from one hand. “Wow . . . That is so creepy.”
“The police came and asked a lot of questions and now they need to ask more.” She shrugged, trying to act as if this was no big deal. As much for her daughter’s sake as her own. “It won’t take long.”
She wasn’t sure of that either but hoped just saying it would make it true.
“Okay. I’ll watch the little monsters. No worries. Catch you later.” Alexis, who wasn’t prone to spontaneous shows of affection since she had been about five, hopped over and planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek.
Suzanne was so shocked, she lifted her hand to touch the spot.
“See you later, honey.” The sweet gesture made her feel a little better. Though the request from Charles was definitely a surprise.
But there’s no reason to worry, she reminded herself. Hadn’t Charles said last night that he might need to ask a few more questions? Well, this is a few more questions.
She had just about talked herself into a semicalm state when Kevin came back into the kitchen. He was already wearing his jacket and picked up his car keys.
He turned to her, with a surprisingly serious expression. “I don’t know, Suzanne. Do you think we should call a lawyer?”
Chapter 4
“Alawyer? What do I need a lawyer for?” The question seemed totally out of left field.
Kevin shrugged his big shoulders. “I don’t know. Charles sounded so official. Why does he need to talk to you at the police station? Why can’t he ask you questions over the phone?”
Suzanne wondered about that, too. But again, she tried to minimize the implications. “For one thing, when he did call, I didn’t answer the phone.”
She had listened to Charles’s message. It had been brief, giving no hint of his reasons or intentions.
“It could be worse. What if he’d come to the door, like they do in the movies? It would have scared the kids silly and then we’d really be answering questions. I did let Alexis know what happened, but asked her not to tell the boys,” she added.
“I guess that’s the best thing. For now. We’d better leave. He must be waiting for us.”
Kevin stared straight ahead and headed for the side door. She could tell by the set of his jaw he was worried, but trying not to show it. Outside, they climbed in his truck. He quickly started the engine and drove toward the village. It was a dark night. Suzanne stared out at the road where bare branches swayed and dipped overhead.
“I’m not going to
get bent out of shape about this. And I really don’t think I need a lawyer sitting there for no reason. Charging a zillion dollars a minute,” she added.
But her mind jumped to Dana, the only person she knew who could find a lawyer on such short notice. Dana’s husband Jack was an attorney in town and, before that, had been a detective for the county. He had a lot of connections in law enforcement.
Should they call Dana, just in case?
“I thought you said the police found out Liza died from an allergic reaction. Why do they need to ask anyone more questions?” Suzanne knew Kevin was just thinking out loud. He sounded annoyed and even angry—an emotion she’d discovered men often expressed to mask their worry and fear.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I bet the police are still talking to a lot of people from my office. Not just me,” Suzanne insisted.
“Could be,” Kevin said quietly. “Maybe we’re getting upset over nothing. Let’s just see how it goes.”
* * *
About two hours later, Suzanne had to face the fact that it was not going the way she had expected. In fact, it was not going well at all.
She wished with all her heart that her husband had been allowed to stay with her, but soon after they arrived at the station and gave their names to the officer at the front desk, Charles had come out to meet them.
Kevin was directed to a waiting area and Charles led Suzanne into the deep maze of the Essex County police station, which the public didn’t often see.
They walked down a sterile-looking hallway with a linoleum floor, the walls painted a color Suzanne called “hospital green.” They passed a few gray, metal doors with stenciled numbers and a small window on top. Then they came to one that was open.
“Let’s step in here and we’ll talk,” Charles said. He politely stood aside to allow Suzanne to enter first. She saw another man seated at a narrow table, with chairs set up on either side.
The man looked up at her, with dark eyes, close set. He had a narrow face and a shiny, bald head. An impressive black mustache covered his upper lip. She recognized him from the night before, one of the police officers who had been scurrying around the realty office. She had guessed he was another detective, Charles’s partner, and now she was sure.
“Suzanne, this is Frank Oliver, my partner. Frank and I have some questions for you.”
She sat down in a molded plastic chair and squared her shoulders, a technique she’d learned in a business course about negotiating. Poor posture sends a bad signal. You need to take up as much space as possible to intimidate your adversary. Like certain reptiles in the rain forest that blow themselves up three times their size when facing down a predator.
“Hello, Frank.” She smiled at him, but didn’t overdo it. He met her gaze. “Hello, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Thank you for coming in to talk to us.”
“Not a problem. I want to help.”
“Good. The more truthful you are with us, the easier this will go.”
His words were alarming. Suzanne glanced at Charles. But if Charles thought his partner’s words were inappropriate, his expression didn’t show it.
“I thought I told Charles everything I know last night. But if you have more questions, that’s fine. I’ll answer them.”
You have nothing to hide. Or worry about. Disliking someone—even trash talking them—is not a crime, she reminded herself.
Charles cleared his throat. He had been carrying a dark green folder and it now sat in front of him on the table. He looked up at her, without opening it.
“You told me last night that you and Liza didn’t get along. That you’d had an argument in the office on Thursday afternoon.”
Suzanne nodded. “That’s right.”
Detective Oliver spoke next. “Can you tell us what that argument was about?”
Suzanne was fairly certain that they knew the details of the argument by now. They must have spoken to everyone in the office, and had heard about the incident again and again. With many embellishments, she had no doubt.
But she had to keep her cool and answer their question as calmly as she could. Suzanne took a breath and related the story—how she had been running an open house at an exclusive listing and how Liza had stolen her clients and squeezed an offer out of them.
“I was very surprised when I found out what she’d done. Though it wasn’t the first time,” Suzanne added. “Any real estate professional will tell you that was totally unprofessional behavior. Naturally, I was upset. Anybody would have been.”
Suzanne stopped herself from saying more. She could see it would be unwise to sound angry. She needed to spin this as more of an ethical disagreement.
“It was the principle of the thing,” she said finally.
She sat back and looked across at Charles, hoping for some sign of support. But his expression was as unreadable as a stone lion’s.
Detective Oliver caught her attention. “So you were upset. How upset? Would you say that you were angry?”
Suzanne thought a moment, wondering how honest she should be. She suppressed a sigh. No sense lying about it. There were too many people who would contradict her.
“Yes, I was angry. She’d stolen my clients. And my sale. As I just said, this was totally unprofessional behavior. I had to speak up for myself. Wouldn’t you?”
She glanced at Charles, hoping he’d be the one to answer this time. But again, he sat silently, his mouth set in a tight line, his jaw jutting out a bit. She had a feeling that he wanted to reply, but the two detectives had a game plan and Oliver had the ball.
The realization that they had probably strategized on the best way to question her was alarming.
“One of your coworkers, Lyle Croddy, described your reaction as more than upset, or even surprised and angry. He said . . .” Frank Oliver opened the folder on the table in front of him and read from the top page: “ ‘She was over the top. Like a crazy woman. Screaming expletives. She jumped up and tried to attack Liza. She even pulled Liza’s hair.’ ”
Detective Oliver looked up at her. “Is that true?”
Lyle, Lyle. Crocodile! Of course you would exaggerate and get me in even more hot water.
“Yes, I raised my voice, though I was definitely not screaming. And I may have even leaned toward her, across the table. But I never pulled her hair,” she stated flatly. “That’s not true at all.”
Only because Lyle held you back and you couldn’t reach it, a small voice clarified.
Before Detective Oliver could reply, she hurriedly added, “I certainly don’t think Lyle Croddy is the best source of information. His beat is commercial listings, which are slim picking in this town, and he’s always been very jealous of me.”
Finally Charles spoke. “Please calm down, Suzanne. We’re just trying to get a picture of the events at the office on Thursday. The day Liza Devereaux died.”
Suzanne didn’t want to cry in front of the two men, but she suddenly felt as if she might. “I understand. But I told you all about the argument last night, Charles. And you said that even if I had made her upset, you’d never heard of anybody accused of murder or even manslaughter, just because they’d had an argument with the person who died.... And besides,” she added, turning now to Detective Oliver, “I heard today that she died from a severe allergic reaction. We certainly didn’t like each other, but as far as I know, Liza wasn’t allergic to me. So I couldn’t have caused that, either.”
She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at Oliver with her best, “How do you like them bananas, pal?” look.
Charles’s gaze narrowed, his expression darkened. “How do you know that?”
Suzanne took a breath and shook her head. “Heard it around town, I guess. News like that gets out quickly.”
She could tell he didn’t believe her. And she was instantly sorry that she’d lied. But only to protect Maggie and keep your promise to her, she reminded herself.
When neither of the men replied, she said, “She had a food allergy o
r something like that, right?”
Detective Oliver leaned toward her. “You seem to know a lot about it, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Why don’t you tell us?”
Suzanne sat back, feeling stung. What was going on here? Why were they treating her like this? Talking to her as if . . . as if she’d been involved in Liza’s death? That couldn’t be right. She felt her heart race. She looked from one man to the other.
“Why are you saying these things to me? I went back into the office last night to talk to her. To apologize for losing my temper at the meeting. But when I found her . . . Well, she was lying on the floor. Dead. That’s what happened. That’s all I know.”
Charles looked at his partner. Suzanne had a feeling her appeal had moved him. Maybe they would let her go home now?
Detective Oliver avoided Charles’s gaze. He had opened the folder and was paging through the contents. “Let’s move on. We’ll get back to the argument again, later.”
Later? How long did they plan to keep her there?
Suzanne nearly jumped up in her chair, about to protest. But looking at the demeanor of the men, she caught herself and settled back in her seat. Oliver, at least, was ready to categorize her as a nut job. She didn’t need to provide any more evidence of that.
Charles’s voice broke through her thoughts. His tone was almost friendly. She met his glance, but she was still on her guard. “Where were you yesterday morning, Suzanne? What was your schedule like?”
She sat back and gazed at the ceiling, badly in need of a paint job. “Let’s see . . . dropped my daughter at the high school around eight and drove up to Newburyport. There was an open house on a condo for salespeople only. Waterfront, in a warehouse. Very nice property.”
“Go on,” Detective Oliver prodded her.
“That ended around ten. I drove out to Peabody next, to have my teeth cleaned. The dentist office was backed up and I wasn’t done until noon. Maybe later.”
Oliver had been taking notes. He glanced at Charles and then looked back at Suzanne. “What route did you take from Newburyport to Peabody?”
