Death in a Major (8 page)

Yes, I decided as I made my way along the darkened street to the nearest bus stop, I'd talk to Salnikova as I'd promised Jordan and I'd do a bit of digging into other matters to see what I could turn up. That way I'd be helping out my student and my friend as well as preventing myself from wallowing in guilt and dread.

It seemed like a perfect idea.

S
INCE
I
HAD
a few free hours the next morning before I was scheduled to teach my first student of the day, I hopped on a bus and headed for the police station. I hadn't enjoyed the best night's sleep, but I was alert enough to focus on what I hoped to achieve during my visit with Detective Salnikova. As Jordan had requested, I'd make sure she was well aware of Kevin Major's potential as a suspect in his father's murder. In addition to that, I hoped to glean whatever information I could from her about the progress of the investigation.

She wasn't likely to share much—­if any—­information with me, I knew. But I also knew there was always a chance I could learn something interesting if I kept my eyes and ears wide open while at the station. Maybe it was a long shot, but careful observation had led me to valuable information in the past.

Upon my arrival, I asked the man at the enclosed reception desk if I could speak with Salnikova. He directed me to take a seat while he checked if she was available. I hoped I wouldn't have to sit there for too long. I was all too familiar with how uncomfortable the chairs were.

A few minutes later, the man at the reception desk called for my attention.

“Ma'am?”

I got up and approached the desk, glad to leave the hard chair behind.

“I'm afraid Detective Salnikova isn't in at the moment and I'm not sure when she'll be back. Would you like to leave a message or speak to someone else?”

I tugged at my ear as I considered those options. “No, thanks. I'll call her later and set up an appointment when it's convenient for her.”

The man nodded and turned his attention to the scruffy, middle-­aged man who had just entered through the front door.

Disappointed that I hadn't accomplished anything during my visit to the station, I wandered across the reception area to the door. As I pulled it open, I heard a woman sob somewhere behind me. When I glanced over my shoulder, I let go of the door, forgetting my intention to leave.

A uniformed officer had entered the reception area from a back hallway. While the door was open for him to pass through, I caught a glimpse of another officer leading a crying woman along the hallway in my direction. Behind him followed Detective Salnikova, the person I'd come to see. But the detective wasn't the one who had caught my attention. Instead, my wide, shocked eyes locked on the woman in tears.

Mrs. Andrea Duffy.

Jordan's mother.

 

Chapter Eight

M
RS.
D
UFFY?”

She raised her head when I called her name, but her tear-­filled eyes barely registered my presence. I'd never seen her so distraught and disheveled, her light brown hair hanging in straggles and her makeup smeared. She hadn't even looked that bad when her father took ill at the reception.

I caught hold of the door as the uniformed officer with Mrs. Duffy guided her into a room halfway down the hall.

“Sorry, ma'am, you can't go back there,” the officer next to me said as I made a move to leave the reception area for the back corridor.

I opened my mouth to protest, but Salnikova spoke up before I got a word out.

“It's all right, McGuire. She can come with me.”

Relieved that she hadn't sent me on my way, I hurried to Salnikova's side. She ducked her head into the room where Mrs. Duffy had been taken and said a few words. I tried to peer in through the open door, but Salnikova put a hand on my back and guided me farther down the corridor.

“You've arrested Mrs. Duffy?” I still couldn't believe it.

“What are you doing here, Ms. Bishop?”

“I came to talk to you, but the man at the front desk said you weren't here.”

“I just arrived. And Mrs. Duffy isn't under arrest. She's here to answer some questions she didn't want to answer at home in front of her son.”

She offered that explanation as we reached an open area filled with several desks, a few of which were occupied by detectives in suits. The gray filing cabinets and light gray walls didn't exactly give the place a cheery atmosphere, but I figured most of the detectives' work was probably more grim than cheery. A lone potted plant stood in one corner, but a thick layer of dust left it looking almost as gray as the drab walls.

“Take a seat, Ms. Bishop.” Salnikova's voice interrupted my study of the room.

“Could you please call me Midori?” I requested as the detective pointed me to a chair next to one of the desks. “Ma'am and Ms. Bishop are so formal, they don't sound like me.”

“All right.”

Her agreement brought a smile to my face even though I was still distracted by the presence of Jordan's mother down the hall. I sat in the offered chair and waited until Salnikova had settled behind her desk.

“Do you really think Mrs. Duffy could be the killer?” I asked. “I find that so hard to believe.”

“I'm afraid I can't—­”

“—­discuss an ongoing investigation,” I finished for her. I'd lost count of how many times she'd told me that in the past.

“That's right. Now, what did you want to see me about?”

It took me a second to shift gears. “Kevin Major. Jordan, his nephew, believes he killed Mr. Major. Maybe you don't agree, but I promised Jordan I'd talk to you and make sure you were at least looking into Kevin as a suspect. He has a criminal past and he did make that ominous statement the night of the reception, don't forget.”

She ignored that last part. “And your connection to Jordan Duffy?”

“I'm his violin teacher.”

“I see. Jordan raised his concerns with me the other day and I can assure you that we've been investigating a number of possible suspects.”

“So you've talked to Kevin?”

“I have.”

I waited but she didn't elaborate on her answer. She really wasn't going to give anything away.

A heavyset man with gray hair and a protruding stomach lumbered his way between the desks, heading in our direction and distracting me from my conversation with Salnikova. Although he wore cargo pants and a T-­shirt rather than a suit, I recognized him right away.

“I was wondering where he was,” I said as Salnikova's partner, Detective Bachman, drew closer to us.

Salnikova swiveled in her seat to see who I was talking about. “Mark? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at home resting.”

Bachman waved off his partner's concern. “I was going stir-­crazy. Thought I'd come by to see how things are going with the Major case.” His gray eyes slid to me and narrowed with recognition. “Don't tell me you're mixed up in this case.”

“I'm not mixed up in anything,” I said, unable to help sounding indignant. “I simply have a . . . peripheral involvement.”

That wasn't too much of a stretch of the truth. At least, I didn't think it was. I hadn't yet done anything aside from retrieving Ernest's note and talking to Jordan and Detective Salnikova. That hardly qualified as getting mixed up in the investigation. JT and Bachman might not agree with me, but I was sticking to that opinion.

Bachman let out a dubious-­sounding grunt and returned his attention to his partner. “I hear you've got the daughter in for questioning.”

Salnikova glanced at me and got to her feet. “I'll just be a moment.”

I sat back in my chair as the two detectives moved several feet away to converse in lowered voices. They both kept their backs angled toward me so I couldn't attempt to read their lips. I strained my ears and thought I heard the words “fingerprints” and “flask” but beyond that I couldn't catch anything.

Disappointed, I let my eyes wander over Salnikova's desk. A file folder sat in the middle of it. Although it appeared innocent enough, once I'd spotted it I couldn't forget about it. The thought that it might contain information about Major's murder burned in my brain.

I cast a glance in the detectives' direction. They were still in the midst of their hushed conversation and didn't seem to have the least bit of interest in me. A quick sweep of the open area told me that no one else was paying attention to me either. Biting down on my lower lip, I reached out toward the folder.

I knew I shouldn't touch it. I knew I could get in major trouble if anyone caught me snooping into its contents. But I couldn't resist. With another quick glance at Detectives Bachman and Salnikova, I lifted the folder open and craned my neck to peer at the top sheet of paper inside.

It appeared to be some sort of report. I scanned the top sheet, which mostly seemed to be filled with mumbo-­jumbo. But I understood enough to conclude that it must be the toxicology report. And since Major's name was printed near the top, I knew I wasn't looking at the report for some other case.

Knowing I had limited time before Salnikova's return, I ran my eyes down the page for a second time, trying to retain whatever information I could. That wasn't much, but one word did jump out at me.

Brugmansia.

Letting the folder fall closed, I sat back and dug my phone out of my purse. Once online, I typed the familiar word into the search bar. As soon as the search results popped up, I knew why the word had rung a bell.

Angel's trumpet.

My mom had grown
Brugmansia
a few years back and the one thing I knew about it was that it was extremely poisonous.

Oh my God. That's what the killer used to poison Mr. Major.

As that thought echoed in my head I realized it didn't tell me much. It wasn't as if there was a limited class of ­people with access to angel's trumpet. It probably grew in many gardens around the city. Mrs. Duffy could have obtained some as easily as anyone else on my suspect list.

Although it was difficult for me to believe that Mrs. Duffy had killed her father, the police obviously had reason to think she at least had some pertinent information, otherwise they wouldn't have brought her in for questioning. I hoped it wasn't anything more than that because I didn't want to believe Jordan had a murderer for a mother. But the fact that she seemed so distraught had me worried.

Poor Jordan. He had to be devastated about the whole situation, especially now that the police had dragged his mom right into the middle of it.

Catching sight of Salnikova approaching out of the corner of my eye, I cleared away any evidence of the search on my phone and slipped the device back into the depths of my purse.

I smiled, hoping she didn't suspect that I'd snooped into the report. “Is Detective Bachman all right?”

“He's on medical leave,” Salnikova replied as she sat down at her desk again. “He's recovering from some minor surgery, but he'll be fine.”

She shifted the report off to one side. Tension I hadn't previously noticed eased out of my body when she made no sign that she suspected I'd touched it.

“That's good to hear,” I said.

“Now, was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No, I really came here for Jordan's sake. It must be hard for him to know you're questioning his mom.”

A shadow of something close to regret passed across Salnikova's face. “It's a difficult time for him, of course.”

“Hopefully he's hanging in there.” I got up out of my chair. “I'd better get off to work. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

Detective Salnikova walked me out of the police station and I set off down the street toward the bus stop, my head buzzing. The police seemed to be working hard to solve Mr. Major's murder, and that was a good thing. It was never nice to think that a killer was roaming free. If they found the killer quickly, I'd no longer have to worry about solving the case to bring Jordan closure.

Of course, if Jordan's mother was a murderer rather than a person with pertinent information to share, then Jordan would be more distraught than ever and I wouldn't know how to help him. Hopefully the investigation wasn't going in that direction and never would, but as I once again remembered Mrs. Duffy's distress, I couldn't help but think that she was indeed a suspect in her father's murder.

A
S SOON AS
I finished teaching my last lesson of the day, I packed up my violin and set off from JT's house. Aaron was due to arrive for band practice in less than an hour and I didn't want to linger in case he showed up early. Maybe I should have stayed around instead of putting off our breakup until the next day, but I wasn't brave enough for that. I told myself it wouldn't be kind to break up with Aaron right before his band practice. An excuse, yes, but I let myself buy it.

On my way to the theater, I ducked into a small Japanese restaurant and ordered myself some dinner. I tried not to think about Aaron while I munched my way through a dynamite roll and washed it down with a cup of tea. I also tried not to think about him as I traveled the rest of the way to the theater and during the rehearsal. Although I wasn't entirely successful, the music was—­as usual—­a helpful distraction, as was Bronwyn's predicament.

I noted with a pang of worry that she wasn't present at the theater. During our break in the middle of the rehearsal, I leaned toward Mikayla and asked, “Have you heard anything from Bronwyn?”

“She texted me earlier today. She said she was too humiliated and embarrassed to show her face here tonight.”

I frowned, feeling bad for my absent friend. “But she hasn't been kicked out of the orchestra yet?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

My eyes settled on Hans where he stood speaking with two clarinet players. As their conversation drew to a close, I got up from my seat and wound my way around chairs and music stands, reaching Hans as the other musicians turned to walk away.

“Did you talk to Mr. Hollingsworth?” I asked without preamble.

Hans hesitated, but eventually responded in a lowered voice. “I did.”

“And?”

His eyes scanned the stage around us, as if to make sure no one was listening in. “We think we can keep the theft quiet and avoid bad publicity.”

“But what about Bronwyn? What's going to happen to her?”

Hans sighed. “Nothing has been decided for certain yet, but it doesn't look good for her. We can't have a thief in our midst.”

“But she's not a thief!”

“Can you prove that?”

I frowned, not wanting to voice my answer.

“I admire you for sticking by your friend, Midori,” he said. “But there's not much I can do for her in the circumstances.” His eyes drifted away from me, his attention shifting. “It's time to resume the rehearsal.”

Disappointed, I returned to my seat, wishing I could think of a way to help Bronwyn. But as much as I didn't want to admit it, I had no idea how to track down the real thief. I recalled that Bronwyn had carried her shoulder bag with her in the reception room when she came to say goodbye. That meant pretty much anyone present at the reception could have slipped the brooch into her bag.

But why had they done so?

Maybe someone had a grudge against her and wanted to get her kicked out of the orchestra. I found that hard to believe, knowing how nice Bronwyn was, but if the real thief was spiteful enough, it wasn't impossible.

I decided to consider that possibility further when I had a chance. In the meantime, I let myself get caught up in the rehearsal, and by the time it came to an end I had something else on my mind. It was the night of Jordan's first at-­home lesson and I wanted to leave the theater as soon as possible so I wouldn't be late. Mrs. Duffy had e-­mailed me the evening before, confirming that she was okay with the plan Jordan and I had come up with. She'd also provided me with the address of Mr. Major's house in Shaughnessy, where she and Jordan had been living ever since she and her husband had split up.

Soon after packing up my instrument and leaving the theater, I boarded a bus and headed toward the upscale neighborhood of Shaughnessy. I had to walk two blocks after disembarking from the bus, but streetlamps lit my way and I found the house without difficulty.

Before heading for the front door, I paused in front of Mr. Major's residence, taking in the sight of it. As I had expected, the house—­a small mansion, really—­was impressive. White and dark brown, it was built in the Tudor style, and each of its generous two stories had to be at least four times the size of my apartment. Probably more. I didn't doubt that the property was worth several million dollars.