Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (32 page)

    
Dad turned to me. “Where’s your car?”

    
When I boasted that I had ridden my bike over, my parents exchanged amused glances before they remembered they were still annoyed with one another.

    
McGowan turned, not in on the joke. “Be careful on that thing. One of our detectives is laid up for the next three months with a broken back. Out riding with her bike club a couple of days ago and bam! Hit and run.”

    
“How awful,” Mom said, the born worrier.

    
I knew from her look that my street riding days were numbered. Thank God.

    
“Anyone I know?” Dad asked.

    
“Margulies. Margaret-Anne. Little blond thing with braces.”

    
“Young girl?”

    
“Forties, I’d say. The office is sending flowers. Any suggestions, Amanda?”

    
Mom suggested that Margie at Flower Fantasy would do up a nice arrangement and send it over. McGowan thanked her again and headed to his car.

    
Dad hung back. “Love you,” he said. Grudgingly. “Both of you.”

    
Mom and I smiled at him gratefully. And guiltily.

    
But when he left, we indulged in a slightly exuberant high-five.

    
“Your dad’s right,” Mom said a few minutes later, as we finished cleaning up the kitchen. “It’s not enough that we think Jack is guilty. We have to prove it, and we start by finding out who sent us those discs.”

    
“We should ask Angela. If Jack didn’t take them when he killed Saul, then she must’ve. You’ve got to make Trianos tell you where she is.”

    
“How am I supposed to do that?”

    
“He’s probably still at the restaurant. Call him. You’re the one he has a crush on.”

    
Mom shot me a withering look, which might’ve stung had she not been blushing like a schoolgirl.

    
“Marie?” she asked, when the phone was answered at Tony’s restaurant. “This is Amanda Carstairs. I had lunch with Mr. Trianos on Saturday…the Greek salad. It was wonderful…Yes, he mentioned it was a family recipe…Anyway, I need to talk to Angela Jannings. Mr. Trianos said she was staying in one of his buildings, and I wondered if you could ask him real quick which building…Yes, I’ll hold…Oh, Mr. Trianos, I didn’t mean to bother you during your lunch…Ok, Tony, then.” She turned away from me, so I couldn’t see how pink her cheeks had turned.

    
Gag.

    
“Yes, it was delicious…Next time, I promise, but right now it’s imperative that I get in touch with Angela Jannings…No, I wasn’t hurt at all, just a little frightened…No, no. No need for that. We’ll just let the justice system deal with him…I’ll keep that in mind. Now about Angela?”

    
Mom listened for a few moments more, making a note on the scratch pad near the phone. With a couple more giggles, some more blushing and a sharp poke in the arm from me, she said her good-byes and hung up. “Piece of cake.”

CHAPTER 35

    
We loaded my bike into Mom’s Caddy and headed off to find Angela, making only two detours on the way. The first was a stop at the coffee shop because I was having a Chai latte craving and refused to do any investigating until I got my fix. Mom knew it was useless to argue and a mocha cappuccino went a long way toward soothing her irritation.

    
Our second stop was at Robin’s high-rise apartment. Mom wanted to hear her take on Jack’s “alleged” break-in before the couple could get their stories straight. We rang her condo from the lobby. After a moment’s hesitation, she buzzed us up.

    
Years ago Mom had done the remodel of a unit in this building and knew them to be spectacular. The view was stunning, the floor plans spacious and airy. Robin had exquisite taste (or, at least, her decorator had), having furnished her unit to look like a Bauhaus dream - all cantilevered this and tubular steel that, lots of leather and a couple of Mies Pavilion chairs I coveted. Mom thought this look was cold and sterile, but I loved it.

    
Reading my mind, my mother whispered, “Alas, darling, for this decorating scheme, slobs need not apply.”

    
“I should have known you two would show up sooner or later.” Robin led us into a living room done in blinding white. Robin herself was as simply and elegantly dressed as her apartment - white shift, black slides, casual chic costing a fortune. Her ponytail was high and sleek - a silky, swinging cat o’ nine tails.

    
Mom perched on the edge of an Eames lounge chair while I slid into a Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Slid and kept sliding. Those things really aren’t practical.

     Our hostess
stood by the terrace windows, admiring the view she had paid seven figures for. Looking around, I saw no signs of Christmas.

    
“Since you were expecting us, we won’t have to mince words,” Mom said. “Why did you send Jack over to my house to secure the discs?”

     “What makes you think I did?”

     “Come off it,” I said. “You overheard me at the gym, talking on the phone, and you sent Jack to get them.”

    
“And you can prove this, how?”

    
Smooth. Very smooth, this one.

    
“You think Jack’s going to go down for this alone?” Mom asked. “Pretty soon he’ll start talking, and when he does, the police will have all the proof they need.”

    
“Proof of what, exactly?”

    
“Proof that you conspired to commit two murders and attempted two more.” I said.

    
I don’t know what I expected. A little fear might’ve been nice. A confession wouldn’t have hurt. I’d have even settled for a wicked ‘catch me if you can’ cackle.

    
What I got was a stare so blank, so unfathomable, that I thought for a moment Robin had come unplugged. Then, seeming to reboot, she moved restlessly toward the kitchen, visible beyond a waist-high bar lined with sleek stools. The kitchen was stainless steel everything, as welcoming as an OR.

    
Leaning against the bar, she traced an abstract design on the metal surface, quiet for a moment before meeting my eyes. “Wrong.”

    
“Which part?” I asked.

    
“The murder parts, for sure. The attempted murders, I couldn’t say. I don’t believe Jack meant you any harm.”

    
“He was going to kill us!” Mom insisted. “And my dog.”

    
“Please. Jack loves animals. You’re overreacting.”

    
“You can’t be serious.” Mom was incredulous.

    
“One thing at a time,” I said. “You sent Jack over to get the discs. True or false?”

    
“I’m not up for games today, ladies. I didn’t kill Saul or Oscar. I told you that. I’ve been quite candid with you, and frankly, it’s insulting that you would doubt my honesty.”

    
“Did you send Jack over for the discs or not?” I demanded.

    
“You make it sound like Jack is a puppet that can’t think for himself.”

    
I wouldn’t let it go. “Did you or didn’t you? Impress us again with your honesty.”

    
“Let me tell you this…”

    
“No. Tell me what I asked.”

    
“You’ll find this more interesting, trust me. I could’ve gotten the discs from Saul any time. He loved me. He didn’t publish what he knew about me. What I had told him quite freely. We were like that with each other - no secrets, no deceptions. Because I knew he loved me, I didn’t worry, but I couldn’t stop him from writing it all down. It’s what he did, who he was. When he died, and the discs were missing, that’s when I started worrying. Jack didn’t want me to worry, that’s all.”

     Now we were getting somewhere.

     “How long have you and Jack been involved?” Mom asked.

    
“We met at one of Oscar’s Christmas parties last year, and we hit it off.”

    
“And Saul didn’t know?”

    
“He didn’t care. To Saul, everyone was a potential source.”

    
“So you sent Jack over to get the discs?” I said again.

    
“Jack didn’t want me to worry,” was all she would say.

    
“The police think Jack is the murderer,” Mom offered, after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “They only question how you were involved.”

    
“I’m not concerned. Jack wouldn’t want me to worry.”

    
I couldn’t believe her. “But aren’t you worried about Jack? He’s in a lot of trouble.”

    
“Jack can take care of himself. He’s very resourceful when he has to be.”

    
We pushed, but she wouldn’t elaborate
.

“Oscar was going to give Jack an apple at the Christmas party. From his Santa’s sack. What was that about?”

    
“I was never interested in Oscar’s little games. He thought he could pin my husband’s deaths on me. He was wrong.”

    
“The way we heard it, if Oscar really wanted to pin a murder on you, he would. Evidence or not.” I held her gaze.

    
“That was my experience.”

    
Talk about candid. The woman was nothing if not forthright. The cops who hadn’t caught her for her husbands’ murders hadn’t been asking the right questions.

    
“So you’re saying Oscar tried to frame you?” Mom doesn’t rely on nuance.

    
“He tried.”

    
“But he couldn’t. Why not?”

    
She wasn’t saying, but for the first time I saw how a woman like her might benefit from having a friend in the DA’s office. Was this a motive Jack had all on his own? Had he destroyed some evidence, real or created, against Robin?

    
We didn’t get any more out of her.

    
“I meant what I said about the movies,” she said to me as she showed us out. “Call me sometime.”

    
“Um…okay,” I agreed.

    
“Over my dead body,” Mom said when we were on the elevator.

    
In the car, we tried to make sense of what we had learned.

    
“It’s plausible.” Mom waited for a green Audi to pass before she pulled out of the parking spot. “She only worried about the discs when they fell into the wrong hands. Maybe Jack did, too, or maybe he was afraid of them all along.”

    
“If it’s true that she didn’t take them in the first place. To help him, if not herself.”

    
“Does she ever help anyone besides herself?”

    
Neither one of us had an answer for that one, but were eager to find out what Angela had to say on the subject of the discs.

    
“What are the chances Robin will come forward to help Jack?” I asked as we made our way downtown.

    
“Slim to none.”

    
As we headed further downtown, my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and winced. Beaumont. I couldn’t imagine why Bunny would be calling me, but I did wonder what she would say.

    
Gavin was on the line, though.

    
“Chloe, glad I caught you.”

    
“Mr. Beaumont. Hi. This is a surprise,” I said for Mom’s benefit.

    
Her look registered a mixture of bewilderment and distaste.

    
“I wanted to see how you and your mother were. We heard about the break-in. I hope you weren’t hurt.”

    
“No, no. We’re a little shaken up, but basically ok.”

    
There was a pause as I waited for him to get to the real point of his call. Concern for my welfare just didn’t ring true.

    
“I also heard, that is Bunny and I heard, that you had Saul’s discs. Is that what Lassiter was after?”

    
Now this was interesting. “The discs? Yes, Jack apparently broke in to retrieve them.”

    
“So the police have them now?”

    
“What’s all this about, Mr. Beaumont?” I hedged. “What’s your interest?”

    
“No interest. Just curious.”

     “I am,
too. Why don’t you level with me? The discs contained some interesting stuff.”

     “So you opened the files
?” He sounded tired, resigned.

    
“I did.”

    
“Then, you understand my interest.”

    
“Why don’t you explain it to me.”

    
“A thing like this…It wouldn’t do for it to get out…reputations could be compromised.”

    
“Mmm-hmm.” Enough with the euphemisms. I needed nouns. Verbs. Details.

     “But
the police have the discs now.”

    
“They do.”

    
He clicked off without another word.

    
What in the world?

CHAPTER 36

    
Adaptive reuse are the big buzz words in downtown Birmingham right now. Angela’s hideout was ex-retail space that was now being turned into lofts, a few blocks from Tony’s restaurant in one direction and from my loft in another.

    
We found a parking place up front, which was lucky. This area of town isn’t one you spend a lot of time walking around in. Not that my block is much better, but I have underground parking - an “it’s a nice place to live, but I wouldn’t want to visit” set-up that are common to this area of town.

    
Judging from Angela’s lack of surprise or enthusiasm, Tony had told her we were coming.

    
“This needs to be quick, I’m on a deadline,” she said.

    
The loft was in early construction phase, which is to say stripped to the studs in some places, crowded with sawhorses, tools and painting equipment in others. In a space the size of a three-car garage, Angela was occupying a powder-room sized section - enough room for a card table with a laptop, another table covered with papers, a printer on the floor, an air mattress and a hot plate. More papers were tacked to a bulletin board leaning against one wall. A construction-sized garbage bag overflowed with crumpled rejects and take-out boxes. There was only one chair, and she didn’t offer it.

    
Charming.

    
“Mind if I smoke?” Angela lit up without waiting for a reply, cranked open a window and blew the smoke from the first lusty drag out over the street. Appearing to be an oft-repeated ritual, her movements provided a chance to study her.

    
Not holding up well, our little Angela. Her red hair was wild and frizzy, as if nervous hands had been raking through it. Her shirt was on inside out, her bare feet looked dirty. A Tic-Tac would have improved her situation.

    
“Heard y’all had a little excitement at your place the other night.” She exhaled another lungful of smoke.

    
I smiled. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

    
“And the discs?”

    
“With the police,” Mom said.

    
Angela stared out the window and shook her head. “Not good.”

    
“What was on those discs,” Mom prodded.

    
Angela shrugged. “I wasn’t sure.”

    
“Why not?” I asked. “You made it sound like ninety percent of what Saul wrote was based on your work. Your research.”

    
“Probably closer to seventy percent, but yeah, a lot of it was mine. The good stuff anyway. How’d you get them in the first place?”

    
“They were sent to us. Not by you?” My eyes wandered over the bulletin board, where I noted clippings of the murders and pictures of the suspects tacked in haphazard groupings.

    
I was surprised to see my mother’s face staring back at me, an old magazine shot that had accompanied a story about the Christmas houses.  The word ‘Access’ was scrawled across her face.

    
Behind Robin’s picture, there were articles about her husbands’ deaths. A picture of Jack hung much too close, held in place by a cheap plastic pushpin shaped like a red apple.

    
What were we missing?

    
Horns had been drawn on Bunny’s picture with savage slashes, while Nancy’s head had been stuck on the body of a scantily clad woman. Gavin looked off the board, and Meagan, Oscar’s daughter, stared into the camera as if daring onlookers to challenge her presence there. There was also a crude sketch of a human hand with a dead rat in it.

    
Angela caught our interest. “You like? It helps me to free associate. Though I must admit, I didn’t see the Jack thing coming. Who knew he had it in him?”

    
“Angela,” Mom said, her voice gentle. “We need to know what’s going on. Given your research skills and journalistic instincts, I’m sure you know more than anyone about these murders.”

    
“You’ve got that right. I’m sure Robin did it - once a killer, always a killer. I think Jack’s in up to his ass, but how did they pull it off?” She took a hard drag on her cigarette and whooshed more smoke out the window. “At the party, I watched Robin practically the whole time. I thought she was up to something with Jack and couldn’t believe Saul was so blind. He considered himself shrewd, smarter than the rest of us, but his girlfriend was screwing around under his nose and he didn’t have a clue.”