Say Yes to the Death (7 page)

Chapter 9

T
he scene was too surreal to believe.

In fact, it was so surreal that I couldn't help but suspect it wasn't real at all. Was this some kind of prank? Was it another despicable attempt to drive up Olivia's TV show ratings? Could Olivia be that desperate for attention?

I looked around for Pete the Cameraman with his rose and thorn tattoos, but I didn't see him or anyone else. It was just me, the knife-­wielding Millie, and the lifeless Olivia.

“Is there a hidden camera? Is this some kind of publicity stunt?” I said out loud, because I wouldn't put anything past Olivia La Belle. If there hadn't been so much red goo all over her—­was it ketchup?—­I would have nudged the prostrate Olivia with the toe of my shoe and told her to get up.

“It's not a stunt,” Millie whimpered, “she's dead. I did everything I could but it was too late . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and I noticed the wadded up fabric near Olivia's head that looked like a big ol' bandage drenched in red. Was it a table linen sample? Had Millie used it to try to stop the blood from flowing?

“Olivia's really and truly dead?” I said, and my voice sounded hollow. “She's not playing possum?”

Millie shook her head.

I gulped.

A chill raced up my spine, lifting the hairs on my neck. The red goo wasn't ketchup, and Olivia wasn't going for broke to drive up her TV ratings. She'd gone boots up for real, and they were expensive boots, too. They looked like the Jimmy Choo snakeskin ankle boots that Mother had tried to foist on me at Christmas and I'd made her return.

“I watched her die,” Millie said in an eerie half whisper. “I was here when she took her last breath.”

Whoa.

“What?” I would have run like a bat out of hell but my legs felt like rubber. “Oh, God, this is crazy,” I said, and I grabbed hold of the nearest chair to keep my knees from giving out from beneath me. “This is not real,” I told myself. “This can't be real.”

“I wish it wasn't”—­Millie's voice shook—­“but it is. And I have no idea what to do. I should have called 911 instead of trying to save her. But it's too late now.”

“What the hell happened?” I asked, staring at her, horrified. “What do you mean you watched her die?”

I wasn't sure how I got out the questions. My mouth had gone bone dry. I had no clue what to do. How did one deal with something like this? Had Millie truly walked in on Olivia in the throes of death with a cake knife sticking out of her throat, or had she stabbed the wedding planner in a fit of rage over the $10,000 cake brouhaha? I suddenly remembered that Millie's departing words yesterday had something to do with Olivia getting what was coming to her.

“You didn't—­” I started to ask, but couldn't finish.

But Millie seemed to know where I was headed.

“No,” she cried, bursting into tears. “I didn't do anything, Andy.”

Though my eyes might have wanted to convince me that Millie was guilty as sin, my gut had a hard time buying it. Fingers shaking, I pulled my phone from the pocket of my cargo pants.

“You can tell me the truth, Millie. Did you and Olivia fight because of Penny's cake? Did she attack you? Was it self-­defense?” I asked as I attempted to call 911, but my trembling fingers hit the wrong buttons.

“No, no, it was nothing like that.” Millie shook her head as she slowly got up off her knees. “Yes, I came by this morning to have it out with her. She texted me to say the Ryans wouldn't pay the bill for the cake, and I knew she was pulling one over on me the same way she did Jasper. I'd had it up to here with her antics.” She raised the cake knife to her chin. “But we didn't fight—­it wasn't what you're thinking,” she insisted, lowering her arm to her side. “The door was unlocked when I arrived, and she was on the floor. The knife was sticking out of her neck, and she was gasping and twitching and”—­Millie gulped—­“
gurgling.
I pulled it out but I think that made things worse!” She glanced down at the blood on her shirt and hands. “I grabbed something off her desk to stop the blood but it was too late.”

“What if it's not too late?” I said and tried to dial my cell again, pressing the three digits successfully this time. What if Olivia's heart was still beating? What if she needed pressure applied somewhere beneath all that blood? What if we could save her?

Millie shook her head. “She's not breathing. There's no pulse.”

I sunk to my heels, knowing Millie was telling the truth. Olivia had lost so much blood. She looked like she'd bathed in it. Whoever had killed her had done the job right.

Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy.

“What is your emergency?” I heard a voice say in my ear, and I swallowed hard, finding my voice to tell the dispatcher to get someone over to Highland Park Village pronto, that Olivia La Belle had lost a lot of blood and needed medical attention. Although by the time I hung up, I knew Millie was right. Olivia was good and dead.

Millie cried as I got up on my wobbly legs and stared down at the sight of my old enemy lying so still, the patterned rug beneath her stained with red. I could smell the blood, too. The sticky sweet scent of it filled my nose and head. Bile rose into my throat, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, gagging.

I had so often wished Olivia dead when I was in school and she was tormenting me. There were nights I'd even prayed that she'd get hit by a bus or have a meteorite drop from space smack onto her head. But seeing her now, like this, wasn't how I'd hoped it would end. I hadn't
really
wanted her to die. I had just wanted her to go away.

“Who?” I asked, then again, “Who?” sounding like an owl. “Because if it wasn't you, it had to be someone who was here right before you.”

“I don't know,” Millie said tremulously. “I didn't see anyone when I arrived.” She must have read the skepticism on my face because she added, “I swear I didn't kill her, Andy, no matter how it looks.”

Swallowing the horrid taste in my mouth, I shifted my focus from Olivia to stare at the knife in Millie's hand. “How it looks is pretty bad,” I said, because it did. “You'll have to tell the police what you told me. You really didn't stab her?”

“No, I didn't stab her!” But as she said it, Millie glanced down at the knife as well. I heard the sharp intake of her breath, like she'd only just realized what she was holding. “Oh, dear,” she whispered and dropped it. The knife clunked onto the rug beside Olivia. “Oh, dear,” Millie said again and began to wipe her hands on her tan pants, leaving brick-­red smears. “My fingerprints will be all over it, won't they?”

“Yes,” I said. It was a no-­brainer.

“I didn't do anything but try to help,” she insisted, her eyes wildly darting about the room and settling on the door. “I have to get out of here, Andy. If anyone sees me like this, they'll get the wrong impression.”

Um, hello?
I
was somebody.
I
had seen, and I would never forget.

“You can't just take off,” I said, even though I wanted to get the hell out of there, too. I wanted to run home to my condo, jump in the shower, and scrub my brain clean of the past few minutes. But that wasn't possible for many reasons, one of which was the cry of sirens fast approaching. “You have to stay,” I said, because it was the right thing to do, “they have to find out who did this.”

Millie rushed to the window, parting the blinds. “They're here! There's an ambulance and a police car, oh, God,” she whimpered. She glanced down at the blood on her pants and her blouse. “They'll think I'm guilty. They're going to take one look at me and get the wrong impression.”

She was probably right but I tried to calm her down. “You just have to tell them the truth, Millie. I believe you,” I said, and I meant it.

“Yes, of course, the truth,” Millie said and turned away from the window, nodding. “They'll find whoever did it, and they'll know it wasn't me.” As she talked to herself, she circled her arms around her middle, further smudging brick-­red on her white blouse. “Then everything will be okay.”

“Yeah, it'll be okay,” I said, but my voice was like a mouse's squeak. I hope she bought it. I wasn't so sure.

As the sirens stopped smack in front of the building, I used my cell again, this time to call Malone. I prayed he wouldn't sleep through the ring tones and let the call go to voice mail.

“Andy?” I heard him say groggily. “Where are you?”

“I'm at Olivia's office at Highland Park Village,” I told him as tires screeched down below in the parking lot and car doors slammed shut. “Can you get dressed and come down here
now
?”

“What? Why?”

“Wait, scratch that,” I told him, my heart pounding. I had a feeling Millie and I were going to end up in the backseat of a squad car before Malone would even get here. “Better make that the police station.” I turned my head toward the door and caught the distant sound of the outer doors opening and closing downstairs.

“Andy,” Malone's voice had turned from groggy to panicked, “what the hell's going on?”

I said all I had a chance to say before I heard the footsteps on the stairwell. “Olivia La Belle was murdered, and I'm a bit in the thick of it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Just hurry,” I said and hung up.

I took deep breaths, trying not to freak out. Would the police think I had something to do with Olivia's death, too? Would they arrest me and Millie both? What had I gotten myself into?

I did have enough presence of mind to tell Millie not to say a word until Malone met us at the station.

“I shouldn't have come,” Millie murmured, wringing hands streaked with drying blood. “I should have ignored the text.” Tears slipped down the older woman's cheeks beneath her owl-­like glasses.

I heard noises at the door to the suite before it flew open and the place was suddenly swarming with people, EMTs coming first followed by a pair of uniformed police.

“I'm the one who called,” I said as they took in the scene. “I think Olivia La Belle was attacked,” I added in a croak.

The officers—­a short middle-­aged white male followed by a tall young woman—­quickly ushered me and Millie into the anteroom, away from Olivia, so the EMTs had enough room to do their thing.

“Are you injured, ma'am?” the female cop asked Millie, and I saw her name tag said
SHANDS.

”No,” Millie replied and started shaking hard.

I put a hand on her shoulder. “She's in shock,” I told the cops. “She found Olivia with the knife in her neck and tried to help her.”

Before either could respond, one of the EMTs emerged from Olivia's office, blood all over the latex gloves on his hands.

“Is she gonna make it?” the male cop asked, and the paramedic shook his head.

Millie loudly wept.

Officer Shands cursed under her breath. Then she nodded at her partner. “Let's secure the scene.” She gave me a hard look. “Don't either of you so much as twitch,” she instructed, before turning to speak into her shoulder mic. I heard her mention a “DB” and my head began to swim as everything started to fully sink in.

Olivia La Belle would no longer push around Millie or anyone like her. My prep school bully was now a DB, and that didn't mean dumb blonde. It meant dead body.

Ding dong,
the Wedding Belle was gone. I just hoped to God there was a guilty butcher or candlestick maker out there and it wasn't the baker who killed her.

Chapter 10

M
alone was waiting at the police station—­aka the Highland Park Department of Public Safety—­when I arrived in the back of a squad car. He had on blue jeans and sneakers, and his face looked unshaven and grim. Millie had been whisked away from Olivia's office in a separate patrol car. Officer Shands and her partner had separated us as soon as their backup appeared along with officers from the Criminal Investigations Division and a van from the county morgue.

I knew from every cop show I'd ever watched that witnesses at crime scenes were kept apart so they didn't start talking and change their stories or let someone else's perception skew what they'd really seen. I realized, too, that Millie was probably more than a witness in their minds, especially with all that blood smeared on her clothing. And maybe I was a suspect, too. They'd taken my cell phone—­the second time in two days I'd had to give it up—­and my driver's license along with it.

But I was far more worried for Millie than for myself. She'd looked so lost and afraid when they led her away. Even from afar I had seen her hands shaking. I heard a detective tell her that she had to change out of her bloodied clothes, that they'd be taken for evidence. When I saw Millie again inside the station, she was wearing what looked like hospital scrubs.

As she was shepherded through a nearby hallway, I tried to catch her eye, but she kept her head down. She wasn't handcuffed so I wasn't sure if she was being booked for murder or just being questioned. Even though I believed her story about finding Olivia with the cake knife in her throat, I couldn't deny that she looked guilty on the surface. For one, there was Olivia publicly dissing Millie over Penny Ryan's wedding cake. Two, Millie admitted to being the last person to see Olivia alive. And three, when I walked into Olivia's office she'd been hovering above the dead body holding the bloodied silver cake knife. Okay, that most of all.

“I need a moment with Ms. Kendricks, please.”

Malone's voice pulled me out of my reverie. I turned to see him converse briefly with the desk sergeant. Then he walked over to where I sat holding a paper cup with water in my trembling hands.

“Hey,” he said by way of greeting.

“Hey,” I replied and tried not to burst into tears.

“Can we have a little privacy?” he asked the officer who was babysitting me while I waited to be interviewed.

With a nod, the blue uniform stepped a few feet away.

“Oh, God, what a mess,” I murmured as he crouched before me so we were eye-­to-­eye. “What a freaking mess.”

“I should stay with you while you make your statement,” he said in a quiet tone. “You were found at a crime scene with a woman holding a knife and wearing bloody clothes. If you're not a person of interest then you're a potential witness.”

But I shook my head. “Millie needs you more,” I told him. I wasn't scared of the police, and I hoped I wasn't stupid enough to say anything that would get
me
into trouble. I hadn't done anything wrong besides. I was far more worried about Millie. “You have to help her, Brian. She's in big trouble.”

He glanced over at my babysitter cop and leaned in closer. “What the hell happened at Olivia's? I thought you were just dropping off that butt-­ugly dress?”

“I was,” I assured him in a shaky voice, “but when I walked in the door and saw her on the floor and Millie, oh, man—­”

I couldn't even describe it, not in a sound bite. I bit my lip, shaking my head. I didn't want to risk blurting out anything with the police officer so near. I didn't want to do Millie more harm than good when she was in such deep doo-­doo as it was.

“Would you mind giving us just a little more space?” Malone asked the officer who stood not three feet away, keeping an eye on us.

The guy didn't look happy but wandered over to talk to the desk sergeant.

“Tell me what you saw, everything you remember,” Malone said, sliding into the next seat. He turned so that we leaned into each other. Our foreheads nearly touched.

I tried hard to focus as I recounted what had happened once I arrived at HPV, how I'd heard Millie cry out and what I'd seen when I walked into Olivia's office. I finished in a breathless minute. Then I felt compelled to add, “Millie didn't kill her. I feel it in my bones. Olivia was half her age and twice as strong. It makes no sense.”

Malone gave me a funny smile. “I remember you said something like that when I first met you. But it was Molly O'Brien you were so sure about.”

“And I was right,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, you were right.” Malone glanced toward the hallway through which they'd taken Millie. “I've got to go, Andy. Are you sure you're okay? I can call someone else from the firm for Millie if you need me in there with you.”

“I'm okay,” I lied, but my hands were shaking so badly I dumped the cup of water onto the floor. It splashed my shoes and made a puddle around them. It wasn't the end of the world, but tears spilled onto my eyelashes.

Malone took the cup from my hands and set it aside. “If you feel pressured . . . if you need me there . . . stop talking, all right? Tell them you want an attorney present.”

“I will, I promise,” I said once I stopped choking up and could get the words out. “I didn't do anything. There's no blood on my hands. I'll be fine.”

“Just tell them what you told me.”

“Okay.”

Malone squeezed my shoulder before he left me. He motioned to the desk sergeant, and the uniform who'd been my babysitter escorted my fiancé up the hallway to wherever it was they'd squirreled away Millie.

I let out a slow breath.

“Come this way, ma'am,” a voice said, and I looked up from my chair to see Officer Shands standing with her hands on her hips.

So I got up and followed.

She led me toward a door with a plaque that labeled it as
INTERVIEW ROOM 1.
I wondered if Malone and Millie were nearby, perhaps in Interview Room 2, unless Millie rated something more sinister, like the Third Degree Room or the Spanish Inquisition Room.

Poor Millie! I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She'd gone from exclusive cake baker for Highland Park's glitterati to murder suspect in a matter of hours.

“Could I get you water or a soda?” Shands asked, showing me to a chair in the tiny room no bigger than a closet.

“No, thanks,” I said, thinking of the water I'd spilled on my shoes already. “Can we get started?” I asked, not that I was any too eager to discuss the scene I'd stumbled upon at Olivia's. But I figured the sooner we did, the faster I'd get out of there. “I don't have that much to tell.”

“Oh, I'm not the one who'll be interviewing you, Ms. Kendricks,” she said, and without another word she ducked out.

Of course, Officer Shands wouldn't be asking the questions. I'd probably be grilled by some hardened detective from the CID, who'd break me faster than Rachel Ray could crack an egg for a meat loaf.

God, help me.

I put my hands in my lap and closed my eyes, wishing I knew how to meditate to slow my racing heart. Instead, my mind began to race as well, wondering what was going on with Millie. Thank God she had Malone with her. Otherwise, I feared she'd completely crumble and confess to killing Olivia, even if she didn't do it.

At least five minutes passed and then ten (I was counting the seconds). I squirmed in my seat and stared at the walls. More time ticked by, and I drummed my fingers on the table. I started humming nothing in particular until it turned into something in particular, namely Clapton's “I Shot the Sheriff.” So I cleared my throat and stayed quiet.

Where was everyone? Was this a psychological trick to get me to break down? Did they figure if they left me alone in a dreary cubicle with two plastic chairs and a table bolted to the floor—­I shook it just to check—­I would quickly go bonkers and confess to a crime that I didn't commit?

Before I had much of a chance to dwell on all the sordid scenarios my imagination could cook up, the door clicked open and someone walked in.

I quickly realized my interrogator wasn't just any old grizzled veteran of the department but one of the higher-­ups: a petite, gray-­haired woman with a military bearing and pale eyes that could see right through me.