While Finch remained downstairs waiting for the police, I returned to Barbara’s room, this time focusing on the room itself. Her luggage was open but empty, her clothes lined out on the bed like she was preparing to arrange everything in her bags. A laptop was on the nightstand. It was open, like she’d been using it the last time she was in the room. I walked over, running my finger along the keypad. The computer screen came to life, displaying a typed message. I bent down and read it.
The guilt I feel over Alex’s death is constant, weighing on me more and more with each passing day. It consumes me, so much so I can no longer live with the evil truth of what I’ve done. I killed her, you see, poisoned her drink in the same way I poisoned my own this morning. It was me who ran Chelsea off the road. Me who broke into Alex’s house, making it look like a robbery. I needed the flash drive, and I was willing to kill a dear friend to get it. Not for greed or for money, but to ensure her memoir was never published. In the days since her death, nothing has eased my sense of regret, and I make no excuses for what I’ve done.
A light tapping sound came from the opposite side of Barbara’s bedroom door. I turned. A young girl of about twenty poked her head in. Her hands were clasped together in front of her, like she was nervous and afraid.
“Yes?” I asked.
“A few minutes ago when you were talking to all of us downstairs, you asked if anyone saw anything suspicious. I did.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I don’t know. I’m new here. I just got this job a week ago, and I don’t want to cause any problems.”
“A woman is dead,” I said. “Why would it cause a problem if you told the truth?”
“What I saw might be nothing, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not sure.”
“What did you see?”
“A woman coming out of Miss Berry’s bedroom.”
“What time?”
“Within the last hour.”
“Are you sure it was a woman and not a man?”
She nodded.
“How old?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t get a good look at her?”
“I was coming around the corner, headed to the next room I had to clean. I assumed the woman was a friend of Miss Berry’s, so I didn’t think much of it. It all happened so fast, no more than five or ten seconds.”
“Did you notice anything about her at all?”
“She wore a hat, and honestly, her hair didn’t sit right.”
“What kind of hat?”
“A beanie.”
I pointed to my head. “Like mine?”
“It was longer and a charcoal color. It had a pom-pom on top.”
“What do you mean her hair didn’t look right?” I asked.
“What I mean to say is, it didn’t look real.”
I pressed her for the height, weight, and attire of the woman she saw. Again she struggled with her answers. She described the height and weight as average, and as far as clothing went, she could only remember the woman had on a large coat with a faux fur rim along the hood. Fake fur to match her alleged fake hair.
“Anything else?” I asked. “Did she talk to you?”
She shook her head. “She never even looked at me. She kept her head down, walked past me, and out the front door.”
“Did you see where she went, or if she got into a car?”
“She didn’t get into a vehicle. She walked down the street and went around the corner. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m not really helping.”
“You’re helping, more than you know,” I said. “When the police get here, I want you to tell them everything you told me.”
“The police are here,” a male voice said.
Detective Murphy canvassed the room, then turned toward Blunt who was standing behind him. “Sounds like this girl has some useful information. Take her downstairs and see what she knows.”
Blunt started to speak, but Murphy held up a hand. “Take her downstairs, Blunt. That will be all.”
Both women left the room. Murphy walked over to the computer, bent down. “What’s this then?”
“A typed suicide note.”
He smiled, finding it amusing.
We exchanged information. I updated him on my visit with Elias’s mother, and he told me Porter had dropped Alexandra’s laptop by.
“We opened the password-protected book file,” he said. “It was blank.”
“The entire thing?” I asked.
“The entire thing, which means, it was wiped or transferred to another device, or wiped and transferred.”
“What are you thinking?”
“My best guess? Someone transferred the file onto a flash drive. Could have been Alexandra Weston. Could have been someone else. Hard to say. Either way you look at it, someone’s gone to great lengths to make sure that book doesn’t get published.” Murphy slid a pair of gloves on, riffled through the zippered parts of Barbara’s bag. “I tried calling Miss Berry this morning. When she didn’t answer, I called Pierce Glassman.”
“Who’s Pierce Glassman?”
“Alexandra’s lawyer.”
“Her lawyer?”
“Not her estate lawyer. The guy who looks over her publishing contracts. Alexandra has been a client of his since her first book. I heard he was a confidant. Someone she trusted implicitly.”
I added her lawyer to the growing list of men she’d kept in her back pocket. “What did you find out from him?”
“Nothing. Seems no one is available for comment today. Called the guy three times already.” Murphy laughed, but it was obvious he hadn’t taken too kindly to being slighted.
“It’s Saturday,” I said. “He’s not in the office.”
Now on the third zippered pocket inside the suitcase, his eyes locked on something. Using a pen he’d pulled from his pocket, he lifted out a bag of white powder. Holding it up in front of him, he squinted his eyes, inspecting it. “What do you wanna bet this here is fluoroacetate, the same poison used to kill Alexandra Weston?”
“I’d say there’s a slim chance it isn’t.”
He winked at me. “Convenient, isn’t it?”
I nodded. A little too convenient.