One Hot Mess (10 page)

It was easy as tinkling to talk his secretary into letting me meet with him.

“Ms. Ankeny” he said, arm extended, a hundred teeth gleaming as he hurried across the floor. “I'm sorry to keep you waiting.” He was fifty pounds overweight, as heavy in his face as he was in his belly, and smiling like a picket fence. “It's very nice to meet you.”

If he was mourning his ex-wife, I'd have to give up my Oscar.
“Mrs.,”
I corrected.

“What's that?”

“It's Mrs. Ankeny,” I said.

“Ahh, so you and your husband are looking to buy in our area.”

“Considering it,” I said.

“Great. Well, you'll love Edmond Park. It's very peaceful here.”

“That's what we thought,” I said, “but I heard there was a murder.”

“A murder!” He drew back, appalled.

“I was told a woman was killed in her home just the other day.”

He stared at me a moment, then shook his head. “You must be talking about Kathleen?”

“I'm not sure what her name was. They said she was working in her wood shop and—”

“No, no. That was just an accident,” he said. “She passed out, landed on her saw. It was a terrible thing. But just an accident.”

“Passed out? Did she have some sort of medical condition or—”

“No.” He was shaking his head. “Not that I know of, that is, but they think her heart stopped.”

“How awful.”

“A terrible tragedy.”

I almost mouthed the words with him.

“But, as I said, it was just an unfortunate accident. Our little town is as peaceful as Mayberry.”

I tried a few more questions, but he kept steering the conversation back to real estate. By the time I squeaked out of there, I was considering buying a little fixer-upper near the golf course. The man could have sold dentures to crocodiles.

My last stop before leaving town was the police station. I walked in, mind spinning.

An officer in uniform straightened from his conversation with a woman twice his age. She was laughing as if his stellar wit was surpassed only by his good looks, and I could see why. He
was
pretty. Six-one in his stocking feet, he had gold-blond hair and a smile that had probably kept his mother fretful for most of sixteen years. I casually checked his left ring finger. It was notably nude.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I hope so. I was wondering if I might get a little bit of information.”

“Regarding?”

I considered lying. But sometimes cops take offense to creative fabrications. I've learned that the hard way.

“It's of a private nature,” I said.

He looked interested. His secretary looked like she'd hatch an egg to know. The trip to his office was short, appropriate for the size of the entire building. His office was simple, tidy, small. A metal desk occupied the majority of the space.

“I'm Officer Tavis.” He had traditional Celtic good looks. Sparkling eyes. Dimples. The kind you read about in those lovely smut novels where the women look orgasmic even precoital. Slap him in a truncated kilt and he could be the Highland Rogue himself. “What can I help you with, Ms….”

Again I debated lying. But maybe I'm learning.

“McMullen,” I said.

“Is that Scottish?”

“Irish.”

He shook his head and tsked. “Ahh… I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I carry on as best I can.”

He laughed. It was a nice sound, soothing, honest. If he had sported a wee bit of a burr in his speech, I would have taken him down right there and then. “What can I help you with, Ms. McMullen?”

I took a deep breath and jumped. “I was hoping you could tell me about Kathleen Baltimore's death.”

“You a friend of hers?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” I said.

He nodded. “Want some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

He poured himself a cup and sat down. “A relative?”

“No.”

“Then I feel compelled to inquire about your interest in her death.”

“I'm looking into it for a friend.”

“And your friends name?”

I paused. Honesty is all well and good, but you don't want to take it too far. “I think he'd rather I didn't divulge that information at this time.”

He didn't comment. “Are you a private investigator, Ms. McMullen?”

“I'm a psychologist.”

“Really?” He canted his head and smiled a little. I wasn't sure if I should be insulted or flattered.

“Yes.”

“Where do you practice?”

“L.A.”

“Yeah? They as crazy as we like to believe?”

I considered that a minute. “Probably.”

He laughed. “What can I tell you?”

The question floored me. If I had wandered into Rivera's office asking questions about a case, he probably would have had me interrogated, handcuffed, and strip-searched by now. I opened my mouth but failed to speak.

“We don't have a lot to hide here in Edmond Park,” he explained, apparently unsurprised by my surprise.

“So you don't think she was murdered?”

His brows raised a little, but that was the extent of his dramatics. “Do you have some reason to believe she was?”

“Like I said, I'm just checking into it for a friend.”

“Whose name you don't wish to divulge.”

“Sorry.”

“Well…” He smiled and stood up. “In the hopes of making your friend believe we're not just a bunch of booger-flicking hicks, I'll say this: There was no sign of a struggle. Ms. Baltimore wasn't an Amazon, but she was fit. Took jujitsu classes from Carl Franken on Tuesdays and Thursdays. There was no blood but her own at the scene. I had it tested. No flesh under her fingernails. No spare hairs that the sweepers could find.”

“Fingerprints?” I was grasping at straws. I had no idea what I was talking about.

“There were other fingerprints, of course, but none that came up suspicious.”

“Which means what? That whoever was in her workshop hadn't been convicted of a previous crime?”

“Hasn't been accused. Can I ask what your friend's interest is in Ms. Baltimore?”

“You
are
an officer of the law,” I said.

“Oh, that's right.” He grinned. “Then you'd best tell me before I get out the thumbscrews.”

“Thumbscrews?” I said.

“We're not against progress here in Edmond Park, but we don't want to rush into anything,” he said.

“He worked with her years ago,” I said.

“He?”

“As I said, I don't think it prudent to mention his name.”

He nodded. “But your friend's a man.”

“I know several,” I said.

He laughed. “I was just curious.”

I studied him for a second. Something told me he might not be quite as retiring as he seemed. “Because Ms. Baltimore was a lesbian?”

He watched me a little closer. “So you know that.”

I didn't respond.

“Not everyone does,” he said.

“So I'm told.”

“By whom? Or is that classified, too?”

“I spoke with Queenie.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

“Was it monogamous, do you think?”

He shrugged. “Ask any citizen in this town, ninety-nine out of a hundred will tell you Kathy Baltimore was as straight as a T square.”

“Are
there a hundred citizens?”

“Five thousand nine hundred and thirty-two,” he said. “According to last year's census.”

“Holy cow,” I said.

A dimple peeked out. “She didn't flaunt her sexuality,” he said.

“And what about Queenie?”

“I think she would have done anything Kathy asked her to do short of murder.”

“So they were in love,” I surmised.

“I'm told it happens sometimes.”

I wondered if it had happened to him, but I didn't ask.

“What about
Mr.
Baltimore?”

“Kevin?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “What about him?”

“Any reason he might bear her ill will?”

“Well… they were married for twenty-odd years.”

“How odd?”

“It's just an expression.”

“What does it mean?”

“I take it you've never suffered marital bliss.”

“And I take it you have.”

He laughed. “I have no reason to believe Mr. Baltimore would have harmed her. Nor do I believe he did.”

“What about Queenie?” I asked.

“You spoke to her.”

I nodded.

“Did she seem to be faking her distress?”

“Not unless she missed her calling.”

He raised a well-there-you-go hand.

“So you think Kathy's death was truly accidental.”

He stared at me a second. “I filed a report to that effect,” he said.

Which wasn't quite an answer.

“Thank you for your—”

“Can I ask
you
a couple of questions?” he asked.

“You're still a cop,” I said, and smiled, but the grin had dropped from his golden retriever face.

“Why does the senator care about Ms. Baltimore?” he asked.

HAT MAKES YOU THINK—” I began, but Tavis interrupted me.

“Eldred Ernst saw you talking to Queenie. Said there was a disturbance.”

“What does that have—”

“Ran your plates,” he said. “Christina McMullen, Ph.D.” He watched me. I watched him in return, still a little breathless but for different reasons now. “A few months back, you were on the scene when the senators fiancée died.”

“I didn't have anything to do with her death,” I said.

“What are you doing in Edmond Park?”

“I told you, I just want some questions answered.”

He stepped closer, forcing me to take a step back. “I'm the police in this little burg,” he said. “If there are answers to be had, I'm the one who will have them.”

I straightened, reminiscent anger firing up. “I'm a citizen,” I said. “Doesn't that give me a right to ask a few questions?”

We glared at each other for a couple of seconds and then he laughed. “Yes, it does. You're kind of feisty, Ms. McMullen.”

I felt dazed, unable to keep up with his mood swings.

But he dropped into his swivel chair, unconcerned about my confusion. “I've always wanted to play good cop/bad cop. It's not easy alone.”

“What's wrong with you?” I asked.

He laughed. “I was just having a little fun. If you have more questions, please…” He lifted a hand toward me. “Ask away.”

It took me a moment to gather my composure. “Did Kathy report any disturbances recently?”

“No.”

“No scary noises? No security issues?”

“Nope.”

“And you would know?”

“I would know.”

“Who were her confidantes?” I asked.

“Well… Queenie, of course,” he said, and shrugged. “Her daughter, I suppose. I'm not sure who else. Far as I know, everyone liked her. Why does Senator Rivera believe it was murder?”

“I didn't say he did.”

He smiled.

“She worked on one of his early campaigns,” I said, and
wondered why I was defending him. “He feels responsible.”

“Is he?”

“I don't think he would have asked me to look into her death if he were.”

“Maybe it's all a ploy.”

“What kind of ploy?”

He shrugged. “People are peculiar. I mean, it doesn't seem as if your relationship with the Riveras has always been smooth sailing. I believe the lieutenant accused you of murder at one time.”

“Where do you get your information?”

He laughed. “You'd be surprised what you can find on the Internet.”

“Or appalled.”

“Well, yeah, that, too.”

“Listen, Officer…”

“Tavis,” he supplied.

I paused midthought. “Is that your last name or—”

“It's my given name,” he said. “We don't like to stand on ceremony here in Edmond Park.”

“Officer Tavis,” I said, beginning over. “I didn't kill anyone.”

He laughed again—the jolliest cop I have ever met, but maybe avoiding L.A.'s daily ration of homicides brightens one's outlook. “I never thought you did. We're not quite so suspicious as some,” he said. “You still dating Rivera?”

“Do you have a different Internet than I do?”

“I didn't have a lot to do this morning.”

“No kidding.”

“You didn't answer my question, and I
am
an officer of
the law,” he said. “I could lock you up for suspicious behavior.”

“No, you couldn't.”

“Oh. Well, then you should answer just because.”

“Because?”

“I'm bored. And I have dimples.” He pointed at them.

“I don't believe my relationship with Lieutenant Rivera is any of your concern.”

“That bad, huh? He accuse you of murder again?”

Actually, he had, but I didn't think it necessary to say it out loud. “It's complex,” I said.

“Okay, then how about if we keep our relationship simple. How do you feel about casual sex?”

My ear bulbs stood up and took notice, but I was still sure I'd heard him wrong. “What?”

“It's a small town,” he said. “I don't get the chance to meet a lot of single women I'm not related to.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a hard-on,” he said.

I was still on my feet, though I wasn't really sure how I was staying there. “I take it you guys haven't talked much about sexual harassment out here in…” I gestured a little wildly. “Nowhere.”