Beguiled (12 page)

At the station, they rode the elevator to the third floor, then wove through a maze of cubicles. Subdued voices, spurts of laughter, and cell phone ringtones jumbled together.

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?” He made the offer without even pausing at the stained Formica counter that held a coffeepot.

She was tempted to accept just to make him turn around, but the sooner she could leave, the better. “I’m fine, thanks.”

This wasn’t the jailhouse, just the office, but it still felt confining. She took in the generic tile floor, the dropped ceiling, and the windowless walls, then shot a prayer to heaven thanking God for her job outdoors. She’d go crazy in a place like this.

At his cubicle, Campbell motioned her into a chrome-framed torture device masquerading as a visitor’s chair and sank into his own ergonomically correct seat, complete with knobs on the side for lumbar adjustments. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Monroe.”

His desk was buried in paper, accented with fast-food wrappers and a half-eaten bagel of uncertain age. He searched in vain for a clear space on his desk, then deposited his Jack-in-the-Box soda atop an uneven stack of files. When he took his hand away, the cup shifted. She braced for the spill, but after sliding a bit, it stabilized.

Opening a side drawer, he pulled out a recorder and placed it near the edge of his desk. “Do you mind?”

She shook her head.

“For the tape, please.”

“No. I don’t mind,” she said, projecting her voice.

“Great.” He rattled off his name and rank, repeated her info, then leaned back, his chair accommodating the motion. She’d expected some kind of interview room, but apparently they were doing the statement right here. “Now, if you could list the names and addresses of all your clients.”

“I already told you to get a warrant.”

He smiled and pulled one from the inside pocket of his sports jacket. Clearly, he’d been prepared to serve it to her at the Davidsons’ had she refused to go with him.

She scanned the first few lines. She’d never seen a warrant before, but it looked legit. Still, she didn’t want to comply. But it didn’t look like she had a choice. Tucking the warrant into her bag, she started with the Davidsons.

“Excellent. And how long have you worked for them?”

His questions continued, all fairly straightforward. All tedious.

She glanced at her watch. Thirty-five minutes had passed, but it felt like hours. When she finished the list, she started to get up.

But Campbell wasn’t through.

“And where were you on August ninth between the hours of four and six p.m.?”

She blinked. “August ninth? I have no idea.”

He rummaged around his desk, then handed her a little 3 x 2 flip calendar. August ninth. A Thursday. The day the Bosticks discovered their statue missing.

“I was walking dogs.”

“Whose dogs?”

“All the dogs, Detective. I take them out twice a day. Once in the morning and again in the evenings, except for a few special cases.”

“And which ones are your special cases?”

“Well, let’s see. Lion has special needs, and—”

“You pet sit a
lion
?” His voice rose an octave.

“No. Lion is a cat. He belongs to the Petries.” She explained his phobias along with the requirements of other animals that needed extra care. “Speaking of which, I really need to get going. I’m due at the Maceys’ in a little bit.”

“Just a couple more questions.” He checked his notes. “Where were you yesterday right around two o’clock?”

She shifted in her chair, the thin metal arm digging into her thigh. “I would have been on my way to see my grandmother.”

He leaned in. “And where does your grandmother live?”

“At Bishop Gadsden on James Island.”

“What time did you arrive?”

She shrugged. “Two-thirtyish?”

“And can anyone, other than your grandmother, corroborate that?”

She stiffened as comprehension dawned. According to Logan’s article this morning, a violin was stolen yesterday from Mr. Ormsby on Legare Street. Not a current client of hers, but a past one. And if she didn’t miss her guess, the violin was stolen somewhere around two o’clock.

“Are you asking me if I have an alibi, Detective?”

“I’m just asking if anyone other than your grandmother saw you.”

She gaped at him. “Am I a suspect?”

He didn’t answer.

Gripping the armrests, she took quick, rapid breaths. “You cannot be serious. That would be like . . . like suspecting the
gardener
, simply because he works south of Broad!”

“Funny you should mention that.”

She shot to her feet. “I believe we’re through here, Detective.”

“It was a simple question, Rylee. Any particular reason you don’t want to answer?”

She snatched the recorder off the desk and held it close to her mouth. “That’s
Miss Monroe
to you, Detective.”

Slamming it back down, she grabbed her bag and stalked out of his cubicle. It wasn’t until she was outside that she realized she didn’t have her car. Groaning, she stormed to the nearest bus stop.

She was still angry when she and Romeo returned from their walk. As soon as she’d made it back to her car from the police station, she’d grabbed some shorts and sneakers from her gym bag and
run
her first few dogs instead of walking them.

Unfortunately, she was walking the little dogs and couldn’t keep up a jog for long without endangering their health. Romeo stumbled to his water bowl and collapsed on the floor while drinking out of it.

Karl stood at the bar sorting his mail. “What happened to him?”

Rylee grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the fridge. “We stepped up our pace a little bit.”

He raised his brows. “Everything all right?”

Ripping a paper towel off the bracket, she wiped her face and neck. “Fine.”

Giving her a skeptical look, he circled the bar and stepped into the kitchen. “What’s going on, Rylee?”

She took a long swallow of water, then fell back against the counter. “I’m sorry, Karl. I didn’t mean to snap. I guess I’m not having the greatest day, that’s all.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

He really was extraordinarily handsome. He wore silver slacks and a pink-striped Bengal dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. The paisley tie loosened. With his tanned skin and white-blond hair, she could stare at him for hours and never get tired of it.

By comparison, she was sweaty, sticky, and blotchy. She took another drink. It was just as well. No chance of being asked to dinner tonight, that was for sure.

“I got taken in to the police station.”

He jerked to attention. “You
what
?”

“I wasn’t arrested or anything. The detective came by after my last walk of the morning and asked if I’d come in and give him a statement.”

He took a swift breath. “Please tell me you told him no.”

She shook her head. “Should I have?”

“Of course you should have. What did you tell him?”

“Everything. I answered all his questions, until he got to the part where he asked about my alibis.”

“Rylee.” The word was soft. Like a caress.

“He suspects me, Karl. He thinks I might be the Robin Hood burglar.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know. That’s what I said, too. But he had a warrant.”

He took the glass from her hands and set it on the counter behind her. The movement brought him into her personal space and made every nerve in her body tingle.

“Don’t do that again. Okay?” He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted. “Promise me. If any officer of the law wants to talk to you ever again, promise me you won’t say a word until you’ve spoken to me first. Even if he has a warrant.”

“I promise,” she whispered.

He’s going to kiss me,
she thought.
And I smell like sweat!

She lowered her chin, breaking the contact. He stayed where he was for a few seconds more, then took a step back. Edging around him, she picked up Romeo’s water bowl, refilled it, and set it back down.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, rubbing the dog’s head.

Then she slipped out the door, unsure if she had been saying good-bye to the dog or to Karl.

Chapter Eleven

Logan stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, his sheets sticking to him like flypaper. On the desk in the corner, his manuscript pages glowed white in the gloom. Not enough of them, though. Not nearly enough. He was tempted to roll out of bed and flip the laptop open. But it was no good. He’d hit a wall—too tired to write more, too stressed to sleep.

Reaching over, he flicked on the bedside lamp. His notebook lay open, turned to a page with a name and number and plenty of underlining. He grabbed his cell before he could stop himself. He’d just leave a voice mail.

“Hello?”

He sucked in his breath. The last thing he’d expected was for her to pick up. “Uh, it’s Logan Woods.”

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

“Did I wake you?” He glanced at the clock and cringed. Two in the morning.

“No. I have a load of wash I’m waiting on.”

Stacking his pillows, he propped up his head. “Listen, you were really a lot of help yesterday.”

“I was?”

“Yeah. I guess you heard about the latest break-in? Jamison Ormsby, the violinist?”

She sighed. “I saw your article this morning. I used to work for them—him and his first wife, I mean.”

“He told me.”

Silence on the line.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“This is awful. I don’t know why it keeps happening.”

He tried to picture where she was and realized he couldn’t. He had no idea where she lived. “Maybe we should sit down and go over a list of all your clients, past and present.”

She groaned.

“What’s the matter?”

“I just did that with Detective Campbell.”

He rose up on one elbow. “Nate took you in? For a statement?”

More silence.

“Rylee?”

“He thinks I did it, Logan. He asked me for an alibi.”

“He’s only fishing. I can’t imagine he really thinks that.” But Logan could imagine it. Only too well. He’d assumed the police were dragging their heels on the breakins, considering how slapdash the follow-up at the scenes had been. But if Nate had pulled her in for questioning, that put things in a new light.

He sat up in bed.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That we need to find this guy. Robin Hood, I mean.”

Rylee put the phone down. The clock on her dvd player still flashed from the last power outage, so she had to crane her neck around to see the time on the microwave. A quarter past two in the morning. The television was on, tuned to a network sitcom she never watched, volume muted. She’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Kicking the blanket off her feet, she went into the kitchenette, poured a glass of Kool-Aid, and debated the wisdom of sharing her client information with a reporter. Detective Campbell had a warrant. Logan had nothing but a thirst to find the culprit.

Down the corridor in the laundry room, all the machines had gone quiet. Retrieving her load of wash, she slung it into the back of a dryer, tossed in a softener sheet from the community box, and fed in some quarters.

Back at her apartment, she found the door next to hers standing open. She gave it a tap. “Liz?”

The door swung wide. She took a step into her friend’s apartment, as small and bare as her own. As Liz liked to joke, it was lots of shabby, and not much chic. A futon from her college days was draped in a striped sheet. A particleboard coffee table centered on a fuzzy, hand-me-down rug. Thick grocery-store candles burnt low.

“Liz? It’s me.”

Liz walked in from the bedroom, still in her Bavarian barmaid outfit, blond ringlets cascading over her freckled shoulders. Since last summer, she’d been working full time at Queen Anne’s Revenge, a pirate-themed restaurant out on Daniel Island. Lots of tourists, plenty of tips.

“Hey, girl.” Liz gave her a hug. “I just got home.”

“I was doing some laundry.”

Liz scrunched up her nose. “I need to do mine, too. Make yourself at home while I change.”

Rylee curled up on the futon, flipping through one of Liz’s old copies of
Domino
.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?” Liz called out.

“Not really.”

Since they were both looking to economize, Liz had proposed going in as roommates. A co-worker had tipped her off about a rundown duplex in Summerville. “No charm, but oodles of cheap.”

If they split the rent, the half-hour commute would be worth it, according to Liz. But Rylee wasn’t convinced. She was already putting too much faith in her little car. Moving farther out from Nonie and work, no matter how much it saved, was too much of a risk.

Liz took a quick shower, then appeared in wet hair and a knee-length T-shirt. She arranged herself cross-legged on the futon, buffing her head dry with a towel. “So why are you stalling on my offer?

You know you wanna be my roomie.”

“It’s not that.” Rylee continued to flip through the magazine.

“You’re still worried about the distance?”

“It’s bad enough already. My car’s making funny noises, and I’m afraid to take it in.”

“That’s not the real reason, though, is it?”

Rylee looked up. “What do you mean?”

Liz gave her a sympathetic smile. “You’d be moving in the wrong direction. You want to be closer to Charleston, not farther away.” She shook her head. “That crazy rule of yours, only working south of Broad. You like to pretend that’s where you live.”

“No, I don’t.”

Liz’s tone gentled. “I think you do. You’re trying to recapture what you had when you were little bitty and lived there with your parents.”

Rylee fingered her pearl pendant. Liz was the only person she’d ever told about her father leaving along with the truth about her mother’s death.

She had fleeting memories of her parents. All of them good. Except for her mother’s funeral. She’d spent the entire ceremony searching for her father among the towering men smoking cigars. Among the women wearing black dresses and too much perfume. Knowing somehow that he was gone for good. To this day, she hated the smell of cigars and she never wore a fragrance of any kind.