Motion for Malice (11 page)

Seaver's mouth twisted when he looked at me. "My brother tells me you work for his lawyer. Do you always find it appropriate to share confidential client information?"

I was glad it was dark so he couldn't see my color rise. "Well, in my defense," I said, "her business address is hardly confidential. Thanks to the Internet, you can find out pretty much anything about anyone these days. If you ask me, it's a bit too much. What if a person doesn't want to be found?
I
don't want to be found." I was talking too much because Seaver Beeber made me nervous. I could have had a worse reaction. When my childhood dog, Jingles, had gotten nervous, he'd peed on the floor.

I bit my lip and looked over at Maizy. She immediately took the handoff. "So I was chatting with Artemis Angle a few nights ago, and he—"

"Artemis Angle," Seaver repeated slowly. A chill ran down my spine. I pulled up my collar against the rain that he didn't seem to notice.

Maizy nodded. "The Society of Seers? Interesting man."

"Bloodsucker," Seaver said sharply.

"Well, he was very complimentary of your sister-in-law," Maizy said. "He said she was very gifted."

"I suppose to a housefly," Seaver said, "a spider is very gifted."

It didn't take a trained eye to see that Seaver didn't seem to hold Dorcas in the highest regard. And he certainly didn't care for Artemis Angle either.

"I thought it might be helpful," Maizy went on, "to get a few shots of Mrs. Beeber's working space. For color, you understand."

I stared at her. There was no way I was setting foot back in that studio. And I wasn't shutting myself into a deserted building with Seaver. I was beginning to suspect he spent the daylight hours asleep, in a bed with a lid.

Seaver studied Maizy. She held steady, looking back at him without guile. She'd pulled up her hood so that the blue hair was under cover. Her hands weren't shaking or anything. "May I ask how old you are?" he said finally. "You seem very young to be a reporter."

"Aren't you sweet," she said. "But ladies never tell." She took a step toward the door. "So, if you have a few minutes—"
"I'm sorry, I don't." He stuck a key in the lock, angling his body so that he blocked our sightline. "My brother asked me to pick up something for him. I have no intention of spending any time in this place." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes black. "And I suggest you don't, either. It's not safe. They say killers often return to the scene of their crime." His teeth flashed in a very inappropriate and chilling grin. "I'd hate to see something happen to either of you."

Maizy looked at me and did a
what did I tell you?
eyebrow raise. She opened her mouth but before she could put her foot in it, I put my arm around her and guided her back in the direction of the Gremlin. I was soaked and my creepy quotient was full. "Sorry to bother you," I said. "Give my regards to Weaver." And I hustled Maizy into the street.

"Wait!" he called out.

I felt Maizy slowing to a stop. "Keep moving," I whispered.

"Maybe he changed his mind," she whispered back.

"There is no way he changed his mind," I told her.

"I changed my mind," he yelled. "You can take your photos."

"Don't you dare turn around," I whispered harshly.

Maizy pivoted toward Seaver but kept walking backwards. "Sorry," she called out. "I just realized I forgot my camera. I usually have a photographer traveling with me, but budget cuts, you understand."

I looked over my shoulder, and I wasn't sure, what with the dark and the rain, but I could have sworn Seaver was chuckling, and not in a good-natured kind of way. More like a nasty
I nailed you
kind of way. "Yes," he called back. "I understand completely. I'll be seeing you again, ladies."

Not if I could help it, he wouldn't.

Monday mornings were delightful all on their own with the flood of phone calls from the litigiously challenged forced to wait out the weekend. Mine was made even more so when Detective Bradley Bensinger showed up at 9:15. He was very short and very hairy and very muscular. His slacks strained to contain his Incredible Hulk thighs. His jacket stretched tight across his shoulders. He had no neck. He did, however, have a full head of very thick hair, so black it was almost blue, with a little curl to it that would have been cute if it had been on someone else's head.

He sat next to me in the conference room, smiling as if we'd just been reacquainted at a class reunion. "You can relax," he told me, as if there was any chance of that. "I'm not here to arrest you."

Yet
was the unspoken ending to that sentence.

"What a relief," I said, although I wasn't feeling relieved at all. "I already gave a statement," I added.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you did. And I read your statement." He kept smiling. His hand was resting on the table, his fingers drumming lightly. He had hair on the back of his hands. I wondered if he had a hairy back. I hated hairy backs. Then I felt guilty for thinking about his hairy back when I had Curt's perfectly smooth back to think about. Only I didn't have Curt's perfectly smooth back, because Curt was in upstate New York not speaking to me. Curt wanted a "normal"
woman, whatever that meant. Probably someone who didn't carry on entire conversations in her head. Good luck with that.

"…between five and six o'clock?" Detective Bensinger was asking.

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

He stopped drumming, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a pack of Dentyne. He offered it to me. "Gum?" I shook my head. He took a piece for himself and put the pack away. "I said, do you happen to remember where you were between five and six o'clock Friday before last?"

Friday before last. The night I'd found Dorcas dead. I thought back. "I was here until five," I said. He nodded and chewed. I'd had dinner with Curt and Maizy. After… "I got stuck in traffic on the way home," I added. "On the interstate. Some sort of accident or something. You probably heard about it. Maybe you were there. Except I guess you wouldn't be, would you, unless someone was killed. Not killed in the accident, I mean. Unless someone got run over on purpose. That would qualify, right?" I took a deep, shaky breath and bit down on the inside of my mouth. I really had to learn how to control my nerves. Maizy would stare this guy straight in the eye and make up some fantastic story as if she'd been aboard Air Force One on her way to Stockholm with the President at the time of the murder.

Was he asking about the murder? Did he think I'd had something to do with it? My heart did a slow roll into my throat. "You don't think I had something to do with Dorcas's murder," I said. "Do you?"

"Just checking something out," he said pleasantly. I expected him to whip out a notepad and jot
Nothing to see here,
but he kept sitting there, smiling, chewing Dentyne, just him and his hairy back and his suspicions. "Don't suppose you called anyone on your cell phone while you were stuck in traffic."

I shook my head primly. "That's against the law."

"Right." He looked at me some more. "And I guess you were alone."

I nodded, not trusting myself to open my mouth without throwing up, and I didn't want to throw up on his poorly fitting sport coat. Up close, it had a few loose threads and a missing button. I focused on the buttonhole to avoid meeting his eyes. Then I thought it might seem suspicious if I didn't look him in the eye. I tried to remember the body language experts I'd seen interviewed on television, but the only thing that came to mind was Nancy Grace howling for the death penalty.

Wait. I forced myself to look up. "What do you mean, checking something out?"

"Let's call it following up," he said. "As I said, I'm not here to arrest you. Did you happen to see anyone you knew? While you were sitting there on the highway, waiting for this accident to clear?"

I wish I could have said I'd seen the Pope. Or more precisely, that the Pope had seen me. "I didn't really pay attention." I hesitated. "What are you following up, exactly?"

His eyes remained steady on me. Under other circumstances he would have had nice eyes. Light blue, like glacier ice. "Just a tip that someone matching your description was in the Oak Grove business district around 5:30 on the day Mrs. Beeber was killed."

My mouth fell open. "What? But I didn't get there until almost eight o'clock!"

He nodded. "I read that. With Maizy Emerson, right?"

"Her father is a cop," I said. "Police officer," I amended.

"Pretty good alibi," he said.

"I wasn't looking for an alibi," I told him. "Maizy wanted a reading."

"Yeah, so she said. Guess she never got one, huh." His forefinger lifted and fell. Other than that, he was still and watchful. "Maybe you went there earlier, too, after work?"

"I did not!" I said hotly. "Who told you that?"

"How long does it take you to get home from work?" he asked. "Say on a day without a traffic jam."

I hadn't had one of those days yet. "Twenty minutes," I said. "Give or take."

"So let's do the math. You left here at, what, five o'clock?"

I nodded dumbly, wondering if I should bring Wally downstairs. He wasn't a criminal lawyer, but he could still throw a little legal weight around. Of course, Detective Bensinger had said he wasn't there to arrest me. They always said that, right? Put you at ease and then put you in handcuffs. Twenty years to life later, and you're saying
I should've brought Wally downstairs.

"And you got home at six?"

I nodded again. "You know, I'm going to go call—"

"So that leaves forty minutes unaccounted for," he said, as if he hadn't heard me. "And you know—we found something interesting. Your fingerprints were on the murder weapon. All over it, actually."

There it was. I went weak with relief. "I can explain that. I tried to move Dorcas's crystal ball. Like this." And I demonstrated a pushing motion with both hands. "She'd put it on some papers on my desk when she'd come in that morning, and it was in my way."

His eyebrow lifted. "She brought her crystal ball to an appointment with a lawyer?"

I nodded. "She wanted to sue the manufacturer. She was one of those people that—"
No, no, no!
I'd seen enough crime dramas on TV to know that whenever the suspect volunteered information, it always got them in trouble.

"One of those people that?" he prompted.

I shrugged. "One of those people that wanted to do a good job for her clients."

"Right." He sat there looking at me, not saying anything, not drumming the table. Not even chewing his Dentyne. "And so you moved it off your desk," he said.

I shook my head. "I tried to, twice. I couldn't get it to move at all. It was the strangest thing."

"Yeah," he said. "It sounds strange."

"I'm pretty weak," I said. "I'm probably osteoporotic. It's a wonder I don't break a bone just walking across the room. See?" I made a muscle, which wouldn't have been visible if I'd been naked, let alone under the long sleeves of my faux silk blouse. "Take my word for it," I said. "I'm a ninety-pound weakling. As I said, I tried a couple of times, but nothing." I shrugged. "I'm not your girl. Killer." I swallowed hard. "Woman."

It took a few seconds during which I tried to count my heartbeats, except they were coming fast and furious so I lost track. Finally he said, "Guess not. Thanks for your time." And he shook my hand and strolled out, the reacquainted classmate leaving the reunion happy that his school days were behind him.

I waited until I heard the front door close before snatching up the phone. Maizy answered her cell on the first ring. "We have to kick up this so-called investigation," I told her. "I just became an official suspect."

"I'll be there by 3:30. Get sick and leave work early." And she disconnected.

No problem there. I was sick already.

*   *   *

With my nerves completely frayed, the best I could manage for lunch was a Butterscotch Krimpet at my desk and a few sips of water. Even that felt like too much in my stomach. I kept telling myself I hadn't killed Dorcas, so I had nothing to worry about, but that only worked until I remembered that someone had claimed I'd been in Oak Grove at five-thirty on the day Dorcas had died. And that the police had discovered my fingerprints were on the crystal ball. Except that had an innocent explanation, so maybe the so-called eyewitness had just been mistaken about the time and had been driving through downtown Oak Grove when Maizy and I had actually gotten there. Three hours later. A nasty little voice in my ear whispered that it was hard to confuse 5:30 with 8:30, even in the dark of winter.

Plus there had been no mention of me being with Maizy. And no cars had passed through downtown Oak Grove while we'd been there. Only that mystery SUV parked down the street.

Which made it seem likely that someone was deliberately trying to put me in Oak Grove at the time of the murder. And since my name had been in the news after finding the body, that someone could be anyone with a grudge against Dorcas and a need to cast suspicion elsewhere.

At 12:45, the front door opened, and Weaver Beeber struggled through under the weight of a big cardboard box loaded with papers. His brother Seaver followed him, lugging Chandler in his carrier. Chandler wasn't wearing his little velvet sweater anymore. Weaver was making a man out of Chandler.

Seaver hung back while his brother approached my desk. I buzzed Howard and cleared a spot for Weaver to put the box down.

"I hope Mr. Dennis doesn't mind," he said, blotting at his forehead. "I just brought all the paperwork in my beloved's desk. I didn't have the heart to go through her things quite yet."

I noticed a life insurance policy and Dorcas's will were at the top of the pile. Apparently he'd had the heart to go through enough things to find those.

"That's fine," I said. "He'll figure out what's important, and we'll return the rest. Let me take you up to see Howard."

"I'll be down here if you need me," Seaver told him.

Weaver hoisted the box and followed me up the stairs to Howard's office. When he was settled in, I went down the hall to Wally's office. He was on the phone. I lingered in the doorway, wanting to ask him if I really had anything to worry about with the whole Dorcas thing, but he showed no signs of ending the call. In fact, he swung his chair around to face his credenza. I'd have to catch him later.