35
Victoria chewed the corner of her lip, waiting for further explanation. Meyers returned her stare, seemingly content to wait even longer. At a stalemate, Victoria conceded, hedging her bets to see where Meyers would take this. “I don’t know a Scott Morton.”
Meyers’s expression rounded into skepticism. “Are you sure about that?”
“One hundred percent? No, that’s impossible. I meet a lot of people through networking events, fundraisers, business inquiries,” Victoria supplied. “But the name doesn’t sound familiar, so if I have, in fact, had some interaction with this Scott Morton, I don’t readily remember him.”
“Mm.”
Mm? What was that supposed to mean? “From your ambiguous response, I take it that I should. Or you were expecting a different answer from me.”
“Have you been faithful in your marriage, Mrs. Tate?”
“Didn’t you ask me this already?”
“I asked if Warren had been seeing someone else.”
She may not have wanted Meyers to figure out X’s identity before she had a chance to safeguard herself, but Victoria had to wonder about the quality of the policework going into this investigation if this was the best line of questioning. An affair? There were other ways to address infidelity that didn’t involve multiple stab wounds. People killed for more than love.
“It’s just a question. I’m not judging one way or the other. Hell, I had a case last year where the wife and girlfriend of the victim not only knew about each other but supported their respective relationships. They planned the funeral together. Polyamory is much more common than you’d think.”
Victoria closed her eyes. She wasn’t offended, but she could see Meyers stretching the truth to fit a narrative, some modern, progressive idea of marriage. It was an admirable attempt, but like hell would she play into the Black Widow motive.
“I never cheated on Warren,” she said. “Neither of us had boyfriends or girlfriends or whatever other . . . arrangement you’re getting at. Why are you asking?”
It was Meyers’s turn to withhold her emotions, slipping beneath a veil of practiced disinterest. “Yesterday morning we interviewed Scott Morton.”
A calculated pause grew between them as Meyers waited for her reaction, to which Victoria had none.
“Okay? And? I still don’t know who that is.”
“Mr. Morton was hired by the Connors as an entertainer for the Gala.” She glanced down at her notebook, a performative glitch if Victoria had ever seen one. “A jester.”
Victoria ran through the memories of that night with a silent groan. The clown with the grabby hands? “Yes, okay, I remember him. He was sending people inside to greet Margaret and Barnaby. Telling gross jokes and dancing.”
“This was your only interaction with him?”
“If you can call that an interaction.”
“So you didn’t attack Mr. Morton?”
“Attack?” Victoria said, unable to hide the note of aggression. She breathed deep and forced her voice to remain calm. If Meyers was trying to provoke her, it wouldn’t work. “That man blocked my exit and shoved his head into my lap; if anything, he assaulted me. Somebody in line helped to pull him off, and, yes, as we separated, I hit him with my purse. Nothing that would leave a mark. I didn’t attack him.”
“Did you file a police report?”
“I did not.”
“Is that how you frequently deal with stressful situations?” Meyers asked, tapping the pen on her knee. “Somebody makes an untoward advance and you . . . lash out?”
Victoria absorbed the pointed edge of the question and the insinuation behind it. Warren had defaulted to this argument style often: belittling her emotions, using her own words against her to highlight that she was either being overdramatic or emotional. Not quite gaslighting, but uncomfortably close.
“I don’t put myself in situations where an aggressive man touches me inappropriately to entertain a room full of strangers. I was shocked and clearly didn’t react as I normally would. What’s next, Detective Meyers? Are you going to ask me what I was wearing? If I’d done anything to warrant the jester’s advances? How about my sexual history?”
Meyers raised her hands in defense. “That’s not what this is.”
“Look, I’ve been on the other side of this and know how it feels, so give me a break, all right? I’m sorry if I offended you. That wasn’t my intention, but I had to ask.”
“Why?”
Meyers leaned slightly onto the armrest. “This morning, before we met with Mr. Morton, another witness came forward with new evidence. They claim that this was a lover’s spat.”
“What witness? Who told you that?” she asked. In hindsight she probably should’ve denied the accusation before countering with her own questions. “They’re lying.”
“I can’t disclose my sources.”
“Well, your sources are bullshit,” she said defiantly. “There was no lover’s spat. I’m not sleeping with Mr. Morton. I hadn’t met him before the Gala, and I truly hope to never have reason to meet him again.”
Meyers reached into her pocket. She presented Victoria with a copy of a photo, the colors faded from the printer ink but vibrant enough to make out the details.
The purple of her gown stood out against the black dresses and tuxedos, and if that hadn’t given her away, the shimmer of the lynx mask would have. Victoria leaned against the wall, head tilted as if she was searching for something.
Or someone. She recognized the hallway between the bar and the Connors’ throne room. This was taken before she’d found Warren. Approaching her was a man in a familiar red-and-green costume, much too close and staring. From the angle, it looked like their eyes were locked. His hand slightly brushing against hers.
It wasn’t damning, by any means, but Victoria could see that with the wrong person dictating where to look, this moment between them could seem like more. A torrid love affair in the wings. It wouldn’t take much to fabricate a story like that in Kent Wood Manor.
“You said you didn’t know him.” Meyers pushed the picture closer.
“I don’t know him. We were passing in the hall; I don’t even remember seeing him before I got in line to greet the Connors. This is circumstantial, at best.”
“Circumstantial?” Meyers asked, amusement tinging the word. “I swear, you watch one episode of Law and Order and suddenly you’re an expert?”
“That picture proves nothing because there is nothing to prove. I do not know Scott Morton. I was looking for Warren. Who took this photo?” Victoria asked.
“Again, I’m not at liberty to—”
“Was it the same person who gave it to you?”
“I can’t tell you that either, Mrs. Tate. The investigation is—”
“Was it Betty Knottier?” Victoria cut in. Meyers had a decent poker face, she gave her that, but the spark of recognition played across her features before she could hide it. That didn’t necessarily mean anything; Meyers could’ve been responding to the name itself, but it was hard to dismiss the knot forming in her gut.
Was X Betty? Or was X using Victoria’s distrust to trip her up?
Victoria’s phone vibrated beside her on the desk. The text box made her stomach drop.
Congratulations on your first day back! :) Enjoy your welcome gift.
Had smiley faces always been so ominous? What did X mean by “welcome gift”? It had to be Meyers accusing her of the affair, right? To make her look bad.
“. . . whatever it takes to find the person who murdered your husband. Victoria?”
“Hm?” Victoria didn’t look up as another message came through. A gray box with a stopwatch icon appeared beneath the words. Tap to Download, it commanded.
Well, no way in hell was she opening that. Nope. Victoria wasn’t stupid.
She tapped the screen.
A glutton for punishment, she was. Nothing good was going to come from this, but the fear of the unknown trumped whatever X had planned. A virus. Spyware.
The progress flew from one to twenty to ninety-nine percent before freezing. Victoria hit the home button, the power button, tried to force a restart, but nothing worked. The screen stayed stuck. She was about to smash it into the wall (and come up with an explanation for why she’d Hulked out in front of Meyers like a hypocrite or flat-out liar) when the buffering circle vanished.
At the same time, from somewhere down the hall came a shrill scream.