I groaned and thought, Now who’s going to make all those cannolis?
Even as I faced a lifetime in prison for crimes I did not commit, all I could think was that I would miss the cannoli competition. Angelica would be stuck making 300 cannolis by herself. I preferred worrying about Angelica, because my own situation was so much worse.
The chair in the interrogation room dug into my legs and back. It was even more uncomfortable this time, because I couldn’t move much—they’d cuffed my hands to the metal table.
Anthony sat across from me, and behind him was a wide mirror, beyond which another officer—or even the chief of police herself—might stand, listening to our conversation.
I sighed. Again. I’d been sighing a lot these past several hours. “Look, Anthony, you saw me at Liz’s trailer.”
“For the record,” Anthony said, his eyes flicking to the side, as if he was just as aware of being watched as I was. “I saw you at the boathouse, Miss Smyth. Not at the scene of the crime.”
Apparently we’d gone from first names back to formal address. He winced every time he called me Miss Smyth, though, which at least suggested he didn’t like it much.
I tried to reason with Anthony. “Would I have killed Liz and then come out and chatted calmly? You know I didn’t do this.”
A manila file lay open with several sheets of paper and a pen, and Anthony shuffled the papers while he avoided making eye contact.
“Your prints match those on the murder weapon, Miss Smyth. Uh, the probable murder weapon. You were the last to see Liz Lewis alive.”
“And did I attack Susan, too?”
“Susan Davis is not 100 percent sure it was a man who attacked her.”
We had already been over this a dozen times. Anthony had revealed that after a couple hours of pacing up and down the path near the trailer, the police officers responsible for guarding Liz had become suspicious—they’d seen no movement from within. So they knocked on the door. When there was no answer, they’d gone inside and found Liz. She was dead. Stabbed in the back.
“How come I didn’t have any blood on me when I left Liz’s trailer?” I asked.
Anthony rubbed his chin. “You must have cleaned yourself off when you cleaned the murder weapon.”
“When I cleaned the what?”
Anthony colored. “The knife.” And then mumbled, “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“So the knife didn’t have any blood on it?”
He gave his head a tiny shake.
The probable murder weapon, Anthony had said, as if it wasn’t 100 percent certain. I recalled my visit to Liz and what I’d seen there: the spartan interior, the books, the bed. And yes, there had been a knife in Liz’s trailer.
A jolt went through me. Of course. I had touched that knife.
“This murder weapon,” I said. “Was it by a knife block? Because after Liz threatened me with a knife, thinking I was an intruder, she handed it to me. That would explain my prints.”
Anthony looked at me. The cogs in his mind were apparently turning. Finally, he said, “Yes, it would.”
We started our volley of dialogue over again: me claiming I was innocent, he insisting the evidence pointed to my guilt. But I could see how skeptical he was, and finally, I called him out on it.
I leaned forward—as far as I could go with my hands cuffed—and I whispered, “Anthony, tell me honestly, do you even believe I’m guilty?”
“I can’t answer that question. It’s for a judge and jury to decide.”
“Your boss, Chief Tedesco, has already decided.”
“Chief Tedesco’s a good cop,” Anthony said quickly, defending her.
“But you don’t always agree with her.”
Silence.
“Lately,” he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder at the mirror, “maybe less than usual.”
Then he frowned. He straightened up in his chair. “Wait a minute, Miss Smyth. I’ll be the one asking the questions, thank you very much.”
He tried to sound authoritative, but I had rattled him.
I smiled. I could have kissed his face. Because he’d just admitted that he disagreed with Chief Tedesco. He was taking my side against hers. Maybe that meant I still had a sliver of hope.
“I touched that knife, and that’s why it has my prints,” I said. “But if I were a killer, and I took the time to clean the blood off the knife, why wouldn’t I clean off the fingerprints?” Before Anthony could answer that, I plowed ahead. “No, it doesn’t make sense, and you know it. If my prints are still on the handle of that carving knife, and you found no other knife, then that means the murder weapon is still out there.”
Anthony frowned, obviously thinking it through.
“Maybe he needed the knife for another task,” I said.
“Because when he attacked Susan, he failed. So he knew he’d have to return to finish the job.”
“Right.” I leaned forward in my chair, as much as I could with the handcuffs on. “Which means the murderer may still have the weapon with him.”
“And if we find him with the knife, we’ll have plenty of evidence to convict,” Anthony said, getting excited.
“Plenty,” I agreed.
Anthony closed the manila folder and got to his feet. But then turned, a frown on his face. “Bernie, unless we find a man with a ski mask and a bloody knife, you’re still the prime suspect in two homicides. The killer would be supremely stupid—or desperate—to hold on to that kind of incriminating evidence. I don’t see much hope.”
* * *
The concrete walls of the holding cell they placed me in put Liz’s minimalism to shame. But at least there was a metal bench—firmly bolted to the floor—and I could catch some shut-eye while I waited for the next round of interrogation.
After drifting off to sleep, I woke up with a jerk.
I heard raised voices.
I looked around. The cell was dim, light from the corridor keeping the full dark of night at bay.
I stared at the dark ceiling and listened. One voice belonged to Anthony, the other to Chief Tedesco.
“The knife is clear evidence she didn’t do it,” Anthony said.
“The knife is nothing,” Chief Tedesco snapped. “She’s guilty.”
“And you’re—” Anthony cut himself off, as if he stopped himself from saying something he’d regret.
I was fully awake now and raised myself on one elbow, straining to hear.
Then Anthony spoke, after all. “You’re obsessed, Diana. It’s clear to me that your personal bias has clouded your vision. You’re persecuting an innocent citizen, and I’m shocked that you can’t see it yourself. Where’s the chief of police I’ve always admired?”
What followed was a disturbing silence.
“And you’re guilty of insubordination, maybe even obstruction of justice,” she told him icily. “I should have your badge.”
“Chief, I’d rather you take my badge than my integrity. I won’t be an accessory to framing an innocent woman.”
Someone stomped across the floor. A door slammed.
My heart was beating fast. I waited a long time for something else to happen—for voices to break the silence again—but all was quiet again.
I couldn’t believe Anthony had stood up for me. He was a friendly, handsome guy, but I didn’t think he was much of a detective. That might be true, but I had obviously underestimated his ethics.
I liked him twice as much. But if he lost his job, what good would that do me? He was my only friend in uniform. Without him, nothing stood between me and Chief Tedesco.
I lay back down and stared at the ceiling panels and fluorescent lights.
I remembered what Angelica had told me about how Chief Tedesco’s husband and sister had betrayed her, leaving her alone. Despite everything, I felt a tug of sympathy for her. Maybe I was too tired to hate her for how she was treating me. Maybe I could relate to feeling alone…
I must have fallen asleep, because I heard the jangle of keys in a dream, and then the door to my cell swung open.
I sat bolt upright with a startled, “What?”
I blinked. Chief Tedesco stood in the doorway, a sour frown on her face.
“Here’s what, Miss Smyth,” she said, her voice raspy. “You’re free to go.”
I stared at her. “Come again?”
“We will no longer detain you on suspicion of murder.”
She stood aside and motioned for me to come out. I got to my feet and stretched my back—my spine cracking and popping—and then sidled through the door, trying to ignore Tedesco’s hard gaze.
Anthony stood a few paces away, arms crossed on his chest, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
“You did this?” I said.
“We did this,” he said. “After I left you, I thought about what you’d said, and it became more and more obvious that the killer wouldn’t hold on to that knife. It was too risky. So if he didn’t leave it at the scene of the crime, where did it go?”
“You went back to the woods.”
“I did,” he said. “He probably tossed the weapon in the lake, I thought. But what if he didn’t? What if he dumped it in the woods near the other attack?”
“By the Overlook.”
“That’s right. And that’s where I found it. Close to where we found Susan. Although he’d wiped the handle clean of prints, Susan has identified the weapon as the one the attacker used.”
I threw my arms around him and squeezed him.
He let out a little, “Oh,” and then peeled me off, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“Just doing my job.”
* * *
As I walked out of the police station, the sun was rising over Carmine. Ahead of me lay the parking lot, and never had I seen such a beautiful sight. The low sun glinted off the backs of police cruisers. A bird fluttered from a tree down to an overflowing garbage can. Even the trash—candy-bar wrappers and crushed soda cans—looked beautiful.
My body ached, my head felt as heavy as lead and as fuzzy as a cotton ball—the awful effects of sleep deprivation—but my feet felt light and springy. I nearly tap danced down the steps. Losing my freedom sure made me appreciate it.
A truck pulled up to the curb, screeching to a halt, and I jumped back.
The side of the truck said, www.usps.com. The driver’s window of the mail truck rolled down.
“Get in,” Roberta LaRosa said.
Once I was comfortable in the passenger’s seat, Roberta eased the truck away from the curb. We rumbled slowly down the street.
Now and then a car drifted past us, but most of the town was still asleep. It was Saturday. The day of the big street festival. Soon, volunteers would make the final preparations, while the rest of town got ready for a day of fun and games—and tons of sugary goodies.
We took a long, meandering drive around the town’s residential streets. She asked me about the murders, and I told her everything. It turned out she already knew most of it. She’d been keeping tabs on me, talking regularly with Chief Tedesco.
“You’ve got bad luck, Bernie,” Roberta said. “Either that or you have a talent for getting into trouble.”
It was probably both. But I didn’t say that. I kept quiet. Eventually, Roberta would tell me why she’d sought me out, and I had a feeling it wouldn’t be good.
“I should have seen the danger in placing you under Chief Tedesco‘s protection, since she, by her own admission, had been going through some personal stuff.” She winced. Maybe because she’d heard about Tedesco’s nightmarish ordeal with her sister and husband. “You’ve dodged a bullet and I doubt the chief of police will try to pin the crime on you again, but the whole thing has exposed you. I’m worried what this might mean for your safety.”
“The dust will settle,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Carmine is safe.”
Roberta shook her head. “I wish it were true. Have you read the news?”
I hadn’t even checked my phone since getting it back from the police. I dug the phone out of my pocket and woke it from sleep.
Notifications clogged my lock screen, including several with “breaking news.”
I opened Peter’s news site and my heart nearly stopped. A single image dominated The Carmine Enquirer’s front page. A photo of me in handcuffs. The headline said, “A double-shot of murder? Barista arrested for stabbings.”
I groaned. “This is bad.”
“This is very bad,” Roberta agreed. “In fact, given the attention this puts on you, I can’t leave you here. The risk that Harry Casanova will discover you are hiding in Carmine is high. You have no choice. You have to leave.”
My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe.
“Leave?”
Outside, we passed manicured lawns and modest ranch-style houses. One house had a lamppost carved to look like Frank Sinatra. On the front lawn of another, a sign said, “All Are Welcome.” At that moment, it felt as though the sign spoke directly to me.
“I can’t leave,” I said, and realized with a jolt how true it was. “Since working at Moroni’s, since making friends with Angelica and Nat, I’ve come to love Carmine. I can’t go.”
“If it’s about the cabin in Alaska…”
“It’s not about the cabin, Roberta. I can’t move to Alaska or anywhere else. Carmine’s the place for me. I can feel it in my bones.”
I stared at her, feeling my words were inadequate and yet hoping and praying she’d understand.
She stared ahead at the road. “I’m sorry, Bernie. My number one priority is to keep you alive. Carmine is no longer safe.”
“But—”
“That’s all there is to say.” She stopped the truck, the engine still idling. We’d arrived at my house. “You have 24 hours to pack up and say your goodbyes.”
I looked across the driveway at the quiet little ranch-style house. From the outside, the house looked asleep. In a day, it would be abandoned, and I would be on a plane heading for Anchorage and then to the far north.
I dug down deep into my brain, thinking of all the ways I could undo what had been done.
Solve the murder case. But that wouldn’t stop Harry Casanova.
Convince Peter to pull the story. But I’d have to tell him the truth, and that would be too big a scoop for him to ignore.
After that, my brain came up empty. Too tired. All it could muster was a vague longing for warmth and sweetness.
I stared out the window.
Guess that was enough of a clue.
“Will you take me into town, please?”
“How you spend your last 24 hours in Carmine is your business.” Roberta put the truck in drive. “Where to?”
“Moroni’s,” I said. “I have work to do.”