After what seemed like hours, Tom Donovan finished with me. For now, as he put it. That didn’t sound encouraging. At least he hadn’t Mirandized me, and I was free to go. I liked the sound of that. Free. To. Go.
As I gathered my things, I heard a ruckus in the outer office. The voices grew louder. My natural curiosity drew me out of the cubicle.
“My husband is dead! And you want to interview me. Here! I’ve never heard of such a thing. How completely insensitive are you?”
“Calm down, Mrs. O’Malley. We gave you the opportunity to answer questions at your residence. You declined to cooperate. We had no choice but to bring you in,” Tom Donovan stated in a no-nonsense tone. “We’re dealing with a murder investigation.”
Interesting. Edna St. Vincent O’Malley had resisted speaking to the police. So this was the sweet, church-going lady my granddad had described earlier. Why didn’t she want to talk to the cops? What did she have to hide? Could she have killed her husband? Questions pinged around in my brain, rapid-fire.
I snuck toward Donovan and Mrs. O’Malley to get a better look at her. She was fortyish with soft blonde hair pulled back into a twist. Definitely a bit too matronly for her age, if you asked me. Her make-up was flawless, as were the designer clothes and shoes she wore.
Nothing cheap or sleazy about Edna.
She was the epitome of the well-bred Southern female right down to the strand of pearls encircling her aristocratic neck.
Donovan spotted me lurking behind him. “Haven’t you left yet?”
“On my way out,” I replied, a bit too cheery for the circumstances.
“My goodness, Detective, it’s bad enough that you’re rude to me, but this child looks scared to death. What did you do to her? Use a rubber hose to extract a confession? Water torture? Screws?” Edna asked, not attempting to hide her sarcasm or her contempt.
“I assure you, Mrs. O’Malley, we do not employ any such techniques. Miss Reynolds was just leaving after being very cooperative in giving us her statement concerning your husband’s death.”
Edna’s hand flew up to her string of pearls. “You knew my Robert?”
She was looking at me like I was her husband’s girl on the side or something. “It’s not what you think. I work for Daley & Palmer. I was the one who found your husband’s …” I cut myself off before I blurted out the word body.
“I see.” Her tone held absolutely no warmth. I wasn’t sure if that was directed at me, at Daley & Palmer, at her dead husband. Or maybe it was directed at Tom Donovan. I decided to try again.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. My granddad told me what a sweet person you are, and I know how hard all of this must be on you.”
“Your grandfather?” she asked icily.
“Martin Reynolds. I believe you know each other from church.”
“Marty is your grandfather?”
Her voice softened immediately.
“Then you must be Becca. I’ve heard so much about you, dear. He entertains all of us with your, how shall I say it . . . ? Your exploits. He’s quite proud of you, you know.”
And just like that Edna St. Vincent O’Malley had taken me into her inner circle. Who said there was an aloofness to native Richmonders? You just had to know someone they knew and then you were the long, lost friend they’d never met.
“Okay, you two. Great that you have all of this female bonding going on, but I’ve got a murder to investigate. The longer I stand here, the more of a head start the perp has.”
Obviously, Donovan was not the social type.
Both Edna and I turned toward the detective, and I’d wager both of our expressions were the same - disdain mixed with disapproval that the man just didn’t get the finer subtleties.
Even during moments of extreme sorrow, there was still time to be civil, to be friendly and to show good manners – if you were a true Southerner.
I leaned my arm on the counter while Detective Donovan tried to regain command of the situation. He pointed toward the door eager to separate Edna from me and get on with the process. “Miss Reynolds, let me repeat, you are free to go. Please. Go.”
I decided I could talk to the widow later. As I moved my arm, all of the papers beneath it started to slide. I whipped around to try to save some of the falling pieces only to elbow a cup of coffee on the desk. Dark, thick liquid poured out on the counter surface pooling on reports and soaking through endless copies the job clearly required, turning them into a soggy mess.
The sergeant who normally manned the counter came rushing forward to try to restore order to his work area. I pulled crumpled tissues out of my pocketbook and blotted like crazy.
Unfortunately, instead of improving the situation, I was making matters worse. My tissues smeared the ink, leaving most of the documents unreadable.
“I’m so sorry.” I continued to pull at the papers and dab here and there. The desk sergeant glared at me, his expression speaking volumes.
Clearly, my help wasn’t appreciated.
Donovan took me by the shoulders and tried to turn me away from the counter. I don’t like being manhandled. It doesn’t matter who’s doing the handling. The police were no exception. Instinctively, I shook free. I guess Tom wasn’t expecting that, or he didn’t have as firm a grip on me as he thought.
His foot hit the slippery wet sheets of paper scattered on the floor. Somehow he lost his balance. Letting go of me, he grabbed for the counter. Instead of solid wood, he connected with more of the coffee and paper mess. And down he went.
I watched in horror.
Edna stifled a chuckle and glanced away as good manners dictated under the circumstances. I guess I’d given her one more story to entertain Granddad and his church cronies. The desk sergeant hustled around the counter to try to help the overweight Donovan up since he seemed to be just lying there.
“Good job, my-ah sladkaya.”
Chernov. Oh great. Now my humiliation was complete. The sexy Russian had witnessed me single-handedly destroying police property and flattening a detective.
“It was an accident.” I met his gaze and saw the sparkle in his eyes, the fire, along with something else. Admiration? I managed a shrug before he took my hand in his.
“Come, Becca. I think both of us have outstayed our welcome.”
And with that, I let Max Chernov guide me out of the interrogation area. Over my shoulder, I glimpsed the desk sergeant assisting Tom Donovan to his feet and pulling wet papers off of the detective’s rumpled brown suit. And I watched as Edna St. Vincent O’Malley straightened her spine. If Donovan thought I’d been difficult to deal with, I think he’d better up his game a notch for Edna.
In the hall, I allowed Chernov to direct me away from the chaos that I had created. I always mean well, but somehow things rarely turn out the way I intend.
We walked in silence. I sneaked a peek at Max Chernov’s face, surprised to discover he was smiling broadly. Instead of taking the elevator to the lobby, Chernov headed toward a curved staircase that I hadn’t noticed when I’d been brought in. He held my arm as we descended, and it felt like I was being escorted to a dance instead of from police headquarters. Not bad, Chernov, I thought, not bad at all.
“Becca.”
Oops. Ryder. Where had he come from?
“What are you doing here?” I asked and could tell by Ryder’s brooding expression he wasn’t pleased about something.
“I’ve got it from here, Chernov.” Ryder reached out and grabbed my free arm and tugged lightly.
Max continued to hold on to me.
Neither man squeezed too tightly, and it wasn’t like I was being man-handled - even though these two hunky men had me identifying with the wishbone at Thanksgiving dinner. As they continued their male stare-down, it became obvious that I was a pawn in some power struggle between Chernov and Ryder.
At least it wasn’t a smackdown.
I decided to try to diffuse the situation, all the while wondering how Max and Ryder knew each other.
“Guys, guys,” I pleaded.
But like typical males, they chose to ignore me and concentrate on their intimidation of each other. The testosterone in the air grew as thick as ozone after a thunderstorm. Finally, Max released me.
I expected Ryder to do the same. But to my surprise, he drew me closer to him and away from Chernov. What the heck was happening? Before today, Ryder and I had a nodding acquaintance when we passed in the hall. I hadn’t even been sure he knew my name. And now this.
And as for Chernov, he may have let me go, but he sure didn’t show any signs of leaving.
Ryder must have come to the same conclusion because he said, “I’ve got it. I’m giving Becca a ride.”
News to me. “I have to find my granddad.”
Ryder took his eyes off Chernov and regarded me. “No, you don’t. I’ve already arranged for someone to take him home.”
Ryder had been busy.
I glanced from one man to the other. Okay, awkward. Who would have thought I’d be anxious to untangle myself from the likes of either Ryder or the uber-sexy Russian?
Max took my hand in his and brought it up to his lips. “Until next time.” His lips brushed my fingertips and chills snaked up and down my arm.
“There won’t be a next time, Chernov,” Ryder said through gritted teeth.
“We’ll leave that up to Becca.”
Max smiled and sauntered toward the exit as if he owned the place. When he got to the door, he turned back to me. “Remember, if you ever need anything….”
Before I could answer, Ryder spoke for me. “She doesn’t need anything that you have to give her.” Ryder pulled me a tad closer to him.
I could feel his rock-hard body beneath his suit. Hmmm…not too shabby. This attention from two attractive men wasn’t so bad – even if I did know next-to-nothing about either of them.
The instant Max left the building, Ryder eased his hold on me. “I’m warning you, Becca. Stay away from Chernov.”
My oppositional gene sprang into action. “I don’t need a social secretary,” I replied. Not the most brilliant retort, but considering all I’d been through today, I was lucky to come up with even that.
“Women,” Ryder muttered under his breath, but not so low that I didn’t pick it up.
I followed him from the police station. “Are you still giving me that ride, or what?” How quickly we had gone from chummy to crummy.
“I’m over there.” Ryder nodded in the direction of a sleek, black Jag, a decrepit Volkswagen, and a modest sedan. I decided he must be indicating the sedan and headed in that direction, only to have him steer me toward the Jag. My jaw dropped. Did accountants get paid this well? Maybe I was in the wrong profession. But then, I wasn’t any good with math. Or money.
Ryder held the passenger door open for me and slipped on a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Come on, Becca. I need to meet with a client, so shake a leg. Your grandfather moves faster than you do.”
I got into the car, and he shut the door quietly behind me. He circled the car, slipped into the driver’s seat, and proceeded to stare at me.
“What?” I asked, hating that I couldn’t see his eyes behind those sunglasses.
“Seatbelt. I don’t put it in gear unless we’re buckled up.”
Damn alpha male. I never ride or drive without my seatbelt on, either.
If he’d just given me a chance….
As soon as I clicked the belt into place, Ryder, true to his word, put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot.
“I know you think I’m out of line, but I’m telling you as a friend that you don’t want to get messed up with a guy like Chernov. You haven’t been around enough to know guys like him. Trust me, he’s bad news. All the way around.”
Not been around enough?
What did that crack mean? And a friend? Ryder considered himself to be my friend? When did all this happen?
Before I could utter the questions flitting through my mind, Ryder pulled up to the office complex where we both worked. “I thought you were taking me home?” I folded my arms across my chest. “Why are we here? FYI, I’m not going in. Dead body, remember?”
Ryder looked at me like I was a simpleton. “Becca, isn’t your car here in the lot?”
Oh, there was that.
Before I could say anything, Ryder was out of his side of the car and headed toward mine. I rushed to get my door open.
A grin spread across his face.
“Easy there. I’ve got it.”
I scrambled out of the Jag like my butt was on fire. And saw Ryder’s grin broaden. Damn the man.
“Remember what I said about Chernov.” Ryder shut the door and headed toward the front of the building.
Yeah, I’d remember it.
But that didn’t mean I’d pay any attention to it. I was more than old enough to make my own decisions. And make them I would. Right or wrong.