Nickeled-And-Dimed to Death (7 page)

“Of course.” I shook his hand. “Thank you.”

He smiled and my stomach clenched. I sure hoped I hadn’t just made a deal with the devil.

CHAPTER 7

A
s I waited for Boone in the interrogation room, I examined my surroundings. Shadow Bend might be a small town, but Chief Kincaid hadn’t skimped when it came to the police station remodel. The space contained only a narrow metal table and two chairs, but one entire wall was glass—obviously, a two-way mirror—and cameras and speakers were placed liberally at intervals near the ceiling.

The chief had written a grant to get the money for the modernization. We all knew that the city council would never have approved the funding, since it was common knowledge that Chief Kincaid thought the present mayor, Geoffrey Eggers, was a complete idiot, and the feeling was mutual. So His Honor and the chief were by no stretch of the imagination on cooperative enough terms for the financing to have come from the town’s coffers.

I glanced at my watch. What was taking so long? Had Chief Kincaid changed his mind? Was Boone being locked in a cell this very minute?
Damn!
Thinking about him being locked in made me remember my phobia, and I started to breathe faster. Immediately, I felt lightheaded. What had I been thinking when I agreed to be shut into a space the size of a walk-in closet? Could I get through this without fainting? If they didn’t hurry, my five minutes with Boone would be spent with him trying to get me up off the floor.

Just before I started screaming to be released, the door banged opened. A moment later, Boone was shoved across the threshold, where he stood as if in a daze. Instantly, the door was slammed closed and I heard the bolt slide home. It took all my willpower not to run over, pound on the metal, and beg to be let out.

The sound of the lock must have penetrated Boone’s fog, because he lurched across the interrogation room, tripping over his own feet as he nearly fell into the chair. Once seated, he sat slumped forward as if his head was too heavy for his neck to support. This was not the confident, debonair Boone I had known all my life. What in hell had the cops done to him?

“Boone.” I reached out to touch him but drew back. Chief Kincaid had agreed not to attach his handcuffs to the bolt in the middle of the tabletop if we promised to keep the table between us at all times. “Are you okay? What took you so long to get here?”

“I’m physically fine, but emotionally, not so much.” Boone’s hazel eyes were haunted. “The cretins insisted on another body search before they allowed me in here to speak to you. What in heaven’s name did they think I could have possibly gotten my hands on, not to mention concealed, since the last time they patted me down?”

“I hear that a seasoned criminal such as yourself can do wicked things with a paperclip and a rubber band,” I offered in a feeble attempt at humor.

“What? Make a slingshot?” Boone rubbed his temples. “Fat lot of good that would do against the cops’ Berettas and Tasers.”

“Was the officer who searched you at least cute?” I tried once more to get the old Boone back—the fighter who wouldn’t take this lying down.

“No. They chose the ugliest one.” Boone straightened his spine. “That alone will increase the lawsuit I’m filing against the Shadow Bend Police Department by ten thousand dollars.”

“At least.” I smiled my encouragement, then said, “You know they’re recording everything and that we only have five minutes, right?”

“Right.” His usually tanned face was a sallow yellow, and even his ultrawhite teeth seemed less bright. “First, I didn’t do it.”

“Of course not. I never thought for a minute that you had,” I assured him, then said, “Let’s start with the victim. Who was murdered and where?”

“Elise Whitmore, in the living room of her house.” He started to say more, but his voice thickened and he choked to a stop.

Shit!
It took me less than half a second to realize that she was the woman who had sold me the chocolate molds.

“Was she the one you were escorting to the gallery opening?” I forced myself to sound calm, but I didn’t like coincidences.

“Yes.” Boone shoved his fingers through his tawny gold hair.

Knowing how much he hated having his hair messed up, I winced. Then again, his customarily perfectly styled coif was already standing on end, and I suspected that for once his hair was the least of his worries. As was the fact that his six-hundred-dollar DKNY suit was torn at the shoulder.

“How did you know her?” I asked, wondering if Boone had sent her to me to sell the antique molds or maybe just mentioned my interest.

“I was representing her in her divorce proceedings, and she asked me if I would accompany her to the opening.” Boone toyed with a loose button on his shirt. “Since I was free that evening and it sounded interesting, I agreed.”

“Are those the only reasons?” I probed. Boone tended to be a bit impulsive.

“She was afraid she might run into her husband there and didn’t want to face him alone,” Boone admitted. “She said he might be violent.”

“That’s great!” I nearly shouted. “He’s much more likely to have killed her than you. What possible reason do the cops have to think you did it?”

“Well . . .” Boone concentrated on his shoes, trying to rub a scuff out with his thumb. “You see . . .” He was clearly hiding something.

“Was this a date?” I asked. Although Boone was my best friend and I’d known him all my life, I still wasn’t sure which team he batted for. He’d taken out women, but somehow he never seemed all that interested in them. Then again, he’d never seemed all that interested in men, either. “Were you involved with her?”

“Absolutely not.” He shook his head vehemently. “It’s unethical for an attorney to date a client.” He swallowed hard. “But that is why the cops think I murdered her.” He grimaced. “Their theory is that we had an intimate relationship, but then had a fight that resulted in Elise threatening to report me to the bar association, so I killed her.”

“Okay, that’s motive.” I checked the time. We had only two minutes left.

“And since I was the one to find her body, I obviously had means.”

“Tell me about that.” I could guess, but wanted to make sure.

“I arrived at ten p.m. and rang the bell. When she didn’t answer, I tried phoning, but both her cell and landline went to voice mail, so I was worried. She has—I mean, had—asthma. I was concerned that she might have had an attack and not gotten to her inhaler in time.” Boone wrinkled his brow. “The house was dark and I was trying to decide what to do—whether to dial nine-one-one or not—when I noticed that the front door wasn’t quite latched, so I went inside to check on her.”

“And?”

“And I found her lying in front of the breakfront.” Boone wiped a tear from his eye. “She was barefoot and wearing a robe that had fallen open. She didn’t have anything on underneath, and at first I thought she had been looking for her inhaler and passed out, since I knew she kept her spares in the drawer of that cabinet. But when I knelt down next to her, I noticed the blood on the floor and saw that there was a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.”

“Did you call the police immediately?” I asked, afraid I already knew the answer. “I mean, as soon as you saw the bullet wound.”

“First I checked to see if she was still alive,” Boone answered.

“So you touched her?” I said almost to myself. That wouldn’t be good.

“Just her neck,” Boone explained. “I was looking for a pulse.”

“Was the gun there?” I latched on to the one thing I thought might clear him, since his fingerprints wouldn’t be on it.

“No.”

“What do the cops think you did with the weapon?” I asked, figuring they had to have some theory or we wouldn’t be sitting here.

“According to them, I hid it somewhere before I called nine-one-one.”

“Great.” I checked my watch. We were running out of time, so I asked the most important question I could think of. “Why did you want to talk to me? Shouldn’t you have requested a lawyer?”

Before Boone could answer, the door to the interrogation room swung open. Chief Kincaid marched in and stood behind Boone.

“Your five minutes are up,” he said to me as he put his hand on Boone’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Time to go, St. Onge.”

As Boone was being led away, he said in a rush, “Dev, you solved Joelle’s murder; I need you to figure out who killed Elise.”

I ran after him, but an officer blocked the hallway, so I shouted, “Should I call a lawyer or your folks?”

“My attorney, Tryg Pryce, is on his way from Chicago. Get in touch with him,” Boone yelled back. “But if you could tell my parents before they hear it from someone else, I’d appreciate it.”

Damn!
Boone’s folks hadn’t spoken to each other in twenty-five years. Even though they were still married and lived in the same house, they communicated only through notes. Talking to them was never easy, and conveying this kind of news would be really tough.

Boone had disappeared into the jail wing of the police station, so there was nothing left for me to do except find Poppy and leave.
Hey
. I brightened. So far, I’d done all the heavy lifting. It was Poppy’s turn. She could break the news to the St. Onges.

Poppy didn’t believe me when I said that her father had let me talk to Boone because he loved her. She did agree it had been a concession on his part, so she promised not to do something outrageous just to embarrass him. At least, she promised once I emphasized how much her behavior could hurt Boone.

She also weaseled out of telling the St. Onges. Poppy argued that it was nearly one a.m. so they’d be asleep, and waking them up when they couldn’t do anything to help Boone would be cruel. Instead, she talked me into meeting her at their house at eight the next morning. We both agreed that even if they weren’t early risers, we couldn’t wait any longer than that, or else one of the town gossips would get to them first.

Before crawling into bed, I set my alarm for six a.m. There was no way I was facing Boone’s folks on an empty stomach—or without a shower and some makeup. Four hours later, when the radio announcer’s chipper voice woke me from an uneasy sleep, I reconsidered my need for food and tried to convince myself that untamed curls and under-eye circles were currently in fashion.

After a couple hits on the snooze button, I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I hoped hot water and expensive concealer would compensate for lack of sleep. Thirty-five minutes later, not entirely convinced that either had been successful, I put on a pair of khakis and a black silk sweater. Then, bracing myself for Gran’s cross-examination, I headed in to breakfast.

As I entered the kitchen and said good morning, Gran turned from the stove and waved a spatula in my direction. “What are you doing up so early on a Sunday? Don’t tell me my prayers have been answered and you’re finally going to church with me.” She shook her head. “No. That can’t be it. I haven’t seen any signs of the apocalypse or the Second Coming.”

Instead of responding, I studied Gran’s latest outfit—a dress straight out of the 1950s. It was a Wedgwood-blue wool crepe with a narrow skirt and a boat neckline. Completing her outfit were navy leather Cuban-heeled pumps and a cloche. Because she was on her way to eight o’clock Mass and didn’t want to splatter her outfit while cooking, she also had on a red-and-white-checkered bib apron.

Finally I said, “Sorry, no church today.” I hadn’t been to services in twelve years. I figured if God had forsaken my family, then I wasn’t visiting him. “I’m still waiting for a sign that He wants me back.”

“So why are you up?” Gran squinted at me. “Not to mention wearing something other than jeans.” She put her hand to her chest. “And, sweet Jesus, you have on uh . . .” She pointed to her face.

“Makeup,” I supplied. The doctor had said it was best to provide the word she couldn’t recall rather than let her become stressed trying to come up with it. What I couldn’t understand, and the gerontologist hadn’t been able to explain, was how she could come up with a less-used word like
apocalypse
but not an everyday word like
makeup
.

“Right.” She nodded. “You have on makeup for the second day in a row.”

As I explained about Boone, I kept a wary eye on Gran’s cat, Banshee. He was in his usual mealtime spot, perched on top of the fridge. He liked to skulk in the shadows just below the cupboard, then launch himself onto my head as I walked by and dig his claws into my scalp. Gran claimed that it was his way of showing affection, but Banshee and I both knew he hated my guts.

While Gran added bacon to the pan and poured more pancake batter on the griddle, she said, “Eldridge Kincaid’s slinky has always been a little kinked, but for him to think that that sweet boy had anything to do with killing that woman is outlandish.”

“Definitely.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, added skim milk and fake sugar, then sat down at the table. “Chief Kincaid must have lost it.”

“And the reason he thinks Boone killed her is really ridiculous.”

“Oh.” I took a sip from my mug. “Really? I read somewhere that a love affair gone bad is among the top ten causes for murder.”

“Maybe so.” Gran slid a steaming plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me. “But Boone wouldn’t be having an affair with that woman.”

“And how do you know that?” I asked. Considering that he was my best friend and I wasn’t sure which sex he preferred, I wondered if Gran knew something I didn’t. Or was she jumping to conclusions?

“Because he wouldn’t be that unprofessional.” Gran put her own dish on the table and joined me. “Boone has wanted to be a lawyer since he was in diapers. That boy would never risk being, uh . . .”

“Disbarred?”

“Right.”

I nodded my agreement, then poured syrup over my pancakes and inhaled the rich maple scent. Before taking my first bite, I said, “I hope the attorney Boone hired from Chicago made it here, and Mr. Pryce can at least get him released on bail. Although I bet if he can, he’ll have to wait until Monday when the courts open, which isn’t good. Boone won’t handle being in jail very well. You should have seen how beaten-down he looked last night.”