Coming Unclued (10 page)

“He was in my bed. He was just sleeping at my place. There wasn’t anything going on. And I didn’t have anything to do with his murder.”

I sat down in the chair opposite Ben’s desk and picked up the new picture of his kids he had on display. “Cute.” I put the picture back down and Ben immediately grabbed it and moved it to where I couldn’t touch it again and further soil his children. There was an uncomfortable silence as I tried to think of something to say and Ben tried to avoid looking me in the eye.

“How was your weekend?” I asked him. Stupid question. I must have seen him at the Christmas party.

“Very upsetting.”

“Really?” I was genuinely concerned. “Are Melissa and the kids all right?”

He looked me in the eye for the first time. “Upsetting because my boss was murdered.”

“Right. Yes. My goodness. Horrifying.”

Ben’s phone rang and he practically put his shoulder out in his rush to pick it up. He listened for a moment and then put the phone down. “You have a call from your sister. Angie is going to send it to your desk.”

Sharon. The shining star of my family. When I was sixteen, at the height of my awkward adolescence I overheard my mother describe Sharon as “our smart, pretty one.” Well that didn’t leave much for me did it? “So what am I,” I demanded of my mother, who to her credit was dismayed that she’d hurt my feelings. “Oh sweetheart, you’re my fun one. My feisty one. And you’re such a good cook.” Well if I couldn’t be the smart, pretty one at least I made a tasty lemon loaf.

“Thanks,” I told Ben, and got up. I’d been hoping Sharon somehow wouldn’t have heard about all this. It’s not like she read the
Sun
. Anyway, she was supposed to be going to the Turks and Caicos for Christmas. I wandered over to my desk and sat down and stared at the red light on my phone for a moment. Might as well get it over with.

“Hi Sharon.”

“My God. What the hell happened?”

“Nothing happened. It’s all a misunderstanding.”

“Your boss wasn’t murdered in your bed?”

“Well that happened. But my involvement is a misunderstanding.”

“So what the hell is going on? Jesus Val. What did you do?”

“I thought you’d be on the beach by now,” I said.

“I am on the beach. We do have the Internet here, and your face is plastered all over it. Do you need me to come back?”

Please no. “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “This is going to blow over very soon. The police probably have it all figured out by now. I just haven’t made contact with them yet today.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“I have a number of options, lawyer-wise.”

“Because Jeff knows someone.”

“No, I’m good. But thank you. Evan has a connection with Walter Fink.”

“Walter Fink? He’s really expensive.”

“I told him I have a rich sister who will help pay for it.”

There was silence on the end of the phone. Well I’d finally found a way to shut Sharon up. “I’m kidding,” I said. “He might do it out of professional courtesy.”

“Professional courtesy? You do clerical work. What profession?”

“Professional courtesy to Mikel.”

“Who’s Mikel?”

“Evan’s new … friend.”

“New friend? Evan has a boyfriend? Is everyone in this family gay now?”

“Mikel is his girlfriend. A lovely lovely girl. But if Evan was gay that would certainly be just fine with me.” Honestly. This is what my sister does to me.

“Okay. Whatever. Tell Evan to call me. Have you talked to Mom yet?”

“No, I was hoping this would all blow over and she wouldn’t have to know anything about it. Remember — no TV, no Internet, nothing but romance.”

I could practically see Sharon shudder over the phone lines. “You thought stabbing your boss was going to blow over? Are you crazy? You think people are just going to say, ‘Oh well, these things happen?’”

“I didn’t stab my boss.” I was sick of this. And sick of Sharon. “You call Mom. They do have access to a phone. I don’t feel up to it.”

“No way. I’m not calling there. I’m not talking to Annabelle.” Annabelle was my mother’s new girlfriend. After thirty-five years of marriage, my parents divorced and my mother came to the happy realization she was a lesbian. My father died of a stroke six months later, but we don’t think there’s any connection.

Annabelle was the latest of her girlfriends and she seemed to be a keeper. They’d bought a condo in Tampa and kept busy with their lesbian bowling league, their lesbian book club and the occasional lesbian trip to Europe. They were currently on an isolated Greek Island, “just enjoying each other.” Sharon had never really adjusted to having a mother whose dinner table patter was peppered with such insights such as, “it takes another woman to really understand the nuances of a woman’s body.”

“Okay, I’ll call her. Look Sharon, I have to go. I’ve got a lot going on here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me there? Because I am willing. I am perfectly willing.”

“Positive.”

“Well what the hell Val? What am I supposed to tell people?”

“Tell them my boss was pissing me off and I stuck a knife in him. I’m sure they’ve all had the urge.” I slammed the phone down with a satisfying whack and looked up to see Angie and Detective Crowley standing by my desk.

“Sorry,” said Angie. “Detective Crowley to see you.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” asked the detective.

“No — no. That was my sister. I was just kidding around. She was being…” I searched for the word. She was being a bitch. A total bitch. “Unsympathetic.”

“Unsympathetic to you or to the deceased? Mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting for an answer he dragged over a chair and plunked it down beside my desk.

“Can I get you a coffee?” Angie asked him. What was this? I’d seen Angie offer coffee maybe three times in the five years I’d worked at Future.

“Thanks, no. Had my quota already.”

“I could use one,” I told her.

“How do you take it?” Angie was getting me a coffee. A sign of the Apocalypse. She must think it would be my last coffee as a free woman.

“Just milk.”

“You sure you don’t want one Detective?”

“Oh what the heck,” he exclaimed. “Cream and sugar please.” He kind of snorted and smiled like he couldn’t quite believe he was being so devil may care.

Detective Crowley settled back in his chair and stared at me for a moment, like he was trying to figure me out. I stared back, trying to keep my face in what I hoped was a pleasant and innocent expression. “I’ve got a few more questions for you,” he finally said after our little stare-off seemed like it was going to end in a draw. “We’re trying to get this to all add up.”

“I was never good at math myself,” I joked. Ha Ha. He gave a little grunt, acknowledging my rapier wit.

“I checked for you at Mrs. Abbott’s house. We’d like you to come on down to the station tomorrow at ten, to have a chat. I was a little surprised to hear you’d come in to work.”

“I didn’t realize we were closed today. Nobody called me.”

“Do you have friends here at the office?”

Of course I had friends at the office. Did I seem like the kind of person who didn’t have any friends? “Sure. I get along with everybody here. You know — one big happy family.” Why did I do that? Why did I insist on gibbering like a moron? And why didn’t Detective Crowley do something about the hair growing out of his nose? It was very distracting. It was hard for me to look him in the eye because I was afraid he’d think I was staring. Which I was of course. It was impossible not to.

Angie returned with the two coffees and deposited them on the desk. I looked warily at my cup. I’d seen her use dirty cups out of the dishwasher if someone had the temerity to ask her to serve coffee. “It’s clean,” she told me. “Straight out of the cupboard.” She stood by my desk with her arms crossed. Apparently she thought that fetching coffee in a clean cup afforded her the privilege of hanging around for my interrogation.

Detective Crowley looked up at her and smiled. “Thanks. We’ll need to talk before I leave.”

“Okay,” responded Angie. “I’ll be here.” She remained standing by my desk.

“What he’s trying to say Angie is that this is a private conversation and he’ll talk to you later.” I said it in the most non-confrontational voice I could muster. I didn’t want Angie getting her back up and repeating any of my complaints about Mr. Potter. Not that I’d complained much more than anybody else in the office did, but unfortunately he didn’t end up in one of their beds.

“I’ll be at my desk if you need anything. Just buzz me Val,” said Angie.

I smiled at Detective Crowley. “We’re a tight knit group.”

He didn’t smile back. I don’t think. It was hard to tell what was going on under that mustache. “Not so tight knit according to some.” He looked at his notebook. “A Ms Aylward described this place as a seething cauldron of animosity.”

“Oh — well — Annette. That sounds like her.” I lowered my voice so the detective would understand that I wasn’t gossiping, I was imparting information. “Annette doesn’t have a lot going on in her life. She has a tendency to overdramatize things.”

Annette Aylward was Mr. Potter’s long-time secretary and she was very old school. She didn’t believe in casual Fridays, or calling bosses by their first names or, heaven forbid, eating a bagel at your desk.

“Miss Aylward suggested that you’ve been quite angry over one of Mr. Potter’s new rules. He was going to cancel Treat Friday and donate the money to a children’s charity and you weren’t too happy about it.

As if it was just me! Everybody was pissed off when Mr. Potter threatened to cancel Treat Friday.

“I was a little annoyed,” I said in a calm, non-murderous voice. “Everybody was. We all look forward to it. This isn’t the most interesting place to work so at least on Fridays we had that little spark of excitement wondering what the treat was going to be. But I love children,” I hastened to assure him.

“According to Miss Aylward you were more than a little annoyed; you put up an incendiary sign in the staff room and were trying to rouse support among your co-workers.”

This was unbelievable. “Are you suggesting that I lured Mr. Potter to my apartment and killed him because I was upset about not having donuts on Fridays?”

“Crazier things have happened. Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”

I looked him right in the nose hair. “Don’t you think you should be digging a little deeper? There are probably lots of people who’d like to kill Mr. Potter. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he was awfully short on charm. And he was quite wealthy. Nobody gets rich without stepping over someone.” Was that even true? It sounded like it could be true. “Why don’t you go looking for those people instead of trying to build some ridiculous trumped up case against me?”

Detective Crowley leaned forward in his chair. “When the victim is found murdered in a bed we tend to look closest at the person who owns the bed.”

“Well you obviously don’t have much of an imagination.” Didn’t these guys read books or watch TV? It was never the most obvious person. “Have you talked to Mrs. Potter? Sophie? Quite often the wife has something to do with it. Did you check if she recently took out a big life insurance policy on him? And you know, she’s quite a bit younger than Mr. Potter. And taller. That’s never a good sign.”

“Are you accusing her of something?”

“No, of course not. I’m just suggesting you look a little further afield. I certainly didn’t do it and you’re wasting precious time digging into,” — My voice dripped with scorn — “The great donut controversy.” What kind of police force did we have in Toronto? Did I have to solve this crime for them? “I’m sure you realize that it’s usually the spouse who does this kind of thing.”

Detective Crowley took a sip of his coffee. “Did Mrs. Potter have a key to your apartment?”

I hated him. I really did. “Obviously not.”

“There was no sign of forced entry. It sure looks like the murderer either had a key or already lived in the condo.”

“Perhaps I let her in. Who knows?”

“Who knows indeed? Pity about your memory problem.”

“It’s not a memory problem. I was asleep on the couch and as I’ve mentioned a number of times, after a few drinks I sometimes don’t have the best recall. But this has been a real wake up call. I’ve decided to eliminate alcohol from my life.”

“Guess finding a bloody corpse in your bed would be quite a motivator to lay off the sauce.”

I was getting a very bad feeling that he was playing with me. Just killing time until he could slap on the handcuffs and bundle me off to the courthouse. I wondered if he was even seriously investigating anyone else.

“Have you found the murder weapon yet?”

“Not yet. The autopsy indicates it was a knife — probably a big kitchen knife — the kind everyone has. You know, like those knives on your counter. We’ve sent them to the lab.”

“Like you say. Everyone has a kitchen knife.”

Detective Crowley took a big gulp of his coffee and finished it off. “The thing is Ms Valentyn, while everyone does have knives in their kitchen; the fact is the deceased was found in your home. Now if he was found in his own home I might not be sitting here talking to you. Like you mentioned, I’d probably be talking to his wife. But seeing as he was found in your bed, I’m a little more interested in what you have to say.”

My heart started to beat faster and I put my hands under my desk so he wouldn’t see them shaking. The police weren’t even looking for anyone else. They were already sure they had their woman and there wasn’t a thing I could do to convince them that I couldn’t possibly have plunged a knife into Mr. Potter. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes and I tried to hold them back.

“I don’t even like carving the Christmas turkey.”

“Neither do I. Always make a mess of it.”

“What I’m saying is,” — my voice was starting to quiver — “Is that I am not a person who is capable of murder. Some people are and some people aren’t. I aren’t. Am not. I think you need to start digging around into Mr. Potter’s life and find out why someone wanted to kill him.”

Detective Crowley scrunched up his face and stared at the ceiling for a moment, apparently deep in thought.