A Killer Retreat (10 page)

nine

After that, his questions
became significantly more pointed. My answers, more tentative. I knew my Tofurky was cooked when he suggested that we continue our conversation at the police station. My body flashed hot, then cold. I squeezed my arms tight to my body and suppressed the urge to bolt.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. Not yet.”

At least that was something.

He narrowed his eyes. “Should you be?”

I consciously relaxed my fists and tried not to blink. “No. Definitely not.”

Sergeant Bill's plastic smile didn't reach the wrinkles around his eyes. “Well then, there's no need to make this difficult. All you need to do is come to the station, answer a few more questions, and you'll be on your way.”

He couldn't fool me that easily. If nothing else, Dad's stories had taught me that smart criminals never threw away their rights. “I don't have to go with you.”

Sergeant Bill shrugged. “That's true. You don't. But unless you have something to hide, there's no reason not to.” He leaned back and jiggled the cuffs on his belt. “I'd hate to come back here with an arrest warrant.”

On the other hand,
I
wasn't a criminal. And I didn't want to act like one.

I should have refused to go anywhere without a lawyer, but I felt oddly compelled to obey. As if by obeying, I could convince Sergeant Bill that I was a good girl—much too good to commit murder.

“OK. Give me the address and I'll meet you there.”

He pushed back his chair and thrust the notebook into his pocket. “We'll drive together.”

Instead of one phone call, he allowed me one stop—at the cabin, to tell Michael where I was headed.

Worry lines creased Michael's brow. “Kate, don't say anything. I'll follow behind and meet you at the station.”

I'm not sure who I was trying to convince: Michael or myself. “I'll be fine, Michael. The only thing I'm guilty of is trying to save Monica's life.” I tried to smile, but my stressed-out lips barely curled upward. “Stay here with Bella. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Michael followed us outside. Sergeant Bill opened the door to the back seat of his car and gestured for me to get in.

“Can't I at least sit in the front?”

“It's against regulations, Ma'am.” I didn't argue. Good girls didn't argue.

The door slammed shut.

The space around me felt suddenly smaller—more claustrophobic. I tried to lengthen my breath, but it refused to comply, remaining shallow and high up in my chest. I wasn't under arrest, so why did I feel like a prisoner? I reached over to roll down the window.

I couldn't.

There weren't any window controls, no door handles, either. I couldn't even climb to the front seat, unless I figured out how to wedge my body underneath the car's screened divider.

“It's kind of lonely back here,” I quipped. “How about some music?”

Sergeant Bill ignored my request and all subsequent attempts at idle chatter. We drove in silence for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes during which my imagination went wild, listing all of the evidence against me. I almost convinced myself I was guilty.

I'd threatened to kill Monica in front of several witnesses. Twice, if you counted the rat poisoning comment. I was all talk, no action, but no one on Orcas knew that.

That gave me motive.

A witness found me bent over the body, holding the murder weapon.

That gave me means.

I was alone with Monica's body for several minutes before anyone found us.

That gave me opportunity.

If I wanted to look innocent, I shouldn't have touched anything. I shouldn't have wasted time looking for cell phones. I should have immediately left the spa and run screaming for help. But what if Monica had still been alive? I couldn't leave her there, floating. Not when there was even a remote possibility that I could save her. So I'd done everything I could think of to help—all while making myself look guilty, at least to Sergeant Bill.

But I knew something Sergeant Bill didn't. I knew I was innocent. I may have had means, motive, and opportunity, but so did the real murderer. I didn't know who that was—yet—but I was damned sure going to figure it out. Washington was a death penalty state. My life might depend on it.

The car turned right and bumped along a long, dusty gravel road that ended at a squat wooden building. The sign out front read “San Juan County Sheriff: Orcas Island Station.” Sergeant Bill pulled into one of the four parking spots and turned off the ignition. He released me from my mobile prison cell and uttered the first words he'd said to me since we left Elysian Springs.

“After you.”

He nodded at a middle-aged blonde seated at the reception desk
and led me to a small, airless room containing a metal table and two chairs. The room's baby-vomit-green walls were completely bare, with nothing, not even the requisite two-way mirror, to make the space feel inviting.

Sergeant Bill slowly lowered the blinds. Each screeching pull on the multistringed cord sucked out more of the room's oxygen. Each disappearing sliver of light siphoned off more of my confidence. My heart hammered. My mouth felt dry. Even my skin itched. I hadn't done anything wrong, so why did I feel such an overwhelming need to confess?

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

“Coffee would be great. Thanks.” The last thing my already hyperaroused system needed was caffeine, but holding the hot mug might soothe me. At the very least, it would give me something to do with my hands.

He left the room and said he'd be back shortly. The door clicked behind him. I turned the knob, just to be sure. Locked.

I had no idea how much time passed as I sat in that small, suffocating room, but it was long enough for my conscience to go crazy.

Maybe I
was
guilty, in a way.

My actions didn't warrant a life sentence, but they were nothing to brag about, either. Yoga's philosophy advocates nonviolence—in actions, words, and thoughts. I didn't lay a hand on Monica, but my words certainly carried a punch. And my thoughts, well they'd been downright malicious. I'd practically
dared
the universe to hurt her.

All of my recent sins haunted me while I waited in that putrid
room. The longer I sat there alone, the guiltier I felt, which was pro
bably Sergeant Bill's plan all along.

After at least a decade, Sergeant Bill returned and placed a paper cup of metallic-smelling brown liquid on the table. He skipped the preamble and got right to the punch.

“Look, no one thinks you
planned
to hurt that woman. Everyone I talked to said she was a real bitch. You just got angry—out of control. Maybe even temporarily insane.” He sat down and crossed his ankle over his knee. “I want to help you, but I can't. Not unless you allow me to. Make it easy on yourself and confess. I'll do everything I can to help you get a reduced sentence.”

The sheer ludicrousness of the situation finally occurred to me. “Yes, I was mad at her—
over a dog
. Why would I kill her over that? I barely knew her! Besides, like you said, Monica was a real …” I stopped myself. “Not many people liked her.”

“Yes, but you were the only person found choking her.”

And that's when I panicked. A chemical thunderstorm raged through my system. My adrenal glands opened, flooding my body with adrenalin and cortisol. My heart pounded. My blood sugar
plummeted. I felt dizzy, frustrated, and terrified all at the same time.

I pounded my fists on the table and yelled, “I didn't choke her!”

Sergeant Bill uncrossed his ankle and raised his eyebrows. “That's quite a temper you have there, miss. Did you lose control
like that this morning? Is that why you strangled that poor woman?”

Two horrifying images flashed through my mind. The first was
a thirty-two-year-old, pony-tailed yoga teacher gripping the bars of
an eight-foot-square prison cell. The second was the confused face of the unadoptable German shepherd she'd left behind. The fire in my system fizzled, suffocated by heavy, cold dread.

At first I said nothing. I clutched the arms of the chair, stared at the table, and took several lengthened breaths. Then I consciously relaxed my hands. Finally, I stalled for more time by sipping the tepid battery acid inside my coffee cup.

By the time I looked up, I had no energy left for false bravado. “You're right. I have a terrible temper. Always have. I'm not proud of it.” Tears blurred my vision. “But I've never been violent, not once. I swear to you, I didn't kill Monica. I tried to save her life.”

Sergeant Bill wrinkled his brow, leaned back, and stared at me for at least a century. He gave a single, distinct nod.

“I believe you.”

I tried to read his expression, but I couldn't be sure. Did he
really
believe me, or was this another one of his tactics?

He sat forward again and laid his palms on the table. “Talk to me, Miss Davidson. Tell me exactly what happened this morning.” He held up a finger. “And this time, don't hold anything back.”

Lord only knows what would have happened next. I certainly wasn't about to exercise my right to remain silent. Frankly, I would have done just about anything to leave that oxygen-deprived room. I opened my mouth, about to admit everything—beach walk, death threats, and all.

“I never meant to—”

The door burst open and a tall, bearded man strode purposefully into the room.

“Hello, Bill. You may as well stop right now. My client is done talking.”

His client?

If he was a lawyer, I was a supermodel.

The gray-bearded man wore filthy jean overalls hooked over a red flannel shirt. An unpleasant smell emanated from the soles of his work boots. I'd never met this man, but I knew him. His picture had hung above my dinner table at Eden.

What was the goat rescue guy doing here, claiming to be my attorney?

Sergeant Bill looked annoyed. The goat man, amused.

I'm pretty sure I looked like I was about to be sick.

My horrified eyes locked on the stranger's beard. I saw something in it—something different than the usual collection of saliva and food crumbs. Something was lodged in that disorganized tangle of facial hair, right next to his chin. It only moved when he talked, right? Surely it wasn't … it couldn't be …
alive
?

I looked to the side and tried not to gag.

“Who are you?” I asked between swallows.

The goat man's reply sounded stern, in spite of his disarming, hillbilly twang. “Miss Davidson, I highly recommend that you shut that pretty little mouth of yours.” He turned to my inquisitor. “My client has nothing to say to you, Bill. So unless you plan to arrest her, you'd best be letting her go now.”

Sergeant Bill sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine, Dale. You win. But she'd better not leave the island.”

Dale, the goat lawyer, gestured toward the door. “Give us a second, honey. Your friends are outside.”

Just the invitation I was waiting for. I scurried out of the room and joined Michael, Rene, and Sam in the lobby.

Michael wrapped me in a long, hard hug. “Kate, are you OK?”

“I'm fine. Stressed out, but fine.” I pointed to the interview room. “Who's that guy in there claiming to be my lawyer?”

“He's a lawyer?” Michael looked confused.

“He must be John's friend,” Rene replied.

I rubbed my temples and groaned. “I thought this day couldn't get any worse. You called John?”

I understood why. John O'Connell had been my father's partner at the Seattle Police Department. Even more importantly, he was my friend. He practically adopted me when Dad died. After twenty-five years on the force, John, more than anyone, would know where to find me a Get Out of Jail Free card.

Still, it was hard to know which would be worse—death by hanging or a life sentence of listening to John's lectures about my newest run-in with the law. I supposed I could always choose lethal injection …

“Don't be mad, Kate,” Rene said. “I called him. We didn't know what else to do. John said you needed a lawyer—immediately. He told us to head to the station and wait for a friend of his.”

Michael took over telling the story. “We left right away. That farmer guy walked in a couple of minutes after we got here.” He shook his head. “I still can't believe he's an attorney.”

“Maybe John's developing Alzheimer's,” I quipped.

“Funny, Kate.” Rene smiled, but her eyes remained sober. She put her hand on my arm. “Hon, you need to take this seriously. You might be in real trouble. Is it true that you threatened to strangle the woman who was killed?” Her face turned green. “Oh no, I think I'm going to be sick.”

She covered her mouth and bolted for the bathroom. By the time she reemerged a few minutes later, Dale had ambled into the lobby. His voice was significantly louder than I would have expected, considering he was bound by attorney-client privilege.

“It was just like I thought. Bill doesn't really think you killed anyone, but he had to bring you in to keep up appearances, it being an election year and all.” He reached out his hand. “I'm Dale Evans, by the way. I'm your attorney. You must be the infamous Kate.” He paused mid-shake, pulled me closer, and peered directly into my eyes. “You
didn't
kill anyone, did you?”

“Of course not. Why would I kill someone over an off-leash dog?”

He smiled and released his grip. “That'd be a new one, grant you that.” He flashed a huge smile at the obviously eavesdropping receptionist. “Hey there, Dolores. How're you doing? Beautiful day, isn't it?”