Love You to Death (14 page)

M
ary-Kate’s alibi turned out to be airtight. Not only did the clerk recall the timing of her trip to the store, but he had sales records of two items she bought that were unrelated to the registry. The missing half hour was spent at Starbucks with a friend who confirmed it; there was also a credit card receipt in Mary-Kate’s name verifying when she arrived.

There was no way she could have killed Ted.

Which left me. In fact, Mary-Kate paid back my tattling by informing Ben that she believed, deep in her heart, that I killed Ted.

All rightie, then. It was time to figure out who killed Ted. Who
tried
to kill Riley and Tom. And I had to at least open my mind to the possibility that it was someone I knew. Or someone who also had Ted, Riley and Tom in common. But who?

I needed to start with Riley and Tom. If they thought I was guilty, I wasn’t sure they’d talk to me. But I could find out.

To: [email protected]; [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Police Investigation

Hi, Riley and Tom,

First, I want to tell you both how sorry I am about your accidents. Detective Orr informed me that he interviewed each of you separately and then together, in the hopes of sparking a comment that might lead him to the perpetrator, so I hope you don’t mind that I’m e-mailing you together. Second, I want you both to know that I did not have anything to do with what happened to you. Both of you. Yes, I was hurt when things ended between us, but I would never even think of causing anyone physical harm. I also had nothing to do with the murder of Ted Puck, but as you know, I am under investigation as the potentially spurned ex-girlfriend. Your accidents, right after our breakups, add to the suspicion.

Ugh. This didn’t sound natural at all!

Just type. You’re not writing an article for
Maine Life.
You’re trying to sound professional. At a distance. Policey.

Would you each consider meeting with me, at your convenience, to further discuss the incidents? My hope is that you might say something, remember something that might spark a memory for me, leading me to aid Detective Orr and Detective Fargo in their search for the killer and the perpetrator of the crimes against you.

Did I sign it
Best,
like everyone at
Maine Life?
Or
Sincerely?
Or just
Abby?

I typed Sincerely, Abby and hit Send before I could change my mind.

And then I waited. No pings of new mail. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Half an hour. I went to get coffee. I drank two cups. No new mail. I made a new pot of coffee. Made a list of potential column ideas and e-mailed it to Finch. I cleaned my desk drawers.

Ping.

Riley. He’d CC’d Ben. I will meet with you to answer your questions if a detective is present.

I typed back a thank-you and asked where and when. He wanted to meet at his house, where the dog attacked. I tried not to imagine a pit bull racing toward me, looking angry. Riley was the lowest of the low, a total user, but at most I’d wished him a few lost clients, maybe a big mistake on the calculator.

Tom took his sweet time replying, but his response was the same as Riley’s. Tom also wanted to meet at the scene of the crime, which wasn’t far from my apartment.

Well, it looked as if Ben and I would be spending a lot more time together.

As Ben and I approached Riley Witherspoon’s tiny bungalow on Portland’s Back Cove, I tried to imagine someone leading a pit bull to the door. The perpetrator would have had to be walking Pitty on a leash in a completely normal manner, since he or she hadn’t aroused any suspicion. And I didn’t know anyone who owned a pit bull.

“What a crazy plan,” I said to Ben as he rang the bell. “How would the killer know the door would be open?”

“Apparently Riley never locked the door—common around his neighborhood.”

“I’ll bet he does now,” I said.

“I’ll bet,” he repeated as footsteps approached the door.

And there was Riley Witherspoon, looking as good as always. His sandy-blond hair was boyishly rumpled, and his I’m-supposedly-an-angel blue eyes were the color of the sky on a perfect summer day. People were always surprised when they found out he was an accountant and not, say, a Ralph Lauren model.

“Detective Orr, nice to see you again,” Riley said. His eyes slid to me. “Abby,” he said without a smile.

“Riley, I know I told you this when I e-mailed you, but I want to say in person that I’m very sorry about what happened to you,” I said. “And I also want to repeat that I had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

He ignored me and held open the door, then led the way to the living room. I’d been here just a few times. Riley had wined and dined me in this room on our second date. He made Mexican, my favorite, and very strong margaritas, and we were naked in his bedroom before he could even serve dessert. Riley was so handsome and charming, and I’d fallen for the lot of it. He was the first and only guy who dated me because he wanted something from me—besides sex, of course. I looked at him now and I wanted to throw the bowl of peanuts on the table in his face.

Riley gestured for us to sit down, and Ben got straight to work.

“Mr. Witherspoon, Abby feels that discussing the events of the night in question may lead you to remember something that might trigger something for her. If someone she knows is trying to harm her former boyfriends, she may be able to aid in the investigation. Maybe you saw something that night—someone running, or someone watching you that day. Maybe something stuck in your mind—”

“So you have proof that Abby
didn’t
kill that guy?” Riley asked. “That she didn’t sic that dog on me?”

“We don’t know,” Ben said. “It’s entirely possible that she did. It’s also entirely possible that she didn’t, that she’s being framed or that someone she knows is trying to get back at her ex-boyfriends for breaking up with her.”

Riley stared at me, then turned to Ben. “Who’d do that?”

I was getting tired of being spoken about in the third person as though I weren’t sitting right there. “I don’t know,” I said. “As Ben—Detective Orr said, I’m hoping you might remember something, anything, about that night, or the days before, anything that might register as out of the ordinary.”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I was home alone, watching a video I’d rented, when I heard the front door open. I turned around and the pit bull was just there and suddenly on me.”

“Riley, I realize that we didn’t date long, but do you really, truly think I would sic a pit bull on you?”

He eyed me and nodded. “You were so angry when I broke up with you. I believe your exact words were ‘You’re a low-down dirty dog.’ Stress the word
dog.
I think it’s quite meaningful.”

Yeah, me, too, jerkface.

“So you didn’t see anyone running away?” I asked.

“You mean when the dog had its jaws clamped around my leg?” he asked. He jumped up, hobbling on one leg. “I don’t know why I agreed to this meeting. It all makes sense. You served your purpose for me, I dumped you, you got all hell-hath-no-fury, sicced the pit bull on me and then you killed your new boyfriend when he dumped you. You’re sick!”

I refrained from eye rolling. “Actually, Ted Puck was murdered six months after our relationship ended,” I said.

“Yeah, when he got engaged to that hot babe,” Riley said. “You were thrown over for another chick and you snapped.”

“You should really think about becoming a prosecutor, Riley,” I said. “You’d be great at it.”

“Mr. Witherspoon,” Ben said. “Just to make sure I have this straight. Did you date Abby so that she’d list you as one of the best accountants in Maine?”

Riley froze, then sat down slowly and pasted on his I’m-an-angel smile—an injured angel. “Uh, that’s not against the law, right?”

Ben shook his head.

“It should be,” I threw in.

Riley slid his snake gaze to me, then said to Ben, “Yeah, I did. She was a means to an end, nothing more. We were at Boo’s for happy hour, and the owner, who’s a friend of mine, pointed out Abby and said she’d named Boo’s Best Happy Hour in Portland in her capacity as Best of Maine editor for
Maine Life.
She interviewed him for a little sidebar and everything. I wanted that kind of publicity for my business, so I figured I’d talk my way into giving her my business card, maybe set up lunch or something. But I could tell she liked me, so I figured I’d go the faster route.”

“The faster route?” Ben asked.

Riley smiled a good-ole-boy smile. “You know—the old fuck and chuck.”

It took every ounce of my willpower, which wasn’t strong to begin with, not to jump up and do something. Like pummel him to the ground—not that I could. And I supposed that wouldn’t do much for my current situation. Yet despite my beet-red face—from anger and mortification—and my deep desire to run out the door, I still noticed that Ben
flinched.
He stared at Riley for a second, and I knew Ben hated his guts and thought he was gutter slime.

He cares about me,
I realized. Ben Orr, detective, cares about me. He wants to punch Slimo in the face!

But he controlled himself, of course. Ben was Mr. Control, Mr. Unreadable. That momentary look of hate, of
How dare you have the thought, let alone say it—and right in front of Abby—
was replaced by Ben’s standard cop detachment look. He stood and handed Riley his card. “Mr. Witherspoon, if you do think of anything else—someone you might have noticed around your block that day, anything—please get in touch.”

Riley glared at me. “Oh, I will.”

“Nice to see you again, Riley,” I said. “I have a new accountant this year. I’m sure you understand.”

Ben escorted me to the door. As we got into his car, I realized that the pit bull might be the key to finding the killer. “We could check all the pounds in the area! Find out who adopted a pit bull in the days before the attack on Riley. We could call breeders, too. Whoever or wherever people get pit bulls!”

“What do you think Detective Fargo has been doing all this time?” he said.

“He’s been checking every dog shelter for weeks?”

“That and every other lead,” Ben said.

“I sure am lucky it wasn’t the other way around,” I said. “I mean, you out canvassing for leads and witnesses, and Fargo constantly at my door. I don’t think I’d want to share a moose steak dinner with Frank Fargo.”

Ben smiled. “Fargo’s all right. A little rough around the edges, maybe. But that can be quite useful for a cop.”

“So the dog shelters were a dead end?”

He nodded. “No one connected to you adopted or bought a pit bull in the last five years, let alone five days before the attack. The perpetrator might have gotten the dog under an assumed name, though.”

I leaned back against the seat. This was so frustrating. Everything was leading to a wall. And the less it looked as if someone else killed Ted and tried to kill Riley and Tom, the more it would look as if
I
did it.

As Ben drove away, he said, “You can’t tell me that Riley Witherspoon was a nice guy while you were dating.”

There were so many things Ben could have said. From
You’re looking guiltier and guiltier
to
Where’d you get the pit bull, anyway?
But he’d said the perfect thing.

And so I kissed him. I just leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on his cheek.

And for the second time in ten minutes, he flinched.

I was still glad I’d done it, though. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just glad you said that. About Riley being a jerk.”

“Those weren’t my words,” he said. “Exact words are important in my business.”

I smiled. “The weird thing is, he was a nice guy. Well, maybe
nice
isn’t the right word. He was slick. Witty and charming, but always looking elsewhere. He’d say, “‘Abby, you look so nice tonight,’ while glancing around the room.”

“So why did you go out with him twice?” he asked.

“You sound like Opal. She says that everything you need to know about a guy you learn on your first date. Riley never took his eyes off a Pamela Anderson look-alike on our first date. I should have known he wasn’t really interested in me.”

“So why did you say yes to a second date?”

I slumped in my seat. “Well, in my defense, I guess I like to have faith in people. Give people the benefit of the doubt. Yeah, he ogled a Playboy Bunny all night, but what guy wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not if I was on a date.”

I glanced at him. Of course he wouldn’t. I already knew that.

“Okay, I know it’s stupid, but I was a little starstruck by him. He looks like a model. And he was so charming—”

“You were charmed by him ogling some babe all night?”

The beet-red was back. “I guess I really don’t pay enough attention on the first date. Opal thinks that’ll solve my problems with relationships. What kind of first date are you?”

He smiled. “It’s been so long that I don’t even know.”

Interesting. Very interesting. And he’d actually said something personal! That would make, what, the third personal thing I’d gotten out of him. Not bad. “Is that because you’re in a long-term relationship and can’t remember back that far?”

Please answer. Please answer. Please answer.

He shook his head. “More like I don’t have time for a relationship. My last girlfriend hated my hours, which sometimes run into nights, holidays, special events. It’s been at least a year since I’ve even been out with a woman.”

“Does this count?” I asked.

He laughed. “No, this definitely doesn’t count.”

But I was beginning to think that it did.

Ugh. Tom Greer. Smug was a good word to describe him. And therapisty, if that was a word. He had a bad habit of speaking to most people as though they were in kindergarten. When I first met him, in a supermarket, of all places, I’d thought he was smart and funny.