At the Drop of a Hat (23 page)

“Suicide? But there was no note,” Harrison said. “Wouldn't he have left a note?”

“Maybe it was an impulse,” I said. “Like I felt just now.”

“Then why did he have a bit of Ariana's blouse in his hand?”

“He was in love with her,” I said.

Harrison's eyebrows went up at that.

“Mariska Kravchuk said they broke up because he was in love with his mousy little secretary. She was very bitter about that,” I said. “She also told me that she thought a photo was worth a million pounds; she has to be the one who leaked the picture of Ariana and Russo to the media.”

“Then it makes sense that Mariska pushed him,” Harrison said. “And tried to make it look like it was Ariana.”

“But Mariska has an alibi,” I said. “And so does her boyfriend.”

“So we're back where we started,” Harrison said. “Bloody maddening it is.”

I looked back at the ledge. Anthony Russo had been in debt to a bookie who was definitely going to cause him some damage, he was in trouble with his clients for false billing, and he obviously had a substance abuse problem. In short, his life was in the toilet. Add that he was about to lose the woman he loved to someone else, and what did he have to live for? Not much.

Suddenly, it all made perfect sense to me. I knew who had killed Russo and why.

“Come on,” I said. “Ariana is innocent and I know how we can prove it.”

“Are you sure about this?” Harrison asked me.

We were standing down the street from Mariska's apartment with Detectives Franks and Simms. They actually had me wearing a wire that was hooked into my bra. I felt very MI5.

Harrison and I had left Russo's building and gone to the station. I had told the detectives my theory, and to my surprise, Franks was willing to consider it. They were tracing the origin of the photograph of Ariana and Russo that had been leaked to the papers, but the reporter was refusing to cooperate in order to protect his source.

Then there was Ariana's cell phone. The crime lab was trying to track what cell towers had sent the threatening text messages to Russo's phone. If they could track the route the messages had taken, then they might be able to determine a point of origin that wasn't Ariana's home, which would mean someone else had used her phone to send the texts.

If none of that worked, the plan was to have me chat up Mariska while the police listened and hope she said something, anything, incriminating that they could use against her.

“I'll be fine, Harry,” I said.

Instead of correcting me like he usually did, he leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Please be careful.”

I shivered, but not from the cold, and resisted the urge to hug him tight—barely.

“If you feel even the least bit in danger, get out,” Detective Franks said. “Don't worry about a graceful exit, just go.”

I nodded. Detective Simms gave me a wink and a double thumbs-up and I couldn't help but smile in return.

I left them all at the unmarked van on the corner and hurried down the sidewalk and up the walkway. This time I knew which apartment to buzz. I hit the button for Mariska's place and was relieved when it was Jean who answered.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Hello, Jean, it's Scarlett from the hat shop Mim's Whims. Is Mariska in?”

Jean hesitated a moment and I wondered if Mariska'd had her quota of vodka and caviar for the day.

“Let me check, Miss,” she said.

I waited on the stoop, wondering what I was going to do if Mariska refused to see me. Maybe I could cajole Jean. It would be worth a shot.

“Come right up, Miss,” Jean's voice came back on the intercom and I almost sagged with relief. The door popped and I pulled it open quickly, half afraid Mariska would change her mind.

I was winded by the top steps. I really needed to start working out. I wondered if the detectives and Harrison could hear me huffing and puffing through the wire. The thought was mortifying. I tried to breathe as quietly and as shallowly as possible without passing out.

Jean opened the door before I reached it and I had the feeling she was relieved to see me.

“Come in,” she said. She stepped back and waved her hand at me to enter.

I saw Mariska right away. She was sitting in the same spot I'd last seen her, reclined on the vibrantly printed chair. Sure enough, there was a decanter on the table in front of her.

“Vivian,” she said. “So good to see you.”

“Actually, I'm Scarlett,” I said.

She waved her French manicure at me. “Who cares?”

I looked at Jean as if to say “Really?” and she shrugged.

“She's been like this all morning,” Jean whispered.

“Someone should tell her it's very unattractive,” I said. Yes, I know I sounded grumpy but I didn't think I was that unforgettable or unimportant.

“Hmm,” Jean hummed noncommittally. “Can I get you anything, Miss?”

“No, thank you,” I said. I took a seat across from Mariska.

“If you'll excuse me then,” Jean said. She practically ran from the room.

I looked back at Mariska. It was then that I noticed she wasn't dolled up like she had been the last time I'd seen her. Her hair was jammed into a sloppy knot on top of her head, she wore no makeup, and her robe this time wasn't sheer but big and fluffy. Honestly, I liked her better like this. She was more human and less mannequin-like.

“Is everything all right, Mariska?” I asked.

“No,” she moaned. “Nothing is all right. My lover is dead and I . . . I . . . miss him.”

Her overwrought tone was perfect for a B movie actress.

“The towel guy?” I asked. “He's dead?”

Mariska lifted her head to give me a look that stated quite plainly she thought I was too stupid to live. Really, this visit was doing wonders for my self-esteem.

“I can assure you I am very much alive.” Jarrett Reichs entered the room and I started.

“Oh, is this a bad time to talk about modeling the hats for the shop?” I asked Mariska. I hoped I sounded sincere and not as scared as I suddenly felt. I really hadn't thought the ex-boyfriend, who was a bit scary looking, would be here. “I didn't realize you had company.”

“Don't worry, as soon as I get what I want,” Jarrett said, “I'm leaving.”

Mariska rose from her seat with the decanter in hand. Jarrett barely had time to duck as it sailed over his head and exploded against the wall, sending glass shards and vodka all over the room.

“You get nothing!” she cried. Her accent was thick with her anger.

“But I helped, I deserve a cut,” Jarrett said. His fists were clenched and I wondered if he was about to take a swing at her.

“You deserve nothing!” Mariska said. “He left everything to me.”

A smart person would have left, no, would have run from the room right then and there. I did not. I am not smart.

“Is this about Russo's death?” I asked. I really hoped that the mic I was wearing was working. Even more, I hoped that the detectives had heard the decanter smash and were on their way. “Did you two kill him?”

“No!” they answered together. I did note that Jarrett looked outraged while Mariska looked guilty. Interesting.

“I didn't think so,” I said. “Want to know what I think?”

“No!” Mariska said. “You are here about hats. That is all.”

“Yeah, that was a big, fat lie,” I said. “We aren't going to hire you as a model. I'm here because someone framed my friend Ariana, and I think it was you.”

I swear I could almost hear Harrison yelling at me from down the street. This was not what we had discussed. This was not how I was supposed to play it.

“And you helped,” I said to Jarrett.

He visibly paled. That was when I knew I was on to something.

“You're mad,” he said.

“Which one of you sent the texts?” I asked.

“I don't know what you are saying,” Mariska snapped.

“Well, let me explain,” I said. “Ariana's phone went missing a few days before Russo's death. I think he took it and gave it to someone with instructions to send him some threatening messages.”

Mariska and Jarrett were actively not looking at each other. Guilty!

“Here's the thing,” I said. I was full-on bluffing now but what the heck? These two were already rattled. I just needed to shake them loose.

“The police are going to track the route of those messages, because you know they can do that, right? Text messages ping cell phone towers just like phone calls. Yeah, and they'll be able to pinpoint where those messages came from. So I wonder if it will be your place”—I paused to look at Mariska and then Jarrett—“or yours.”

Jarrett didn't meet my gaze. “Then they'll finish sorting the security camera footage from Ariana's apartment building and see who returned her phone to her place the morning of Russo's death, and boy, will that person have some explaining to do.”

Now Jarrett looked at Mariska in a blind panic. Gotcha!

“Damn it!” he yelled at her. “You told me this was easy money. You told me all I had to do was break in and leave the phone and that was it.”

“Shut up, Jarrett,” Mariska said. She glared at me. “You can't prove anything.”

“Can't I?” I asked.

This might have been where I went too far. Mariska's face contorted in fury and she launched herself at me, taking me down to the hard floor. I had no time to prepare myself. She had me around the neck and was choking me while banging my head on the floor at the same time.

I tried to shove her off, but she was too heavy. Jarrett ran for the door, no doubt to leave before he witnessed my murder. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Jean sneaking up behind Mariska with a broom clutched in her hand.

“Ginger, wake up.” A hand was patting my face, and not very gently either. “Come on, love, you're scaring me stupid.”

“Uh,” I grunted and then I sucked in a deep breath, which caused me to hack and cough.

“She's all right!”

“Thank goodness!”

I squinted against the bright light. Harrison was leaning over me, looking worried and very, very dear.

“Did we get them?” I asked.

“Jarrett Reichs ran right into Inspector Simms's arms,” Harrison said. He pushed a bit of hair out of my face, and I noticed his hand was shaking.

Jean was hovering behind him. “All right, Miss?”

“Did you clobber her with the broom?” I asked. My voice sounded gruff and it hurt to swallow.

“Didn't get the chance,” she said. She clapped Harrison on the shoulder. “Your boyfriend here lamped her good.”

I looked at Harrison in shock. “You hit her?”

He shrugged. “No one throttles my girl.”

And if that didn't just make my heart go pitter pat.

“All right, Scarlett?” Inspector Franks peered down at me.

“Fine,” I lied.

“Think you can sit up?” Harrison asked and I nodded.

He scooped me up as if I weighed no more than a basket of laundry and put me gently down on the couch.

“I'm going to brew you some tea for that throat,” Jean said, and she left for the kitchen.

I looked across the room where Mariska and Jarrett were both seated on the floor and handcuffed.

“Well done,” Franks said. “Jarrett Reichs just peeled open like a hot chestnut. He told us everything we needed to know. I've already called the station and your mate, Turner, is overseeing the paperwork to let Ms. Jackson out.”

I sagged back in the seat. “Excellent. So it was suicide?”

Franks nodded. “Yes, Russo jumped off of the building on purpose. His plan was to frame Ariana for his murder, figuring if he couldn't have her, then he'd make sure she spent the rest of her life in jail to keep anyone else from having her.”

“Whoa, that's sick,” I said. “How do Mariska and Jarrett factor in?”

“Russo confided his plan to Mariska,” Franks said. “And he left her a large sum of money to do as he asked upon his death, which was to release the photograph and put Ariana's phone back.”

“She didn't send the threatening messages?” I asked.

“Just the last one,” Franks said.

Jean handed me a cup of tea and I took a grateful sip. The warmth did help. “Thank you,” I croaked.

A commotion at the door drew our attention. Several uniformed officers entered the room, no doubt to escort Mariska and Jarrett to the station.

“You need to go to an A&E to have your throat checked,” Franks said. I was about to protest but he gave me a dark look. “That's an order.”

“Fine,” I whispered.

“I'll make sure she goes,” Harrison said, and I knew it was nonnegotiable.

Inspector Franks put his hand on my shoulder. “When you're up to it, come by the station and we'll file an official report.”

I nodded and he gave my shoulder a solid squeeze. As he walked away, I could hear him singing, “‘It's Five O'clock Somewhere.'”

I exchanged an amused look with Harrison, who handed my tea cup to Jean and swept me up into his arms to carry me downstairs, presumably to his car, which we'd left parked at the corner.

“I can walk,” I protested.

“I know,” he said.

I glanced at his face and got lost in his bright green gaze. It was all there. He was letting me look right inside him, and I could see how scared he'd been and how relieved he was now and how he wasn't about to let me go anytime soon.