Lainie glanced at Peter, who released his hold on her and nodded, granting permission for her to answer. “Patty Cavanagh hired a private investigator to document her husband’s affair with that woman. The private investigator took the photos.”
“I’m sure there’s an interesting story behind how you came into possession of the photos,” Knapp said, “but we’ll skip over that for now.”
Lainie let out a breath, relieved that she wouldn’t be arrested for stealing Patty’s photos—at least not today. “The woman in the pictures was the woman I told you I’d seen Arthur with the night before he died. Her name is Bree Daniels and she runs an escort service.”
“An escort service?”
Lainie turned to Peter, who was struggling to suppress a laugh. “Okay, she was a high-class hooker,” Lainie said. “She lives in Burlington. I’ve got her address . . .” She rummaged through her purse until she found her notes about Bree’s condominium.
Knapp handed it to a uniformed officer and whispered something about having the Burlington Police pick her up. Then he turned his attention back to Lainie. “So the murder victim was having an affair with her?”
“No. They never had sex.”
“Really?” Knapp scrutinized the photos. He lingered for a long while over the picture Bree had been admiring when she’d said she looked great in profile. “Hard to believe,” he said.
“Not for me,” Peter muttered. “She’s not my type.”
“Here’s what I think happened,” Lainie continued. “Arthur’s first wife told me that when he married Patty, he made her sign a prenuptial agreement stating that if she divorced him he wouldn’t have to pay her any alimony. The only exception would be if he had an affair. Patty wanted to divorce him, so she hired this prostitute, Bree Daniels, to have an affair with him, and she hired a private investigator to catch them in the act. But Arthur refused to have the affair.”
“Because he didn’t want to divorce her?” Knapp asked.
Lainie shrugged. “Either that, or he didn’t want to pay her alimony if she divorced him. Bree got together with him several times. Apparently she tried to seduce him, but he fended her off.
“Then Bree got it in her head that if she killed him, Patty would get even more money than she would have gotten if he’d committed adultery, and Bree would be entitled to a percentage of Patty’s windfall.”
Knapp frowned. He pulled out his steno pad and wrote for a while in long sentences scrawled in loopy penmanship. Lainie and Peter exchanged a look. Peter raised his eyebrows as if to communicate, “Who knows what the idiot is writing?”
Knapp’s hand eventually ran out of energy and he lowered his pen. “How do you get from this Bree woman’s being unable to seduce the victim to her killing the victim?”
“There’s the photo of them at the house under construction at Emerson Village Estates,” she said, reaching across his desk to riffle through the photos until she found the one she was referring to.
“This wasn’t taken the night Cavanagh was killed,” Knapp noted.
“It was another night,” Lainie agreed. “But Bree told me Arthur showed her his tools. She said he really liked going to the construction site with her, and he opened his storage locker, showed her his tools, and demonstrated how they worked. She said he loved his tools. And as I told you weeks ago, I saw Arthur and Bree together the night he died. Sometime after they left Olde Towne Olé, they must have gone to Emerson Village to play with his tools. She would have had access to his nail gun.”
“There were a lot of prints on the weapon,” Knapp commented. “Mr. Stavik’s and also Cavanagh’s, and a couple of others. We identified most of them as belonging to carpenters in the crew.”
“Check again,” Lainie said. “I bet you’ll find Bree Daniels’s prints on it, too.”
“So . . .” Knapp digested what Lainie had said. “You believe she killed Cavanagh as a favor to his wife?”
“More than a favor. She expected a cut of Patty’s inheritance.”
“She told you this?”
Lainie nodded. “She was pretty clear about it.”
Knapp eyed Peter and shook his head. “This Bree Daniels woman isn’t very smart, telling you all this stuff.”
“No, but Ms. Lovett is quite the genius,” Peter said, then winked at Lainie. “I assume all charges against her will be dropped.”
“I’ll have to work that out with the district attorney’s office,” Knapp said.
“And the charges against Bill Stavik, too,” Lainie added.
Peter shot her a scowl.
“Again, it’s up to the DA’s office. I’ll recommend a dismissal. We still have to get Patty Cavanagh’s statement. And we have to work out this situation with her son trying to shoot you.”
“He’s distraught,” Lainie said. “He’s only a kid, and he’s been through hell—”
“Shut up, Lainie,” Peter cut her off. “Did I give you permission to speak?”
“I don’t want Sean getting sent to jail.”
“The kid was planning to kill you,” Peter reminded her.
“He’ll go through the juvenile system,” Knapp said. “He won’t go to adult prison. I’d leave his fate to the DA’s office, too. They’ll want your testimony.”
“And they’ll get it,” Peter insisted before Lainie could say anything more in Sean’s defense. “She’ll cooperate fully.”
“Not like last time,” Knapp grunted.
Lainie hadn’t not cooperated during her interview with Michael Hucker. She hadn’t implicated Stavik, but that was because she couldn’t. Not without lying.
She wouldn’t lie about Sean, either. But she’d remind the district attorney that Sean was a frightened kid undergoing an emotional meltdown. And he hadn’t hurt her. Scared her, yes, but she’d taken him down. Soccer skills had applications well beyond the athletic field.
“I was his favorite teacher ever,” she murmured.
“And I’m sure someone would have mentioned that in your eulogy, if he’d aimed his gun a little better.” Peter patted her arm. “Can my client go now? She’s had a long day.”
Just hearing Peter say that reminded Lainie of how long her day had been. Her stomach was blessedly settled, but exhaustion washed over her in a heavy wave. She wanted to go home, curl up in bed, and close her eyes.
Knapp kicked his chair back and stood. “You can go for now,” he said to Lainie, “but don’t leave town. We’ve got a lot more to talk about.”
“Starting with, ‘I shouldn’t have arrested you, and I’m sorry,’” Peter suggested. “Come on, Lainie. I’ll drive you home.”
They left the building, and Lainie felt weariness seep through her, adding weight to her limbs. Had she actually tackled Sean Cavanagh just an hour ago? Just two hours ago, had she been drinking tea with the founder of People for the Preservation of the Planet? Three and a half hours ago, had she been sitting in the daisy-crazy kitchen of Arthur Cavanagh’s murderer?
The sun was setting, dragging some of the heat out of the sky. As she walked with Peter to the parking lot, she noticed the pansies edging the path. Such intense color in such tiny blossoms—the sight of their miniature beauty made her want to weep.
“Don’t fall apart on me now,” Peter said.
“Too late. I’m falling apart.”
He pulled an elegant handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Try not to lose this one, okay?”
“I’m sorry about the one I did lose.” She dabbed at her cheeks. “That was a bad day for me.”
“Gee, was it?” He laughed. “I hope it’s the last bad day you have for a long time.”
“Me too.” She patted her cheeks once more and gave the handkerchief back to him. “Add the cost of the one I lost to your bill.”
“What bi
ll?” He unlocked the passenger door of his Audi and helped her in. She leaned back and let the seat cradle her. What bill? Was Peter actually planning not to charge her for all the work he’d done?
She didn’t deserve his generosity. But she’d had a lot of bad days recently. So she would accept his gift with a smile and admit that, after all those bad days, today had turned out to be pretty damned good.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’VE GOT A DATE tonight,” Karen announced as Lainie entered the house after her Saturday morning soccer game. It had been a tough match, ending in a three-three tie in overtime, but Lainie had played well, which meant more to her than winning.
“With anyone I know?” she asked Karen as she crossed to the sink to empty her water bottle.
She shook her head. “Remember my friend Lauren from Middlebury? It’s her cousin. He’s doing graduate work in philosophy at BU. Intense, huh. And he’ll never be employable. But I thought, what the hell.”
“What the hell,” Lainie agreed. She cupped her hands under the water, then splashed the cool liquid onto her face. “I’ve got a date tonight, too.”
“With the murderer?” Lainie asked.
“With the man wrongly charged with murder. And his name is Bill.”
“Oh, God, Mom—you’re not going to introduce him to me, are you?”
Lainie shook her head. “The relationship hasn’t reached that stage yet.”
Karen grinned mischievously. “What stage has it reached?”
“None of your business.” Lainie wet her hand and flung the water at Karen’s face. Karen shrieked and backed off.
Lainie wasn’t sure what stage she and Bill were up to, except that he was no longer “Stavik” in her mind, and he’d promised they wouldn’t find themselves without condoms tonight. “No pressure, Lainie,” he’d said, “but there’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”
Condoms were fine with her. Dinner with Bill at Partie de Thé tonight was fine with her. Life was fine with her. She had her job back, and the flowers Frank Bruno had sent her when he’d asked her to return to work looked fresh and colorful nearly a week after she’d received them. They sat on the kitchen table: roses, carnations, tulips, and baby’s breath. Not a single daisy in the bouquet.
Three days ago, she’d returned to her classroom to teach. Her students had presented her with their giant squid diagrams—“The substitute didn’t know anything about mollusks,” they’d reported. She’d taught them how to multiply numbers with decimal points in them. Hayden Blumenthal had given a talk about the final portion of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and she’d had to stop and take deep breaths only a couple of times. “Alice didn’t let them cut off her head,” she explained, “because they were nothing but a pack of cards.”
I know the feeling, Lainie had thought.
She’d had to take yesterday afternoon off from work to meet with Michael Hucker. He should have given her flowers, too. At least he’d apologized to her for the “inconvenience” the state had caused her. Then he’d inconvenienced her some more by scheduling her to testify before the grand jury that was trying to sort through the charges facing Bree Daniels and Patty Cavanagh, who, according to Peter, was claiming she’d never intended for Bree to kill her husband and couldn’t understand why Bree thought she deserved even a penny of Arthur’s estate.
Sean had been charged with possession of a deadly weapon and was receiving psychiatric counseling. Lainie worried more about him than about his mother or Bree Daniels. They could fend for themselves, she thought. Sean couldn’t.
Bill hadn’t sent her flowers. Not that she expected or wanted flowers from him. Flowers were what men gave women in a quest for forgiveness. Bill had done nothing for Lainie to forgive.
She went upstairs, showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe she should consult with Karen about what to wear tonight. She didn’t know what she and Bill would be doing after dinner at Partie de Thé—except that at some point they would wind up together in bed, where clothes didn’t matter so much. She’d splurged on some new underwear, at least. White underwear, but it was silk, not cotton, and trimmed with lace. No sports bra tonight.
She ought to send Bill flowers for having reminded her of how much she enjoyed sex.
Back downstairs, she found Karen at the computer in the den, typing away. “I’m going out for a while,” she told Karen. “If you get in touch with Randy, ask him if his dress blazer still fits him. If it doesn’t, we’re going to have to buy him a new jacket for Wasp Grandpa’s birthday party.”
“Okay,” Karen said absently.
Lainie grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter and remembered with a pang that that was where it had been when Sean had hidden the BlackBerry inside it. Should she leave it somewhere else from now on? No. She wasn’t about to change her habits just because a troubled boy had nearly destroyed her life.
Spring sunshine filled her car as she steered down Liberty Road, past the town green to Main Street. The lots of both supermarkets were crammed with cars, and Lainie cruised past them. Ever since Big Brad had departed from Karen’s life, Lainie had had to do a lot less grocery shopping. Did philosophy graduate students eat as much as guys like Big Brad did? Lainie supposed she’d find out eventually, if Karen’s date tonight went well.
She drove past the hardware store, past the video rental store, past Rockford Pizza, and into the lot for Stellara Salon. Entering the building, she smiled at the perky young receptionist. “Hey, Lainie,” the girl greeted her. “Marianne is waiting for you. Just a trim today?”
“No,” Lainie said. “I’m going to have her get rid of these gray hairs.”
“Yeah?” The receptionist’s face brightened. “Cool! You’re going to look great.”
“I don’t know about great,” Lainie said. “I’m just ready to look as young as I feel.” She took the smock the receptionist handed her, slipped her arms through the sleeves, and sauntered past the desk to the chair where Marianne was stationed. All around her, mirrors bounced her reflection back at her. She looked buff, she decided. She looked healthy. She looked like a woman who’d just played some bare-knuckle soccer, like a woman who’d fought for her life and won.
(Please continue reading for more information)
Acknowledgements
As always, I wish to thank my editor, Patricia Van Wie, for helping me make this book the best it can be. Additional thanks to Deborah Smith for helping me make the book even better. And thanks to the rest of the gang at Bell Bridge Books: Debra Dixon, Danielle Childers, and everyone else who works so hard to bring my books to life. Finally, thanks to Sandy Bell, fourth-grade teacher extraordinaire.
About Judith Arnold
Judith Arnold can’t remember a time when she wasn’t making up stories. Her older sister taught her how to read and write by the time she was four years old, and she’s been at it ever since. A detour in college, thanks to a charismatic professor, led her to spend most of her twenties writing plays, which were professionally produced around the United States and in Canada. But she eventually returned to her first love—prose fiction—and sold her first novel, Silent Beginnings, shortly before her thirtieth birthday. (She found out she was pregnant with her first son the same week she made her first sale. Both the book and the baby were October releases. She and her husband nicknamed the baby “Noisy Beginnings.”)
Since that first sale, Judith has sold more than ninety novels, with more than ten million copies in print worldwide. She’s been a multiple finalist for Romance Writers of America’s RITA ® Award and the winner of RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Awards for best Harlequin American Romance, best Harlequin Superromance, best Series Romance, and best Contemporary Single Title Romance. Publishers Weekly named her novel Love In Bloom’s one of the best books of the year, and her novel Barefoot in the Grass has appeared on recommended rea
ding lists at hospitals and breast cancer support centers.
A native New Yorker, Judith lives near Boston. She considers her sons her two greatest creations, but she’s pretty proud of all her books, too.
Dead Ball Page 30
