CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

I made a quick convenience store stop to pick up some cat food before making my way to the office. I wasn't sure what to expect at Parker, Dennis, but it was pretty much business as usual. No clients, no ringing phones, just the sound of gentle snoring from the direction of Ken's office upstairs. He must have left his door open. Janice was probably standing over him ready to smother him with his own pillow. Janice didn't appreciate being interrupted while she was cooking the books.

Neither Wally's nor Howard's car was in the lot, proving that my luck was capable of improving. I parked in Howard's spot and let myself in the back, a Hefty bag tucked in my coat pocket to hold the contents of my desk.

Which was presently being occupied by Donna, the paralegal. Her mousy brown head was bent over a thick textbook. Medical, if the illustrations of brains in front of her were any indication. Donna did more light reading than anyone I knew. She looked up and gave a start when I entered the room. "Jamie!" She leaped to her feet, clutching the textbook to her chest, careful to keep one finger inside as a placeholder. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize…"

"It's fine," I told her. "I'll only be a few minutes, and then it's all yours." Actually, it wasn't fine, but that wasn't Donna's fault. It's not as if I expected them to leave my desk unused, like Paige's, across the room. My desk was prime real estate, facing the client waiting room, closer to the kitchen than everyone but the ants.

Missy swiveled around in her chair. "I heard what happened," she said. "I'm really sorry."

"It's so unfair," Donna agreed. Her eyes were huge and sympathetic behind her glasses.

"Is there anything we can do?" Missy asked.

I smiled at them. "Thanks for offering, but it's just a misunderstanding. Once everything gets cleared up, I'll find something better." Shouldn't be too hard for a non-college graduate thirty-something with limited work experience.

I sat down at my former desk, pushing away self-pity as I began to transfer my few belongings to the Hefty bag. The polar bear paperweight. The desk clock my mother had given me as a symbol of my success when I'd gotten the job. I'd stored its box in my bottom drawer, as if I'd known this moment would come, and now I packed it up carefully and put it in the bag. The box of Butterscotch Krimpets were next. My notary public stamp and seal. The little plastic bottle thingy with the sponge on top to seal envelopes without licking them. A few pens, just for pettiness. When I'd run out of things to pack or pilfer, I drew the bag closed and stood up. Missy hugged me, Donna squeezed my arm, murmuring something I couldn't hear, and I was on my way to a bold new life.

Which started in the parking lot, where Detective Bensinger leaned casually against his generic four-door dark sedan. I hesitated on the top step. This must be it. Finally, they thought they had enough to arrest me. I was surprised it had taken them so long, what with the photographs and fingerprints and my alleged death threats against Dorcas. I wondered how these things went. Would he just arrest me quietly, here in the parking lot, or was the SWAT team on its way along with an army of reporters to capture every second of my humiliation? I wished I'd worn a hoodie. Perps always wore hoodies to cover their faces during the perp walk.

I forced myself down the steps, and then I noticed he was eating Girl Scout cookies straight from the box. Thin Mints. In all the cop shows I'd watched, the arresting detective had never been eating Girl Scout cookies.

He held the box out to me when I got closer. "Care for some? We've got boxes of them in the freezer. My daughter sells them."

I eyed the box. Of course I'd care for some. Who wouldn't care for Thin Mints? But I shook my head. Never trust homicide detectives bearing gifts. "Did you follow me here?"

He seemed surprised. "Why would I follow you? Don't you work here?"

"Not anymore." I grimaced at the building. "I was fired."

He snorted. "Lawyers." The single word dripped with contempt.

I couldn't have agreed more, except it looked as if I was going to be needing one. I held out my hands, wrists together, and braced myself for the cold slap of steel handcuffs.

He sealed the box, tossed it into his car, and emerged with a file folder. I was really starting to hate his file folders. Just the sight of them made my chest tight, wondering what new fiction had been concocted starring me.

"Mind if we sit in my car for a minute?" he asked. "It's a little chilly."

I gave a resigned sigh and moved to the back door of the sedan. He stepped around me to open the passenger door. Surprised, I got into the passenger seat, which offered a much nicer, bar-free view. I almost began to relax.

Until he slid into the driver's seat and opened his file. "This came yesterday," he said, handing over a printed sheet of paper encased in a plastic sleeve. It was a letter addressed to Destinies with Dorcas, attention Dorcas Beeber, dated—I did a quick mental calculation—a week before her murder. I scanned it quickly. It was full of hostility and rage and bad grammar, lots of ranting and raving about Dorcas having done me wrong and the ducks coming home to roost before she saw them coming. Aside from the botched poultry reference, it was clearly a rambling death threat. And it was signed by me. Well, not actually signed. My name was typed below the last period.

My mouth fell open. "I didn't write this!"

He took it back, dropped it into his folder, and put the folder on the seat between us. Then he just looked at me.

"It doesn't even give a real motive," I protested. "She did me wrong? Please. She did everyone wrong, beginning with her husband and that fraud, Artemis Angle." Whoops. I clamped my lips shut before I said too much.

Too late. He was already reaching for his pen. "How would you know that?"

I picked furiously at my cuticle. I could hardly admit that I'd been breaking into businesses and peeping into windows to further my own investigation. "I already told you I wanted to get my future read," I said. "And I heard Artemis Angle has people that do that." Well, one person, anyway. "So when Dorcas was—died, I decided to go to the Society of Seers instead."

The pen hesitated over the notepad. His fingers were hairy. More hair crept up his wrist and disappeared inside his sleeve. Somebody needed to talk to this guy about waxing. "I thought it was Maizy Emerson who wanted her future read," he said.

"Right. Yes. It was Maizy initially. But I'll admit it—she got me interested, too." I shrugged. "Call me gullible. I mean, he's a car mechanic. After all, he's not really a psychic."

"Really."

Okay, I recognized sarcasm when I heard it. "Not that I believe in psychics," I added.

"Clearly," he said. "I'm guessing Maizy went to see the fraud with you."

Detective Bensinger was no ordinary male. He not only listened, he remembered what was said. It'd be good for me if he'd do a little less of each. Anyway, he was missing the point. "While I was there," I said, "I saw a note on his desk about a flight to the Bahamas with Dorcas's name on it. I think they were having a fling."

"Maybe he made her reservation for her," he said. "As a favor."

"Why would he do that?" I asked. "She left him to open psychic kiosks and took most of his business with her." I took a breath before plowing ahead. "It's possible that Weaver found out about them."

"Weaver Beeber."

I thought I heard doubt in his voice. "I know, right?" I shifted in my seat, warming to the topic of someone other than me being a suspect. "He looks like a mouse, but it's the quiet ones you have to look out for. I mean, people always say, 'He was such a quiet man before he chopped poor old Uncle Honus into little pieces under a full moon.' Anyway, it doesn't even have to be Weaver. It could be his brother, Seaver."

Bensinger stared at me. Probably it would be a good idea if I stopped talking.

"Can I have a cookie?" I asked meekly.

He pushed the box across the seat. "Were you recently at the Beeber house?"

"I took a box of papers back to Weaver Beeber." I bit into a Thin Mint. "They were things Howard didn't need to handle Dorcas's estate. But his sister-in-law told me that he and his brother Seaver were out somewhere, so I just left it with her." I couldn't help myself—I kept going. "To tell you the truth, I wouldn't be surprised if Seaver was behind all of this. There's something about him." There was something about Roger Marrin and Tippi McWirth and Artemis Angle, too, but it didn't feel right to toss any more names than I already had into the suspect pot. Somehow it seemed as if that would make me seem more suspicious, as if I was trying to deflect attention. Which I was, but artfully, I hoped.

I was pretty sure Detective Bensinger considered my unfounded accusations helpful, although he expressed his gratitude by ignoring me. "When's the last time you spoke to Seaver Beeber?"

That just might have been outside Destinies with Dorcas, the night Maizy and I planned to try to sneak inside. As if I was going to admit that. "It's been a week or so," I said vaguely. "But he was very menacing." So much for not throwing anyone else under the bus. Funny thing, it wasn't as hard as I'd thought. I helped myself to another Thin Mint.

"Menacing in what way?" he asked with maddening focus. It was as if he didn't even care that Artemis Angle had planned to diddle Dorcas all the way to the Bahamas.

"Just the things he said. The way he looked at us. Me." I swallowed. "The way he looked at me. He's very different from Weaver. Did you know they're twins?" I bit the inside of my cheek to make myself stop talking. Of course he knew they were twins. It didn't take a trained detective to see that two people looked exactly alike.

He just looked at me with that blank cop face that you saw on TV but assumed was an affect of the actors. Not so much. "Sure you haven't seen him more recently than that?"

Hm. He was paying an awful lot of attention to Seaver Beeber. It made me wonder if Seaver might actually be the focus of the investigation. The real focus, once they got over the insane notion that I'd killed Dorcas. Were they over that notion? "Why would I see him?" I asked. "I never met the man before the funeral. And I hope I don't see him again." I shuddered. "He scares me a little."

"Why's that?"

"He said he'd be seeing us again. Me." I sighed. "Alright, us. He said he'd be seeing us again."

"You must have been terrified," Bensinger said drily.

I bristled. "It wasn't the words so much as the darkness and the rain and the fact that we didn't expect to see him there."

"See him where?"

"In—" I hesitated. No, no, no. "He said he'd hate to see something happen to us and that killers often return to the scene of the crime." I rubbed my arms to ward off a sudden chill. Even thinking about Seaver Beeber was a little scary. "Don't you get it? He was returning to the scene of the crime!"

Uh-oh. Talk about spilled beans.

Bensinger glanced at me without lifting his head, sort of a peeking through the eyelashes thing. It would have been an endearing boyish gesture if it wasn't coming from a homicide detective with my backside in his sights. So to speak. "So you encountered Mr. Beeber at Destinies with Dorcas?"

"Not inside," I said immediately. "Out, on the street. And not for very long, because it was a dark and stormy night." I felt a giggle welling up and ate another cookie to stifle it.

"I'm terrified he's going to break into my apartment in the middle of the night," I added, trying not to spit cookie crumbs on him.

"Why's that?" Bensinger asked mildly. I wished he'd stop asking why's that. It was getting irritating. One minute this guy was all ears, and the next he was out to lunch.

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" I snapped. "He threatened us!" I saw his eyebrows rise. "You had to be there," I said.

He did a slight headshake. "If it helps you sleep better, Mr. Beeber informed us his brother has driven back to New York."

That was interesting. Seaver had claimed he'd be sticking around for his brother, presumably until the money got passed out. It didn't ring true that he'd go home so soon, unless they'd had some sort of argument. Weaver seemed too broken to fight about anything, but money did things to people. I'd heard.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, did you talk to Seaver or anything?"

Bensinger sighed. "I called. He hadn't arrived home yet."

Ah-ha! What if Seaver had never intended to go home, but had checked into some local fleabag motel to plan a murderous intervention with the only person who wasn't buying his grieving brother act. Okay, the police might not be buying it either. I wasn't sure, but either way I was an easier target, because I lived alone, weighed ninety pounds, and my backup didn't even have a driver's license.

Detective Bensinger took the box of Thin Mints, sealed it, and put it on the seat beside him. "I think we're done here, Miss Winters. I'm sure you're perfectly safe in your apartment. Thanks for your time."

As if I'd had a choice. I eyed the phony letter in its plastic sleeve, wishing I could tear it up or burn it. Instead, I opened the door and got out of the car and went home.