“No, not at all.” Her stomach tightened. “So now, what’s this about Leeza? I simply can’t believe what you’re telling me,” Helena stammered.
“Believe it. The maid found her dead around an hour ago,” he replied. “I understand that you knew Mrs. Kiley quite well.”
Helena didn’t know how to respond. Feeling weak in the knees, she slowly sank into an oversized chair opposite him. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“And you weren’t exactly the best of friends?”
“You could say that, too.”
“Ms. Shea, where were you last evening between ten and twelve?”
“I was at a meeting with a friend. I got here around 11:30 and then took my dog for a walk on the beach, like I said. I came back home, and after my fit with the door, I fixed it the best I could and stayed up for a bit with my daughter.” Helena felt as if she were in a fog, bogging her down. She couldn’t fathom that Leeza was dead.
“And your friend and daughter can verify your time table?”
“Of course.”
“What about when you went for a walk? Were you alone?”
“Just me and my dog. Why do you ask?”
“How long was the walk?”
“I don’t know, ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” Helena thought briefly about the phone call, but her gut told her to remain silent, even though she knew he wasn’t buying her story about the glass door. “You could ask Ella, my dog.” She smiled hoping to get a laugh out of the detective. He couldn’t seriously be thinking that she was involved. But he remained sullen.
“Ms. Shea, did you kill Leeza Kiley?”
“What?” she asked, horrified. “Of course not! I can’t believe this!”
“Just doing my job. I read the papers.”
“You made that clear the other night. But I wouldn’t consider an
Enquirer
or
The Scene
reliable sources of news. There was no love lost between us, but I certainly did
not
murder her. I’m actually starting to feel harassed by you.”
Collier nodded his head. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”
“For what?”
“As I said, I’m doing my job.”
“Am I a suspect in your investigation, Detective?” she asked, her voice turning hostile. Her face burned as anger churned in her stomach.
Detective Collier did not answer her question. He stood and glanced around. He stared at her living room drapes for quite some time. What was he thinking? He walked over to the edge of the window and looked down at the floor. Helena couldn’t see what he was looking at, but he pulled a plastic baggie out of his coat pocket and bent down to pick up something. Turning around to face her, he held out the knotted rope that held the drapes back. She’d forgotten to get a replacement tie back when she’d noticed it missing the other night.
“Problem with your drapes?”
The question caught her off guard. Why would he be concerned with her drapes? She answered him anyway, not wanting to make the situation any worse, especially with Frankie only a few feet away. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that. I noticed it a few days ago. My dog probably knocked that down. I think she must’ve chewed off the rope and hid it someplace. She’s a puppy. They do stuff like that.”
“Did you know that Mrs. Kiley was strangled? Your drapery rope looks like the one she was strangled with. Ms. Shea, you’d better get yourself a good attorney.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“If I were you, I’d do it pronto because within minutes I’ll have a search warrant. It looks as though you might be taking a ride with me today. Oh, and by the way, I’d come up with a better story for your lawyer about the broken door and the drapery cord. ‘Cause I ain’t buying it.”
Within an hour, a swarm of reporters stood outside Helena’s home. On the basis of the missing drapery cord, Detective Collier had called in for a search warrant, and now her home crawled with police. She heard a helicopter hovering overhead and wondered which news crew was filming her roof, expecting something exciting to happen. She hated those bastards.
Helena figured that Patrick had heard by now and was probably worried sick. But the phone lines were tied up with reporters trying to get their scoop, and her cell phone, even if she could use it, was somewhere in the sand where she’d dropped it last night.
She was certain their images were fixed on television sets all over the city at this very moment—busy reporters concocting their cockamamie stories. Maybe the police were putting Patrick through the same paces. If there was a hawk like Detective Collier at his place, there was no telling when she and Patrick might be able to communicate. If the press was outside her home, they had likely surrounded Patrick’s ranch as well. Helena hated the thought of that. She wished Frankie were with her father instead of having to see this. From the scare Collier had given her, Helena wasn’t sure how this morning would end.
She crept into Frankie’s bedroom where a youthful looking police officer rummaged through Frankie’s underwear drawer.
“I hope you’re getting off on that,” Frankie said.
Helena heard the vehemence in her daughter’s voice. “Frankie,” she warned.
“But, Mom, he’s touching my panties. What are they looking for anyway? This is lame.”
“Yes, it is. But I don’t think we have a choice.” Helena tapped the officer on the shoulder. He smiled sheepishly. “Can I have a word alone with my daughter?”
“I don’t know if that’s okay, ma’am.”
“It’s fine. I asked Detective Collier.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive. Why don’t you go and ask him yourself.”
“I suppose it’ll be okay for a few minutes.”
Helena shut Frankie’s door behind the rookie. In a hushed tone she spoke quickly. “Has Detective Collier talked to you yet?”
“No.”
“He will, and I lied about how the glass door got broken.” Helena told Frankie everything she’d told Collier. “So if he asks you about it, I need you to agree with my story until I can speak with an attorney.”
“Why, Mom?”
“I don’t have time to answer that now, please just do it. The other thing is that I need to reach your dad, but our phone is tied up and I lost my cell last night. Did you bring yours?”
Frankie nodded. She opened the closet and got out her gym bag, rummaged through it, and pulled out the cell phone Helena had bought her so they could always keep in touch. “Wouldn’t leave home without it.”
“That’s my girl.”
Frankie handed the phone to her. Patrick’s number was busy. She then dialed his cell phone, to no avail. Helena sighed.
“Page him, leave my number, and type in 911,” Frankie suggested.
“It’s true what they say, I guess, about teenagers being smarter than their parents.”
Helena paged Patrick. She and Frankie both crossed their fingers hoping he would call back. They got their wish momentarily.
“Jesus, Helena, what’s going on down there? I’ve been trying to get through to you. I’ve even tried this number, but Frankie’s had her phone off. I got a call from the LAPD saying that Leeza was murdered and that they’d sent some men to your house. What is happening?”
“I don’t know, Patrick. They think, they think….” She refused to choke up. She had done nothing wrong, and she wouldn’t let the police and reporters get the best of her. “They’re considering me a suspect in Leeza’s murder.”
“What? That’s crazy. My God, Helena, on what basis?”
“I don’t have time to go into it right now. I’ve only got a minute. We’ve got to get Frankie out of here. There’s a detective with a huge chip on his shoulder, and he’s talking about taking me to the station.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call and have the jet fueled. Let me throw a few things together, and I’ll be down there within two hours.”
“I may not have that long.”
“Hang in there. If they take you anywhere, have Frankie stay in the house. We’ll get all this straightened out.”
“Okay,” she said, trying to sound reassured. The detective banged at the door. Helena whispered, “Gotta go.” She tossed the phone to Frankie, who stashed it back in the closet.
“Ms. Shea!”
“Coming, Detective.” She opened the door wide. He glared at her suspiciously. They both stared at each other for a few seconds, then looked over at Frankie who was wiping her eyes pretending, or maybe not, Helena wasn’t sure, to be wiping away tears. “I was trying to calm my daughter down. She’s a little shaken. I’m sure you can understand.”
“Your attorney is here,” he grumbled.
Helena followed the detective out. She smiled back at Frankie, then said, “If I have to go with them, you stay here, okay? That’s what we need you to do. Your dad will come for you. I don’t want to leave you here alone like this, but that detective might not give me a choice.”
Frankie nodded and Helena could see then that the tears hadn’t been phony. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m almost sixteen remember? I can take it.”
“I know you can.” Helena followed the detective out of Frankie’s room, preparing for whatever was about to happen next. She saw her attorney standing in the living room, looking fully aggrieved.
James Wingate, over six feet tall, unmistakably Irish with his pale complexion contrasting the vibrant golden red hair framing his face, was yelling at anyone who’d listen. Then he saw the man in charge, Collier himself. His thin mustache, trimmed to resemble a bar brawling cowboy from the mid-nineteenth century, curled up at each end. His pale blue eyes matched the color of the ice that settled on the shores of his ancestors’ country during a deep freeze. However, rather than speaking in an Irish brogue, he had a southern accent that revealed his childhood had been spent in the heart of Texas.
“Don’t say a word, Helena. Let me handle this jerk, okay? This search-warrant rigmarole is a crock. He used what he could to get inside your home.” He pointed at Collier. “I’ve already talked to some pals on the force. There’s no way you could’ve strangled that woman—you don’t have the strength. They’re blowing smoke. They need a scapegoat. They don’t want the Malibu community up in arms about a murderer on the loose, and you look like a good way out. Don’t worry; I’ll get you out of this.”
Helena nodded, her hands shaking. His fast-talking and confidence reassured her. James was savvy, as well as being a friend from AA. She trusted him. She knew him to be a man of his word.
“All right, Detective, pack it up,” James interrupted the search party. “You’ve got nothing here. You’re harassing my client and building a good case against yourself and your department.”
Collier turned on his heels, his eyes red, and hands on his hips. In a booming voice, he said, “Your client had motive and time to commit this crime. And when I get my lab results back, I guarantee that the rope around Mrs. Kiley’s neck will match your client’s drapes!”
“Ms. Shea did not do this. You know it, and so do I. You’re barking up the wrong tree. The DA will laugh you all the way back to a desk job. If you know what’s smart, Collier, you’ll take your posse and head on out.”
Collier and James had a stand off of cowboy-days proportion. A minute into it, Collier, the first to blink, looked around and nodded to his troop. “This isn’t over, counselor. Not by a long shot,” he said, shaking a finger at them.
“You’re right about that, Detective. You’re right about that. Before the end of the week, you and your department will be begging my client to drop her lawsuit.”
James escorted the police to the door. When he opened it, hordes of reporters and cameramen standing at the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway shouted questions. “Did she do it?” “Did Helena Shea kill Leeza Kiley?” “How did she do it?” “Are she and Patrick Kiley lovers again?” “Is the kid there?” James slammed the door after the last policeman left.
“You need to make a statement to get them off your back for awhile,” he said, speaking of the reporters. He walked around the house, closing shutters and drapes, turning her light-filled home into a dismal tomb. She felt trapped, as if she couldn’t breathe. He looked questioningly at the broken door. “That might need some explaining.”
“I can.”
“Good.” James looked at Helena and asked, “I’m right when I tell these folks that you’re innocent? You had nothing to do with any of this, did you?”
“Of course not!”
“I’m sorry, Helena, I have to ask. I know that you couldn’t have done this yourself, but there’ll be accusations about hired killers and so on. You and Patrick both have the financial means to hire someone. And we all know things weren’t exactly kosher between you and Leeza.”
Helena poured herself a cup of coffee and found her cigarettes. Lighting one, she took a long drag, savoring the nicotine’s soothing effect. She wouldn’t be giving up her bad habit today. “Let me ask you something, James.”
“Shoot.”
“If the police find that cord from my drapes does match, what does that mean?”
“They’ll have probable cause.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, never taking his eyes off her. “It won’t be good, I can tell you that much.”
Helena stared at him through angry eyes. “I’ll tell you what it
really
means. It means that whoever murdered Leeza has been in
my
house and is trying to frame me for murder.”