23

The room broke into shouts and motion.

“Where is the memoir?” an elegant African American reporter asked. Joanna had no idea the reporter was so tall in person.

“It’s a stunt,” another reporter said.

All the while, cameras flashed and videos ran. Mary Pat stood, stupefied, next to the now-roaring fire. Bits of paper edged in orange cinders danced in the chimney.

“I don’t understand,” she kept saying. “I don’t get it. The memoir was there this morning.”

Joanna raised her hands. “Quiet, everyone. Ms. Stroden, do you have further comments?”

Mary Pat shook her head, dazed. Joanna led her from the fire to the window.

“Sit down,” she said, still regretting the lack of water pitcher.

“I don’t understand. The memoir—”

“I know. Take a couple of deep breaths.” Joanna could use a few deep breaths herself. Now, instead of broadcasting Mary Pat’s statement and the memoir’s destruction, they’d report that the memoir was stolen. At least Gene was off the hook for the emeralds. Once she got them to the police, that is.

Joanna spent the next half hour shepherding reporters from the house and promising a follow-up if any new information arose. When, at last, the room was empty, Joanna pulled up a chair. “Mary Pat? What happened?”

Mary Pat burst into tears. Joanna was learning she was an easy crier. “I don’t know. I tell you, the memoir was there. I checked this morning.”

“You know what this means, right? It means the media will be reporting that someone stole the memoir.” Mary Pat began to wail again, and Joanna placed a hand on her arm. “Of course, the murderer might have been the one who stole it. In that case, we’re in the clear.”

“Do you think so?” Mary Pat raised a handkerchief to her nose.

“I’m not sure who else would have wanted it. What puzzles me is how it was stolen. You said the memoir was here this morning. Did you look inside the folder?”

Mary Pat slumped against the window. “No. I saw it in the drawer Bradley always kept his pages in, and I didn’t have any reason to think someone might have taken it.”

So, the memoir might have been stolen anytime between yesterday afternoon, when Joanna saw it, and today. About twenty-four hours. “Has anyone except me visited you?” It had to have been someone who’d had enough time to rifle drawers, too. Or someone who’d known of Stroden’s habit of keeping the manuscript in the library.

“The police were here.”

“Besides them. Did any friends visit? Did you call anyone to come over and comfort you?”

“No. I wanted to be alone.”

It was too late to fingerprint the desk now. A dozen reporters had had their hands on it. A smart thief would have worn gloves, anyway.

“I’m sorry, Mary Pat. Let’s assume the murderer got the memoir and knows it’s not a threat anymore. Really, that’s the most likely scenario.”

“I know.” Mary Pat twisted the handkerchief in her fingers. “It’s just that I feel so bad for you.”

“For me?” Joanna sat again.

“I—” Mary Pat’s voice petered out.

“You what?”

“I just…well, I read the memoir. There. I said it.” Joanna opened her mouth to speak, but Mary Pat continued. “I couldn’t help it. Bradley was so secretive, and I couldn’t figure out why. I stole the key a month ago or so, then snuck down in the middle of the night to read it.”

Here was the one person besides Luke who knew what was in the memoir. The one person who might know if it really was the cause of Stroden’s and Luke’s deaths. “Was it, well, was it all that bad?”

“Stylistically, yes. Bradley was a wonderful designer, but he needed an editor.”

“You know what I mean. Was anything there someone would kill for?”

“I need something cool to drink,” Mary Pat said. “It’s too hot in here. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Joanna followed her through the entry hall, now quiet, then through the morning room to the kitchen. As formal as the front rooms were, the kitchen was large, but comfortable, almost like a sitting room, with ruffled gingham curtains and a vase of zinnias—thankfully, not violets—on the linoleum-topped table.

Mary Pat pulled a pitcher from the refrigerator. “Would you like some iced tea?”

Remembering Luke’s coffee and Bradley Stroden’s pastilles, Joanna shook her head. “A glass of tap water would be nice, though.”

When they were finally settled at the table, Mary Pat gulped from her iced tea, then faced Joanna. “I’ll just come out with it. I read the memoir. It talked about the Greffulhe emeralds. Bradley was clear that your husband’s uncle stole them. He was there. That was just like Bradley. If he thought something was going to happen, he stuck around until it did.” She toyed with the hem of her skirt. “He said Gene broke in here, too.”

Damn, damn, damn, Joanna thought. And damn. “So, whoever has the manuscript knows you weren’t telling the truth back there.”

She nodded.

“Does anyone else have a copy of the memoir, besides the police?”

Mary Pat shook her head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

She’d have to go home, report this to Gene, Paul, and Foster Crisp. True, the jewels would soon be on their way to their owner. Plus, the statue of limitations on the theft was over. But linking the heist to Gene would cloud his reputation for good. He wouldn’t rest easy—or leave their basement—until he felt his name was clear and he’d rectified this crime. She hadn’t made things better. She’d worsened them. She heaved a sigh that rustled the flowers on the table.

“I’d hoped it would end today,” Joanna said.

“I know,” Mary Pat said.

“What else was in the memoir? Why does the murderer want it so badly?” Joanna considered that Mary Pat herself would have been able to steal the memoir very easily. Sure, she looked innocent, but she was an actress. If Mary Pat wanted to turn a buck, what better way than to pretend innocence and sell the memoir for even bigger money later?

“There was a lot of this and that about affairs and a particular actor who cross-dressed. But he’s dead,” she added quickly.

“What about Starlit Wonder?” Joanna said and pushed her glass out of the way. “What did he say about that?”

She shook her head. “I looked for it, but I didn’t see anything. Really.”

Joanna believed her. Mary Pat would have rifled through the pages looking for anything about her ex-lover, the film’s producer. “You saw the draft a month ago, you said? Maybe your brother hadn’t dictated that part yet.”

“Probably.”

Joanna focused on keeping her voice gentle. “Did you know anything about the film? Surely your brother must have mentioned something over the years.”

“Nothing, really.”

“It’s important, Mary Pat. Anything you remember about Starlit Wonder is important. Please, think.”

“Well, Bradley told me one thing, but it might not be true, so I hate to repeat it.”

“What was it? At this point, even rumors are worth considering.” Joanna thought of the Head-designed costumes upstairs. Considering the bloodied negligee, death was definitely part of the script. Was murder?

“He said the movie was about a real life story. That’s why it was pulled.”

Preoccupied with the vanished memoir, Joanna descended the front steps slowly. The Greffulhe jewels were packed in her alligator bag, and she didn’t want any risk of taking a tumble, then having to wrestle for emeralds in the gutter with the low-rent neighbors.

She halted halfway down. Leaning against Old Blue was Detective Roscoe, and he didn’t look happy. Joanna glanced at the neighbor’s house, and, once again, the curtains rustled. She’d no doubt had a heyday with the reporters coming and going. Someone should get that woman a TV set or jumbo book of crossword puzzles.

“What was that about?” Roscoe said, raising his chin toward the Stroden mansion.

Joanna returned her keys to her purse. “If you don’t know, why are you here?”

Roscoe wore a creased panama hat against the sun with dirt stains where he’d pulled it by the brim. He took it off and fanned himself. “A little cranky, are we? Leave your car here. We’ll come back for it later.” He crossed the street to a gray sedan. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the station. It’s cooler there, and quieter.” He gestured toward the house next door. “And the neighbor won’t be watching.”

Joanna hesitated only a moment before getting in the passenger side. She supposed it was inevitable. And he had noticed Carol. “Have you talked to her? The neighbor? She seems to keep a close eye on the Stroden household.”

“Yeah, of course we did. Not that it’s any of your business. Not that any of this is your business.”

She waited, but he didn’t offer more. “I suppose you want to know why Mary Pat Stroden called a press conference.”

“Save it for the office.”

He didn’t speak again until they arrived. It was a quick drive over the Ross Island Bridge, up the boulevard bordering the river, then a few blocks to the central police station. Roscoe flashed his ID at the security guard, and they took the elevator to his floor. He had one of the windowless offices clustered in the center. He flicked on the lights.

“Take a seat. Thirsty? It’s hot out.”

“No, thank you.” She sat primly. Answer what you’re asked, she thought. No more. Especially if it involves Uncle Gene.

“Okay, shoot,” the detective said.

“What?”

“Tell me what went on back there. For real. I heard you held a press conference.”

“What do you want to know? I mean, specifically?”

“I want to know what was going on back there.”

Joanna dropped her purse to the floor. Fine. “You want to know the truth? Here’s the truth. Mary Pat was worried that the person who killed her brother and Luke would kill her, too.” She laid her palms on his desk and leaned forward. “Have you discovered what killed Luke yet?”

“Cyanide. In the coffee.”

“Cyanide.” Joanna would fast for days before she’d take so much as a glass of water in that house.

Despite Roscoe’s relaxed posture—leaning back, his hands behind his head—his gaze was laser sharp. “Why was Mary Pat so worried?”

“Because of Bradley’s memoir. She got an anonymous note telling her to back off. She figured the killer would think she’d read the memoir, too, and was planning to publish it or blackmail him. She saw herself as his next victim.”

“Had she?”

“Read it?”

“Yes. Did she read her brother’s memoir?”

Joanna sighed. “She did. Well, she skimmed it, anyway. She was light on specifics.”

“And why haven’t I seen this anonymous note?”

“I told her she should give it to you, but she refused. She said the murderer would know if she called you.” Joanna moved to the edge of her chair. “You have the memoir, right? You’d know if there was something in it worth killing over.”

“We’ve got it. Haven’t read it yet. Just a moment.” He picked up the phone. “Nora? Yeah. Could you get me a flash drive from the evidence file on the Stroden case? Thanks.” He replaced the receiver. “Now, why a press conference? Keep going.”

“As I said, Mary Pat was afraid she’d be killed, so I suggested she publicly burn the memoir. Do it in front of witnesses. After all, you already have a copy,” Joanna quickly added. “So, it’s not as if we were destroying evidence.”

Roscoe relaxed back into his hands-behind-his-head posture, gaze steady. “Go on.”

“That way, the murderer would see—get the message—that Mary Pat didn’t intend to publish it. The murderer’s secrets would be kept. It’s a big enough story to interest the press. We called a few people, and they came. And then, well…”

“Yes?”

“The memoir had disappeared. Completely.” So far, nothing about the Greffulhe jewels. Once he read the memoir, though, all bets were off.

Roscoe rocked his chair forward and leaned on the desk. “The sister didn’t just misplace it?”

“No. She said she’d put it in the desk, but someone had replaced it with blank pages. It was important to her. Besides, she’d seen it just the day before.” Joanna’s mouth felt dry. She wished she’d taken that glass of water after all.

“And that’s it? There wasn’t, say, a mention of emeralds?”

Joanna flash-froze a smile she hoped didn’t look like a grimace. “Emeralds?”

“Roscoe?” A brunette with buzz-cut hair popped her head in the door. “Here’s the evidence you wanted.”

He rose to take a plastic bag from her, but he kept his eyes on Joanna. “Thanks, Nora. Now, you were saying?”

Joanna unclipped her purse to the scent of leather and her handkerchief dipped in vintage Miss Dior. She placed the velvet-wrapped bundle on the desk. Roscoe pulled it toward him and unsnapped the evening bag’s flap.

“Holy Christ.” He rolled an earring in his palm. “Anything you want to tell me about them?”

For a split second she entertained the fantasy of saying, “Not really,” and wishing him a good afternoon. “They’re called the Greffulhe jewels,” she said weakly, “and they’re stolen. Maybe you could help get them to their owner? It’s all in the memoir.”

If Roscoe questioned Mary Pat, he’d discover in an instant that Joanna had asked her to lie about the Greffulhe jewels. And if what Mary Pat had said was true about the heist being in the memoir, Gene would be called out as the thief. She had nothing left to hide, but nothing would convince her to rat out Gene directly.

“Then let’s have a look.” Detective Roscoe slipped Stroden’s flash drive—shaped like a red stiletto, she noticed—into his computer. Joanna leaned forward, but the screen was out of view.

“No password.” Roscoe shook his head. “If this memoir was such a hot item, you’d think he’d at least password-protect it.”

“According to his secretary, Stroden wasn’t very tech savvy. He didn’t even use a computer—Luke took dictation.”

Roscoe clicked the mouse. The air from a ceiling vent rustled his gray frizz. “And there’s the file. Double-click here…”

Joanna bit her lip. This was it. Roscoe wouldn’t read the whole thing in front of her. That was ridiculous. But maybe she’d learn what the murders were all about. Maybe she’d even get a hint of who’d done them. On the other hand, this could be the end of it for Gene.

His eyes drew together. “Hmm.”

“What is it?” She scooted forward as far as the desk between them would allow. “It’s not blank, is it?” To protect himself, Luke might have handed over a fake flash drive. She wouldn’t have put it past him.

Roscoe scrolled through the pages. “It’s not blank. There are a few files here.” He clicked the mouse a few more times, then nudged it aside.

“But something’s wrong,” Joanna said.

He squinted at the screen, then yanked the flash drive out of the computer. “They’re empty. Someone’s erased every file.”

Joanna could only stare. It was inevitable, she realized. Luke would not let the police have anything that might lead to uncovering his blackmail.

Roscoe pushed back his chair. “I’ll have someone take you back to your car.”

She picked up her purse, now lighter without its freight of diamonds and emeralds. “Not you?”

“I’ve got to get to work. I want that note to Mary Pat. And if the memoir exists anywhere in the Stroden house, I’ll find it.”