Miranda Jepson was never ruffled. Even her standard work outfit—quarter-zip black Saugatuck company-logo fleece, black skinny jeans, and brown Chelsea boots—was accessorized by a string of pearls. She didn’t so much sit as glide into the chair Laslo indicated, smoothing her long center-parted blonde hair so it lay straight across her collarbones on either side. She sat up straight, pivoting her head from Laslo to Benny and back, as if at Wimbledon waiting to see who would serve first—and whether anyone would be polite enough to offer her a Pimm’s Cup.
Laslo spoke first, as planned. “Miranda, you know why we’re here. Would you start by telling us about your relationship with Helen Carmichael?”
“Of course,” Miranda answered smoothly, her accentless American English the product of the best private education money could buy. “She was like a mother to me. Of course, I have an actual mother, but we’ve never been close. Helen was a mentor and close friend and a vital colleague. Her loss to this company and to me personally is beyond measure.”
It was Benny’s turn. “So you had problems with your mother?”
Miranda turned to him slowly, shifting her whole body to face him and smoothing her hair again with both hands. “Fairly typical for my demographic, I think. I was away at school and she was, well, away quite often. We were perfectly civil, but never developed, especially in adulthood, the kind of supportive relationship I had with Helen. And, for her part, Helen never had her own family, so I think she thought of me as a daughter in many ways—with the twenty years between us.”
“You close with your father?” Benny asked.
“Oh yes,” Miranda said, her face lighting up. “Very.”
“Fair to say you have ‘daddy issues,’ then?”
The light disappeared. “Meaning what, exactly?” she asked coldly.
“Well, meaning that Marcus Baum is your dad’s closest confidant, his alter ego, and you were fucking him. So meaning that.”
Miranda turned so quickly to look at Laslo that one side of her hair swung over her shoulder. When he said nothing, she turned back to Benny without adjusting it.
“What exactly are you trying to do—” she began, before Benny cut her off.
“Look, I’m up to my ass in lies in this bastion of truth, so why don’t we just cut the shit.”
He tapped a thick finger on the file in front of him as he continued. “Helen knew you were banging Baum. She documented it in her file on you. I couldn’t give a shit who you fuck, honestly. What I want to know is what Helen did with that information.”
Miranda paused and looked down for a long moment. Then she looked up, retrieved the errant hairs, and smoothed them down.
“Yes,” she began quietly, “I had a relationship with Marcus, who was unhappy in his marriage. Helen learned of it and talked to me. I agreed with her that it was a mistake. I remember her words: ‘Don’t crap in your own nest.’ If it goes bad, she said, you will have hurt yourself. If it goes well and you end up married, you are now Marcus’s wife and just moved down a peg. That’s the way this world is for a woman, she said. If you want to run this company, you have to do it on your own. That’s why Helen never married and I knew she was right.”
“So what happened?” Benny asked.
“I broke it off with Marcus. He seemed to take it well. Helen even got me a therapist.”
“Helen hold this over you? People ’round here say you always went her way in the MC.”
“Certainly not,” Miranda answered, “but it made me appreciate her judgment very much. I knew I could count on her to give me good advice and to make good decisions.”
“Where were you the night she was killed?” Benny asked.
“Seriously?” Miranda replied, sounding offended. “You think maybe I killed her, loaded her in a canoe, and dragged her out to Seymour Rock? What, I blow up to the Hulk when I’m angry? I’m smaller than Helen, for God’s sake. How am I going to do that?”
Benny sniffed. “Maybe your boy Marcus helped you move her, hoping that would get you two back in the sheets.”
Miranda ignored that. “I went to the company party at Compo Beach, where I drank too much, to be honest. I took an Uber home.”
“Why weren’t you at the client thing at your father’s place in the city?”
“He didn’t ask me to come. I don’t really know those clients anyway.”
“Where’s your house?” Benny asked.
“I have a place in the city, on Central Park West, but on work nights I almost always stay here in a house I have on Turkey Hill Road. I went directly there after the party and was there all night.”
“And your private security cameras will back that up? Some of these fancy houses gotta have escape tunnels to sneak out through, amiright Laslo? We gotta check into that.”
“I don’t know about any tunnels, but her place used to be Martha Stewart’s,” Laslo said, prompting Miranda to turn and glare at him.
“No shit,” Benny said. “My office locked her up some years back. Small world. Bet it’s tasteful.”
Miranda didn’t answer. “Are we done here?” she asked coldly.
“Yes, we are,” Benny said. “Thanks for comin’ down.”
Miranda didn’t return his smile. With one final angry glance at Laslo, she left the little room.
“Whoa,” Benny said, turning to Laslo. “If looks could kill.”
“My mistake,” Laslo said. “Probably just sunk my fucking boat. I was only trying to be nice. I didn’t know she was sensitive about the Martha Stewart thing.”
“See?” Benny answered with a smile. “Good cop ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. You wanna switch?”
“Not on your life. You’re doing a fine job of ensuring you never work here.”
Laslo looked at his notes before adding, “Hey, you didn’t ask her about front running.”
“Yeah, I know,” Benny said. “Seems pointless. Like her brother, she’s got a load of dough coming and, unlike him, she’s probably gonna inherit the place. No way she front runs. And I didn’t want to offend her.”
Laslo laughed. “Too late, my man, too late. Baum’s next. Want me to grab him?”
“Yeah, let’s do him before those lovebirds have a chance to chat.”