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“PORTIA’S IN JAIL.”
“Wh—” I rolled over and squinted at the clock. “Do you know what time it is, Cheryl Delaney?”
“Of course I do. It’s six in the morning. Now, did you hear me?”
I blinked blearily at the sunlight leaking around the edges of my blinds. I probably should get some curtains. I had pretty, lacy things, but they did nothing to stop the dreaded morning sun. I tried to focus on what Cheryl had said. Last night had been a late one. Portia and I had stayed up past midnight, chatting and laughing and sharing a medicinal bottle of wine. I’d only left after she fell asleep on the couch.
I sat bolt upright in bed. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Agatha called me. Said the police had been to Portia’s place and dragged her away in handcuffs.”
Agatha was Portia’s next-door neighbor. She also happened to part of the bunco group Cheryl and I played with every month. Not only that, but she was best friends with Cheryl’s mom, which is probably why she’d called Cheryl with the juicy gossip. She knew Cheryl and Portia were friends.
I could hear Cheryl’s coffeemaker gurgling through the phone. Coffee. That was the ticket. I staggered out of bed, nearly falling on my face as my feet got tangled in the duvet drooping over the edge of the bed. I staggered through the house, floorboards creaking beneath my feet, intent on making the strongest caffeinated beverage humanly possible. To say I am not a morning person was to, perhaps, under-exaggerate.
“Okay,” I said as I snapped one of those pod thingies into the coffeemaker. “Tell me everything.” I sank down at the tiny bistro table that sat in the breakfast nook just off the kitchen where my laptop lay neglected. I gave it a glare before turning my gaze to the window. It gave me a nice view of my backyard, which was in desperate need of some TLC. Although the riot of daffodils and hyacinths did distract one from the weeds somewhat.
I loved my little Victorian cottage. It was the first thing I bought when I started making decent money as a writer. It had needed some work, but the place spoke to me, so I’d painted pale yellow with blue and pink trim exactly as it had been when the house had first been built. I had the floors redone and some windows fixed and generally made the place my own. It wasn’t as fussy as some of the houses, a little more on the simple side, but it suited me. Alas, I was not much of a gardener. I made a mental note to call one of the local guys to come over and work his magic.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Cheryl insisted. “All I know is what I just told you.”
“Oh, come on.” I rescued my mug from beneath the coffeemaker and splashed in a liberal dose of vanilla creamer. “Agatha is a world-class gossip. Surely she gave you more than that.” I rested my feet on the other chair and leaned back to enjoy my beverage. Nirvana.
Cheryl sighed, and I could hear her sipping on her own coffee. “Very well. But you didn’t hear this from me. And you can’t go off half-cocked.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Promise me, Viola.”
It was my turn to sigh. “All right. Just tell me.”
“According to one of the officers on the scene, the police have hard evidence that Portia killed Mr. Nixon.”
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THE LOBBY OF THE ASTORIA Police Department was pretty typical, at least from what I’d seen on crime shows. Not the flashy, fictional types, but the real-life stuff on Investigation Discovery Channel. I was mildly addicted to Homicide Hunter. Off-white lino smudged with black scuffs from the bottom of police-issue shoes, off-gray walls that were at once glaring and depressing, photos of retired and/or fallen police officers lining the walls, flickering fluorescents the ratcheted up the headache to migraine proportions. Rather grim. They seriously needed to have a discussion with their interior decorator.
At some point in the distant past, someone had made a half-hearted attempt to lighten up the place. There was a fake ficus in one corner, its droopy plastic leaves coated in dust. Above it hung an equally dusty photograph of the Astoria Column.
Directly across from the glass entry doors was a faux-wood desk topped with bulletproof Plexiglas. The on-duty officer was perched safely behind the glass, a tiny speaker turning her voice into a tinny, crackly mess. She was young, no more than twenty-five, with curly, dark hair twisted into a bun. Her bronze nametag read “Bilson.” Neither she nor the name were familiar.
Behind her, a portable room divider blocked the view of what I assumed was the bullpen. It also did double duty as a bulletin board, peppered with pinned notices and reminders.
I rapped on the Plexiglas, and she looked up from the magazine she was flipping through. “How may I help you?” She looked bored. I couldn’t blame her. Not a lot happened in Astoria, especially during the off-season when the tourists from Portland stayed home to avoid the excessive amounts of rain on the coast.
I gave her what I considered to be my most charming smile. “I’m here to see Bat. I mean, Detective Battersea.”
She was unimpressed. She strummed long, red nails on her desk. “In regards to?”
“The arrest of Portia Wren.”
She gave me a blank look. Surely she wasn’t that dim. I tried again.
“The murder of August Nixon.”
This time she perked up. “Is that what her name is? I hadn’t heard.” She shot a glare over her shoulder at some unseen person no doubt out of sight behind the divider. “Idiots won’t tell me anything. I’ll see if Battersea is available.” She picked up a black phone that looked about the same vintage as my high school yearbook. Tapping out the numbers, she waited with pursed lips until someone answered on the other end. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she put down the phone with a nod and leaned closer to her mic. “He’ll be right up. Have a seat.”
I nodded and searched for said seat. The only chairs available had cracked, peeling faux-leather cushions marked with stains of dubious origin. I decided to stand.
It was a good ten minutes before Bat finally showed himself. By then, steam was roiling from my ears, and I wished like anything that I wouldn’t get thrown in jail for the epic rant I wanted to deliver I stiffened my spine and shot him a death glare, which he promptly ignored. He was dressed in a black suit with a pale-blue shirt and the exact same tie he’d been wearing the day before. Did the man only own one tie? He clutched a cup of coffee in his left hand, steam trailing from the hole in the brown lid. I sniffed. Not coffee. It was definitely tea. Chai, if the spicy scent was anything to go by. That was unexpected. He took a long, slow sip before speaking.
“Good morning, Ms. Roberts. This is a rather early surprise.”
I snorted. “According to the rumor mill, you’ve arrested Portia Wren for Nixon’s murder. Is that true?”
One dark brow lifted. “The rumor mill is surprisingly fast. Yes, we arrested Ms. Wren this morning.”
“Are you nuts?” I blurted, propping my fists on my ample hips. “Portia is one of the nicest, sweetest people you’ll ever meet. There is no way she killed Nixon, no matter how big a louse he was.”
He gave me a long, slow look that I couldn’t interpret. “I’m afraid the evidence says otherwise.”
I glared at him. “What evidence?”
He smirked, and a dimple flashed at the corner of his mouth. “Good try, but you know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Wait a minute. What about the wineglass? That wasn’t Portia’s lipstick on it. And she doesn’t drink anything but chardonnay. Someone else was there. That person could have killed Nixon.”
He paused a beat. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Roberts.” And with that, he turned and strode off, the slick leather soles of his dress shoes making a smart sound on the linoleum floor. I tried to refrain, but I couldn’t help grinding my teeth. I needed to know what they had on Portia if I was going to show them the error of their ways.
“Pain in the butt, isn’t he?” The desk officer had come out from behind the glass. She clutched an e-cigarette in her hand. Smoke break. “Hot, though. Even if he is an old guy.”
I wasn’t sure that late forties denoted “old,” but I mumbled agreement. She was right on all counts. I eyed the desk officer. Maybe she had the information I needed.
“Have you worked with him long? Detective Battersea?” I asked innocently.
She giggled at the thought of her working with the lead detective. “I just started three months ago. I haven’t got to work with him. Yet.”
I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Give it time. A person with your intelligence and drive is sure to climb the ladder in no time.”
“You think?” She beamed at the idea.
I nodded sagely. “I’m rarely wrong about these things.” I tapped the side of my nose as if I could smell her success in the air. What I smelled was stale coffee breath. Girl needed a stick of gum.
She held the door open for me, and we both exited into the rare sunny day. In a state known for its rain, Astoria got more than its fair share.
“I wonder what they have on her,” I mused out loud.
The officer started up her cig and took a puff. “What they have on who?”
“You know. The woman they brought in. For murder. Portia Wren.”
“Oh, her. The one you were talking to the detective about? Something about fingerprints.” Her eyes widened as she realized her slip. “You didn’t hear that from me, though, okay? I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” I batted my lashes.
She grinned. “Thanks. I’d hate to lose my job so soon. Especially after last time.”
“Last time?” “Used to work down at the Safeway,” she explained, pointing vaguely in a northerly direction. “I accidentally short-changed a customer. I didn’t mean to. It was an honest mistake, but he complained, and they had to let me go.” She looked sad for a moment, then perked up. “Lucky my uncle is friends with the chief. He was able to get me this job, so I better not screw it up.”
“Oh, I’m certain you won’t. I think you’re quite good at it. Very professional.”
She smiled at me through a cloud of vapor. “Thanks.”
“I don’t suppose you know any more about the fingerprints? Like, what they were on, for instance?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’re a nice lady and I know she’s your friend. I also know what it is to be kept in the dark just because you’re new. And female.” She gave a snort of disgust then glanced around before leaning closer. I could smell the sweet scent of cloves in her smoke, which was marginally better than coffee breath. “It was the statue. The one of some Greek god or something. They found it next to the body, and Portia Wren’s fingerprints were the only ones on it.”