Viv called me at work the next day to say she'd found out where Misty Monahan lived.
“How?”
“I was there when she posted bail and I followed her home,” she said.
“Seriously?” That seemed so...simple.
“We'll go talk to her in person. She'll be caught on her back foot and we might be able to get something out of her.”
I didn't care for the thought of facing Misty Mohanah again, but it did seem to be the next logical step.
I had to wait for my last dog to be dried before I could finish, so I checked my phone for the dozenth time that day to see if Tony had called. It was only one day. He'd said a few days.
I ordered myself not to be neurotic and needy. Be a grown-up! I said sternly to my reflection in the grooming shop bathroom mirror.
This did no good, of course. I decided that if I couldn't be a grown-up, I could at least be distracted. I mentally ran down the list of contacts and stories Peter Browning had done that could be connected to his death.
I couldn't bring myself to watch another video of David Baucum being vilified, but I realized that I had not re-watched the stories about the LPD Christmas toy scandal that had originally put Browning on the local map. I had seen the stories the first time, of course, but it might help to watch them again with the benefit of hindsight.
I found that link in the list Trisha had sent and played it.
“Patrice, we received an anonymous tip today on an allegation that—while not felonious or violent—can be described as nothing but heinous.” He punctuated that with a brief shake of his head, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was about to tell us. “Take a look.”
The scene went to a shot of a giant red Santa bag overflowing with toys. Uniformed police officers stood smiling, shaking hands, and receiving gifts as people came up and handed them toy after toy.
“The generosity of the South Plains is well known. It's part of the culture. Part of who we are. And at Christmastime, we pull out all the stops. But this year, one generous gift garnered special attention.”
Switch to the commercial for last Christmas' hottest toy, the Space Cop flying policeman. The Space Cop was impossible to get. The kind of thing that sold on eBay for ten times the retail price—which had been kind of high to begin with. Whether by chance or by design, the manufacturer had not anticipated such a response to Space Cop and hadn't supplied enough, creating the kind of consumer-driven frenzy that legends are made of. Toy stores were reporting fist fights over the few they occasionally got in stock, and there were online maps of Space Cop sightings. Before Black Friday, stores put out announcements that they had no Space Cops in stock, and there were real cops on hand to handle those who didn't believe them.
And for the police department toy drive, someone had donated a Space Cop.
The scene switched back to the giant Santa bag, but this time there were special effects lighting and hallelujah music, along with a pan shot of Space Cop on top of the rest of the pile. Misty Monahan had been the one to report on that story, and when she did, Patrice and her co-anchor, along with the weatherman and sports desk, had gone on for too long about how bad their kids wanted a Space Cop and the ridiculous lengths they were considering going to, to get one for them.
Then the donated Space Cop disappeared. It was just a rumor at first, and there were stories going around that it hadn't been lost, that it had already been given out, that it was just random and nobody knew what was in their gift bags until they left the police department. Browning did one story on it, a very friendly one in the chief of police's office, giving them the chance to explain how the toy distribution worked and to lay the public outrage to rest.
“Of course we keep everything anonymous and untrackable. Nobody wants to track down some eight-year-old and have them justify the gift they received from Santa. People just have to trust in the process and believe that they did a good thing for a lot of deserving kids and leave it at that. Gifts are gifts. No strings attached.”
But then Peter Browning received an anonymous tip. One of the cops in charge of distributing the toys had a son who had received a Space Cop for Christmas.
The cop denied stealing the toy, of course. He said it was a gift from out-of-state grandparents.
The poor kid was the one I felt sorry for. A teacher from his school came into Flo's Bow Wow Barbers and talked about all the bullying he was getting. Kids were jealous, first of all, because he'd gotten a Space Cop for Christmas, and the rumors that his dad had stolen it were enough to turn the envy into righteous anger and then into full-on bullying. He'd taken so much crud over the next few days that his mom pulled him out of school.
One would think that would be enough to make people back off and consider that perhaps things were blown out of proportion, but, of course, it wasn't. Browning did a story on the bullying and the kid leaving school. Not a word about how his story had contributed to the furor, of course. Pandemonium erupted from all sides. People thought Browning should back off and quit stirring the pot. Others thought the cops were corrupt and used the charity as a front for furnishing their own Christmas mornings, and others declared they would never give to a police charity again. Rumors started circulating that the entire department was corrupt from floor to ceiling.
Within a few days it came out that the cop had, in fact, diverted the Space Cop to his own locker. His wife refuted the grandparent story. She was furious that her kid was being bullied, of course, and wasn't going to go down with her husband.
The cop posted an ill-advised diatribe on Facebook:
“You try working with these deadbeat parents day in and day out. See how they don't work, they don't take care of their kids, they don't even know where their kids are half the time. And think about them playing the hero on Christmas morning while their kid get the hottest toy around. Meanwhile, you, who's been putting your life on the line for those same deadbeats for the past year, wrap up a sad replica because you can't afford the real thing, despite working sixty hour weeks for months. See if you're not tempted.”
The post was deleted soon after, but of course someone did a screen grab and it lived in infamy.
Poor guy. The theft hadn't risen to the level of felony, of course, but he was given the opportunity to quit before he was fired. This opportunity brought fresh outrage, and the police chief eventually decided he was fed up with the whole mess and retired. He'd been on the brink anyway. This was pretty much the last straw. On his way out the door, he made it very clear how he felt about having to lose a good cop over a stupid toy and how he thought the media was more interested in stirring pots than they were in anything the public had a right to know.
As I scissored my last dog, I thought about what Jessica and Bitsy had both said. People were angry at Browning for pursuing this story. People got a little crazy when they perceived the police or military weren't being fully appreciated. It was a matter of loyalty. That feeling of betrayal could stir up a lot of passion in some people. Could one of them honestly have been angry enough to kill him over it?
Stump and I drove home, and I thawed beef flank steaks for more fajitas. I checked the fridge and saw that I did not, in fact, have any of the other ingredients.
“I’ll stop by the store after our interview,” I promised Frank.
He grunted from the recliner, already wrapped up in his Telemundo soap opera.
Misty lived in a duplex—one of a row of duplexes—with a tiny front yard surrounded by a short brick wall. I didn't know what I expected from someone who'd been recently arrested for murder, but it wasn't to be greeted at the door by that person in bare feet, wearing gray sweats and a Red Raiders jersey. I hadn't even knocked.
Misty opened the door. “Did Patrice send you?”
“Ummm, no.” I gave Viv a quick glance.
“Does she know you're here?”
Jeez-O-Peet , how did someone standing in bare feet and baggy sweats manage to be so intimidating?
“I—I don't know.”
Misty frowned, then stepped back, holding the door open.
I looked again at Viv, who—for once—seemed as hesitant as I felt.
“Well? Come on.” She motioned with her head for us to come inside.
I hurried in and sat on the edge of the sofa, making myself as small as I could so as not to give offense.
After another moment, Viv stepped into the room, shoulders back and nose high. She had recovered her inner snob, I was glad to see. One of us had to show some backbone, and apparently it wasn't my turn.
Misty sat in a recliner across from the sofa and crossed one leg over the other. “If Patrice didn't send you, why are you here?”
“I—uh—well...”
“We want to know why you were arrested,” Viv said. Clearly, Viv wasn't going to be thrown by Misty's attitude a second time. “As I told you before, we're investigating the death, and this is obviously a development that is of interest to us.”
Misty rocked a couple of times, her mouth set. She let out a breath audibly through her nose.
Then she uncrossed her legs and sat forward.
“Peter and I had—well, I guess you’d call it an affair.” She rolled her eyes. “We had a relationship, and he told me he was going to leave his wife. When she became pregnant, I broke up with him. I'm not interested in wrecking anyone's family. Anyway...”
I did mental math. Misty was also pregnant—at least, she hadn't denied being pregnant when we confronted her in the parking lot, and she seemed like the kind of person who had no problem telling people they were wrong. But she also didn't look pregnant at all.
Bitsy was eight months pregnant. The fact had been well publicized since the third month. If Misty had broken up with Browning once news of his wife's pregnancy had become public, she would have to be at least five months along by now. But her stomach was flat. Darn her.
Misty waited, not bothering to disguise her contempt while she watched me process the information. Then she said, “We hooked up again about six weeks ago. We were drunk. It was—it was stupid. A mistake.”
“And now you're pregnant.”
Misty cut her eyes to Viv, but didn't respond with a yay or nay. “I tried to keep a decent working relationship going, but I think Peter was just freaked out by the whole thing. I told him I didn't expect anything from him. I'm a grown woman, and I know the way the world works. I made a stupid decision, and I was prepared to live with the consequences of it. But I wanted him to be aware, because it was, of course, his child, too. He refused to talk to me.”
Misty blew out a breath and sat back in her chair. “He would communicate only be text or email, which I found to be ridiculous. We are adults and I, for one, wanted to act like it. I insisted Peter meet with me so we could have a face-to-face conversation. I—” She frowned and looked off, then turned back. “I threatened him. I told him if he insisted on treating me like a dirty secret, I would act like one. I would tell his wife, tell the station manager. I wasn't going to really do it, but I was so furious that he was acting like such a little...toad.” She frowned and her lips thinned. “He said he would meet me after the 10:00 o’clock that night, so I drove to where we agreed to meet.”
“And where was that?”
“Mackenzie Park, out past the amusement park.”
I looked at Viv. That was pretty far from where Browning had been found.
“He never showed, of course. That was the night he...” She frowned again, but didn't break.
I studied her carefully. She was a few years younger than I was, but she seemed so...in control of herself. No nonsense. She was a person who had sight of what she wanted and poured her energy into getting it.
Even now, with this difficult conversation, she was remarkably calm.
She cleared her throat and went on. “He never showed. I waited for a while and then came home. The next day I found out that he hadn't gone home, and Bitsy was frantic. Didn't know where he was. He was supposed to come in to work at 2:00 that afternoon, but he never showed. That's when things really got crazy.”
I nodded, stunned that she was revealing so much information, until it dawned on me that none of this really explained why she'd been arrested. “So, you were arrested because you and Browning had an affair? How is that obstruction?”
She shook her head and sighed. “It's not just that, of course. When his body was found, I just...I didn't want it coming out. About the affair. I didn't want Bitsy to have to deal with that, on top of losing her husband and the father of her child. So I logged into his email account and deleted all of our messages.”
“You have his password?” Viv sounded shocked.
“Look, it's not that big a deal. I knew his password, he knew mine. We helped each other with assignments and things. It wasn't that big a deal,” she said again.
“So you...” I tried to work it out in my mind. “Did you miss one or something?”
She shook her head. “No. At least, I don't think so. Patrice told them to look for other stories Peter could have been working on. Something about him working a new angle on something. So they did a deeper search and were able to see that I'd logged in remotely and deleted them.” She gave a crooked smile and shook her head again. “I was afraid that the emails made me look guilty of something I didn't do. But deleting them made me look even more guilty.”
“Wow,” I said. This girl was in a lot of trouble. Now would not be the time to alert her to the fact that I might have set that particular ball rolling.
“Yeah,” Misty said. “I'm pretty well screwed.”
“Why are you telling us all this?” Viv asked.
“Because I need help, of course. My parents have hired a lawyer, but they can't afford a really good one—I can't either. The station pays crap, and I'm already up to my eyeballs in student loans. The police obviously think they've got me on something, and if it does turn out to be murder and not suicide, they're not going to look much further than me. Why would they? You know what's going to happen when the public finds out about the baby. Sweet petite Bitsy with the big blue eyes and little basketball belly. And then there's me, the hussy who tempted her man away and then killed him in a jealous rage, leaving her a young widow. I'm screwed,” she said again. “I need help.”
“You are in a spot of bother,” Viv acknowledged.
“I know I didn't kill him, and I need help figuring out who did, or if anyone did.”
“You still think it might be suicide?” Viv asked.
Misty frowned and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs again. “I just don't know. I've been through it in my mind, over and over. He was acting weird those last few weeks. Almost desperate. He wouldn't talk to me. I think he was freaked out about the baby. Babies, I mean. My baby, and Bitsy's baby, too.”
“Did he talk to you about David Baucum?”
“Oh yeah. We talked about that a lot.”
“How did he feel about it?”
“He said to me that David Baucum was the very definition of hubris. Peter saw him as just another middle-aged white guy in the pocket of the oil companies. Someone who didn't care about anything except the bottom line. He truly believed Baucum was ultimately responsible for Meredith Logan’s paralysis, and he deserved everything that happened to him.”
I drew my head back. “Even death?”
“Of course not. That was Baucum's choice. That wasn't Peter's fault, and Peter didn't suffer any guilt over it. He thought Baucum was a spineless weasel who couldn't live with what he'd done. He said more than once that Meredith Logan was a hundred times braver than David Baucum would ever be. He thought Baucum was a whiny little baby. He had no respect for him and even less after the man died.”
I made a mental note of that. I'd asked Trisha almost the same questions, and her take on Browning's philosophy had been much less harsh. Then again, maybe Browning didn't feel as free to reveal such harshness to Trisha—who would be his superior, even if she wasn't his direct supervisor—as he was with Misty, someone who was more his equal.
“So, if it was suicide, you're not buying that it was guilt over Baucum’s death?”
Misty shook her head. “Not for a second.”
“Did the police ask you anything about Peter being injured or being in a fight before he went missing?” Viv asked, and I remembered what Bitsy had said.
She nodded. “Yes, they did. I kept telling them, there was no fight. There was nothing. He was flat-out ignoring me. They asked if it got physical, but it didn't even get verbal. Aside from an occasional short text, he was completely shutting me out those last few weeks.” She chewed her bottom lip. “So, did Patrice say anything about me? I'm meeting with her and the station manager tomorrow, but I really don't know what to expect.”
“You saw the opinion segment he did?”
She nodded, and for the first time, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back. “I saw it.”
“I think they want to stand by you,” I said with a shrug. I might be blowing smoke, but it was smoke I felt okay about. “That's the impression I got. Their main priorities are honoring Peter's memory and cooperating with the investigation, but to me, he looked like someone who was anxious to find any reason to stand behind you and support you. My sense is that if you're as honest with him as you have been with us, you'll have an ally.”
She closed her eyes for a second, and she suddenly looked very young. Poor kid.
“What's going to happen now?” I asked.
“They told me not to leave town without checking with them first. I was going to go to my parents' house for a while, but I can't, so they're coming here.”
A car door slammed outside, and her eyes flew open. She turned in the chair and lifted the curtain.
“My parents are here,” she said. Her voice was full of dread.
Viv and I stood to go.
“Let me know what you find out,” Misty said as she held the door open for us.
“We're not working for you,” Viv said.
“I don't care,” Misty said. “I am an innocent woman facing a murder charge, and I need help. Letting me know what you find out is the decent thing to do.”
Viv and I looked at each other, and I shrugged. Neither one of us could argue with that.
I climbed into Viv's Caddy as Misty's parents made it to her door.
We didn't know where else to go, so we did what we always did when we didn't know what else to do. We went to Sonic.
While Viv crunched on an order of chili-and-cheese-covered tator tots, I sipped my Vanilla Diet Coke and thought. “Is it just me, or does it make no sense that they would bring obstruction charges on something like this if they still think Peter killed himself?”
“Maybe they thought she did something to push him over the edge.”
“But that wouldn't be obstruction, would it? Would that be...aiding and abetting?” That didn't sound right, either.
I finally gave up and pulled out my phone. “Windy, call Bobby Sloan.”
“I'm gettin' him for ya now, Sweetie,” Windy said.
A few seconds later, “Sloan.”
“Bobby, it's Salem. I have Viv here with me.”
“Hello, Mr. Hot Detective,” Viv called in the direction of the phone.
Bobby groaned.
“We just finished interviewing Misty Monahan. Poor girl. She's terrified.”
Silence.
“We did get some interesting information, though.”
“Which you are legally required to pass on to the police. Unless you have a two-fer coupon for obstruction charges and want to share a cell with Ms. Monahan.”
“Bobby,” I sighed. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. Why do you think I called? Here is some information that could be useful to you.” I was quite sure I didn't have anything he didn't already know, but I figured the more I talked to him, the greater the chances I could hit on something of value. “For one thing, it appears that Peter Browning was definitely murdered. It wasn't suicide.”
“Yeah?” He sounded bored. “How do you figure that?”
“You don't file charges of obstruction in a suicide case.”
“Oh my gosh.” His voice was entirely flat. “You don't?”
“No. I mean, if she had encouraged him or drove him to suicide, that would be...” Here's where I lost my nerve a bit, and faltered. “Aiding and abetting?”
“Good try, Salem. No. That would probably fall more under the category of involuntary manslaughter.”
“Oh.”
Viv frowned at me. I wrinkled my nose and nodded in chagrin. I really was blowing this.
She took the phone out of my hand. “We also know for a fact that he was injured sometime before his death.”
Silence.
“So, am I right?” Viv asked.
More silence.
“Also, we know that Peter Browning had a foot fetish.”
“What?!” Bobby and I said at the same time.
“A fact,” Viv said. She leaned back, a satisfied smile on her face.
“Eww,” I said. “What makes you think that?”
“Neither Bitsy or Misty were wearing shoes when we interviewed them.” Viv raised her eyebrows and said, smugly, “You see, but you do not observe.”
Bobby laughed. Did I imagine it, or was there a hint of relief in his laugh?
“You got me there, Sherlock,” he said. “Obviously a foot fetish.”
Viv popped a tator tot in her mouth and smiled.
This was getting us nowhere. I decided to go for the gold. What did I have to lose?
“Bobby, Misty did tell us that she had deleted some emails that showed she and Peter were having an affair, and they planned to meet up. She said she did it because she didn't want his wife to find out about the relationship.”
“Did she?”
I frowned, frustrated. “But you were checking his emails, so that means...something. That you haven't closed the book on this. You haven't definitely ruled it a suicide.”
“Did I say we'd closed the book on it?”
“No, but...”
“How's the dog grooming business, Salem?”
“What? Fine. Why?”
“Because that's your job. You're a dog groomer. I'm a detective. How about we all just do our jobs?”
Viv winked at me, then said into the microphone. “Hey, Mr. Hot Detective. Can you remind me who caught the High Point Bandits?”
Silence.
“And Marky Patrelli?”
Silence.
“And Sylvia Ramirez?”
Silence.
I leaned over and looked at the screen. “He hung up.”
She frowned. “Before or after I reminded him of our track record?”
I shrugged. “Probably before. But if it's any consolation, I think you're onto something about the feet. Not a fetish, I mean. But he seemed relieved when he said, 'Obviously a foot fetish.' Right?”
It was Viv's turn to shrug. “I guess.”
“How do we find out?”
Viv finished off her tots. “We have to ask the right questions.”
Sadly, Viv's “right questions” turned out to be really embarrassing.
We drove back over to Bitsy's house. When she answered the door, Viv got right to the point. “Listen, I hate to be intrusive and crude, but I'm sure you understand that, in order to get to the bottom of things, we need all applicable information. And, we don't really know what's applicable until all is said and done, so...”
Bitsy frowned, but she didn't say anything. She looked from Viv to me. Finally, she nodded.
“Did your husband have a foot fetish?”
Bitsy and I both gasped. I know Bitsy she did—she was shocked. I have no idea why I did. I mean, I should have known, right?
“A what? No.”
“There's no shame in it, Mrs. Browning,” Viv said. “Lots of people find pleasure in—”
“Stop!” I said. “Enough.”
“Why on earth would you think...what?” Bitsy looked confused and a little panicked.
“You weren't wearing any shoes when we interviewed you the other day, and you're not wearing shoes now.”
She looked at her feet. In fact, we all looked at her feet, with their neat, pink-painted nails.
“I'm pregnant. My feet swell.”
Viv stared at her feet, silent. Then she said, “Oh.”
Bitsy looked at me. I shrugged.
After a few more seconds of uncomfortable silence, Viv pulled out her little notepad and pretended to take notes, but it was plain to all of us that she was only doing it to save face. “Okay, then. That is helpful information, indeed.”
“Is it okay if we call you if we have any more questions?” I asked. I backed up a half step in the universal it's-time-to-go motion.
“Please do,” Bitsy said. Maybe she didn't mean for it to sound like, “Please call instead of coming to my door with this craziness.” But I was pretty sure she did.
––––––––
Viv and I drove in silence for a while. I wondered if she was telling herself that that had gone well.
I picked up the phone and dialed Misty's number. “I'll handle this one,” I told Viv.
When Misty answered, I said, “Listen, I can't say much because I don't know what I'm looking for yet. But I have a hunch something in this case has to do with feet. Does that make you think of anything?”
“They took all my shoes except my heels, and one old pair of Tom's,” she said. “When they came to take my computer, they took them all.”
“Really?” My heart began to race a bit. I'd found an actual clue! I had no idea what it meant, but still...
“Really. They wouldn't tell me anything except that they would give them back when the investigation is resolved.”
“Okay, that's good to know. That's helpful.”
When I hung up, Viv asked, “What was that about?”
“She said the police took all of her shoes except her heels and one old pair of Tom's.”
“Hmmm...so they have footprints.”
“Right. That must be it. Right?” I wish I felt more confident that I knew what I was looking at. The high I'd felt off figuring out the one thing about the feet was sadly short lived.
At least I hadn't gone straight from feet to fetish, though.
I frowned and stared at my phone.
I do love you, Salem, but...
They took her shoes.
They wouldn't have taken her shoes unless they had something to check them against. You don't take shoes to investigate obstruction, do you?
“They took her shoes,” I said to Viv.
“They jolly well did.”
“All those shoe prints we saw out in the field—they must have been trying to match them up.”
“They jolly well are.”
I bit my tongue. I sighed. “They wouldn't have done that if they thought it was suicide.”
“I thought we'd established that already.”
“I guess. I mean, Bobby was in the 'neither confirm nor deny' camp. But up until now I was pretty sure he'd done himself in. Now...” A shiver went up the back of my neck.
I ran through a list of all the people we'd talked to over the last couple of days. Dorsett Oil. Bitsy. Jessica—although I found it doubtful that Jessica had anything to do with Peter's murder. Misty.
Something tugged at the edges of my conscience. Some kind of relationship between those three young Channel 11 employees.
Misty and Peter, having an affair.
Jessica and Misty, best friends.
Jessica and Peter. I supposed I would never know how Peter felt about Jessica, but Jessica didn't seem to have a lot of affection for Peter.
She did have a lot of admiration for Misty, though.
Misty and I are close, she'd said. Much more than she and Peter ever were.
But Misty was having Peter's baby, so they had been close on some level.
A thought occurred to me. Was it possible that Jessica was in love with Misty? Had she killed Peter out of jealousy?
I suggested this to Viv.
She shrugged. “Maybe. I doubt it, though. I'm not getting a killer vibe from her.”
“Neither of us got a killer vibe from Mikey Patrelli, either. Or Sylvia Ramirez.”
“Good point.”
Maybe Misty really did murder Peter. Maybe everything she'd said to us was meant to lead us down a path so we, too, would create an obstruction for the police. Maybe she was using us to help muddy the waters, somehow.
I said a little prayer. God, I need direction here. If I keep pulling on this string, I don't think Tony is going to like it. I assured him this was probably not murder, but now I'm pretty sure it is. But if I don't pursue it, an innocent woman might go to jail. It would be very helpful if you could just...point me in a direction. Is she guilty? Should I keep out of this?
The thought occurred to me that it was, perhaps, too late for that option. I'd made a commitment to Trisha and Scott. Viv, my BFF, was counting on me.
I waited. Silence.
I sighed. “I need to get out of my head.”
“Me, too,” Viv agreed. “Give things time to percolate. Let's go out and see Serena again. Maybe she has some way we can increase our vibe detectors.”
Chapter Twelve