The Fallen Angels Book Club (10 page)

I wanted time to just sit and think over what I knew about Rory's murder. He was a blackmailer who had somehow obtained current information on club members. I grabbed a notepad and pen and made a list under the headings: What I Know, What I Don't Know, and What I Need to Know. The Need to Know entries were a half page longer than the two other columns. I slammed my pen down, balled the paper up and tossed the wad into the trash. This exercise would get me nowhere fast.

When I arrived at the team meeting, Avery was sitting behind his desk looking official. Eager-beaver Mark had beaten me there and taken the front chair—my usual seat. I nodded to both of them and took the remaining chair between two file cabinets.

“Well, team,” Avery said, “got any questions for me?”

I knew Avery's management style well enough not to respond, but Mark jumped right in. “What kind of matters are currently on your desk? Will you need me to go to court?”

Avery looked at him with what could only be described as amusement. “I'm glad to see your enthusiasm.”

For the next half hour, Avery took us through his client list, which wasn't lengthy. He was considered one of the more successful attorneys in the firm. Though he only had a few clients, his retainers were substantial. From time to time, he took on civil litigation cases, but his cash cow was administering probate estate settlements.

“Most of my clients are wealthy seniors or seasoned entrepreneurs,” he said. “It makes for a varied workload. The seniors are always amending their trusts and the entrepreneurs are always trying to protect their wealth.” He leaned over his desk and gave us what I knew to be the practiced barrister gaze he reserved for a jury. “I want us to be a real team. No one takes on anything or makes decisions without notifying the rest of us.”

“Got it,” Mark said.

I nodded. Avery hated surprises.

From a leather portfolio, he took out a yellow pad of paper and a Montblanc pen. Despite his pretense of being down-to-earth, the man did have his toys.

“Okay, there's about an hour left until I have to leave. Let's go over the cases with pending court actions. I have one contested—”

Ed's sudden appearance in the doorway cut him off.

“Sorry, Avery,” Ed said. “I need to speak with Hollis right away.”

Avery looked at me, puzzled. I looked puzzled back.

Ed opened the door wide for me to pass. Out in the hallway, he steered me by the elbow toward his office.

“The police are here to see you.” He'd dropped his usual paternal tone of voice. “You can use my private conference room. Come and find me before you leave today.” His forehead wrinkled and his lips formed a thin pale line. He wasn't happy.

I nodded.

I was even less happy when I walked into the room and saw Detectives Lincoln and Faber standing around the conference table. The sight of Detective Lincoln's stern face made my heart sink.

“Ms. Morgan,” Lincoln said, “do you know an Abigail Caldwell, also known as Abigail Tolman?”

I sat. “Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“We had dinner a couple of nights ago.”

Faber leaned over the table. “When was the last time you spoke with her?”

I didn't feel good about this. “At our dinner. I haven't spoken with her since then. I tried calling her yesterday and this morning, but I didn't get her. Why are you asking questions about Abby?”

“She's dead,” Detective Faber said. “Your name and phone number were on her desk pad and we know she's a member of your little book club.”

I was struck mute with disbelief. In my heart I wanted to cry, but the pain and surprise left me dry-eyed. I must have started to glisten up because Detective Lincoln reached for the box of tissues sitting on the credenza and pushed them toward me.

“How did she die?” I choked out.

Lincoln sat down next to me and took his notebook out of his jacket. “We're not sure yet. It might have been a suicide.” He kept clenching and unclenching his hands. “Is there anything she said at dinner that would lead you to believe she was despondent?”

“No, Abby was fine. She was … she had a lot on her mind, but nothing that would make me think she would … I never would have left her if—”

“It could have been murder. We'll know more after the autopsy.” Detective Lincoln's eyes bored into mine.

“Murder,” I whispered.

“Two murders in the same book club. That's not an everyday occurrence, would you say, Ms. Morgan?” Detective Faber said. “Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill Mrs. Caldwell?”

“No, I …” I couldn't catch my breath.

“Would it surprise you that some of the club members think that you had a motive to kill Michael Rollins? You knew him as Rory Norris.” Detective Lincoln played with a cup of pens on the edge of the table.

Yes, I'd be surprised
.

“I don't know about
some
of the club members, but maybe one, Richard Kleh, might have said something along those lines.”

“What makes you think it was him?” Faber asked.

I hesitated. I had to make a decision. I took the path of half-truths. “He thought Rory was blackmailing me. I told him I wasn't being blackmailed. I don't think he believed me.”

“We already know Abigail Caldwell and Richard Kleh were blackmailed by Norris. Why not you?” Lincoln asked.

A question I'd asked myself for days
.

“I don't know. Maybe because I didn't have as much to lose.”

The detectives exchanged glances.

Detective Faber asked, “What do you mean?”

“I'm just a paralegal. I don't have a lot of money. The blackmailer … Rory … wouldn't gain a lot from blackmailing me.” I hoped my deep swallow would be attributed to sorrow and not the fact I had everything to lose if the police found out how vulnerable my pending pardon would make me to blackmail.

“Were Gene Donovan and Miller Thornton being blackmailed?” Detective Faber asked.

The worry in my heart sat like a weight on my chest. I shrugged. “I don't know. You need to ask them.”

Detective Lincoln moved over until our shoulders almost touched. “All of a sudden, you don't seem to know very much. Can you tell us again about your last conversation with Abigail Caldwell? We want to move on to our other suspects.”

He's lying
.
He can't even look me in the face
“We had dinner. We talked about the investigation. The night Rory Norris died she made a payoff. He told her it would be her last payment. As she drove out of the parking lot, she saw a car she didn't recognize. She was planning to tell you this, or so she said. That's everything. That's all of it.”

Detective Lincoln said, “She didn't come talk to us.”

“No, I guess she didn't.”

“You were the only one who knew that she had decided to talk to the police,” Lincoln said.

My survival antenna sent warning signals to my brain. “I … I don't know that.”

Detective Faber said, “Did you try to talk her out of talking to us? Maybe avoid getting involved.”

Breathe. Just breathe.
“No, I'd never do that. She was nervous about being an ex-con and connected to … to a crime.”

“That's what she told you?” Detective Lincoln asked.

“Yes.”

Detective Faber walked around the room. “The question is, Ms. Morgan, what can you tell us about Ms. Caldwell's state of mind? Was she depressed?”

I looked him in the eye. “I told you, no. She wanted to keep her life simple and stay out of trouble. She worried about her family and having to deal with the threat of blackmail.”

“What was she trying to hide?” Lincoln asked.

I hesitated, but realized it no longer mattered. “She lied to her employer … on her application. She didn't list her conviction.”

The detectives looked at each other and simultaneously set pens to paper.

Lincoln said, “She must have been distraught and desperate. Maybe desperate enough to kill Norris.” He tapped his pad with the tip of his pen.

“No, Abby couldn't kill,” I shot back.

“Could she kill herself?”

I kept shaking my head. “No. You had to know Abby. Ask any of the other members.”

Detective Faber persisted. “So you would say she was
not
suicidal?”

“No, Detective Faber, Abby was
not
suicidal. Stressed maybe, but not suicidal.”

Now Detective Lincoln tapped the table with his pen. “Good. Then you agree with us. We don't think so, either. Like I said, we'll know more with the autopsy results. This morning her body was found on the street below where she worked. It appears she jumped, or was pushed, from a fifteenth floor window; however, marks on her body and other evidence raise a lot of questions about what really took place. Her office was fairly warm, but there were a couple of strange things. She was found wearing a winter scarf—”

“A heavy red wool scarf?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Detective Lincoln's eyes narrowed. “You've seen it?”

“No. I read about it in
Storm Crossing
. It was our club selection earlier this year.”

The detectives again exchanged looks.

“Another plot from one of your books?” Detective Faber asked.

My mind raced. This didn't make any sense. Why were Fallen Angels being murdered? Who from the club would be crazy enough to use plots from our book list?

“Ms. Morgan, are you still with us?” Detective Faber asked.

I could only nod.

He pressed, “Where were you around nine thirty this morning?”

“Is that when … she died? Here. I was here at work.”

Lincoln nodded. “If those autopsy results come back today, we may want to question you and your fellow members at the station this evening, so stay close to your phone. One way or the other we're going to get answers.”

Detective Faber moved to the door. “Oh, yeah, and bring me the book.”

After they left, I sat for a few minutes, numb. It was as if someone had shot a cannonball clear through my gut and left a giant hole. When I entered the lobby, I wasn't surprised to see Ed lurking in the hallway. He waved me into his office.

“You want to tell me what's going on?”

I put my shaking hand into my pocket. “A friend, a member of my book club, died in her office this morning. They're not sure if it's suicide or not. The police wanted to know what I knew.” I couldn't bring myself to say “murder” out loud.

He was silent for a moment. “I see. I'm sorry about your friend. You have an alibi. You were here all morning. I saw you myself.”

“They're checking with all book club members. I'm sure I'm not a suspect.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

“Hollis, I've worked in the DA's office. There has to be a good reason why San Lucian's finest shows up at our workplace. They don't need two of their four homicide detectives to verify an alibi.” Ed was a thin, wiry man; his once-blond hair was now fringed with white. He had a deceptively warm smile that usually distracted from his cold eyes. He was smiling now, and the chilly stare from those eyes was unrelenting. He wasn't pleased.

Before I could think of a plausible response—the truth not necessarily an option—there was a light knock on the door and Avery popped his head in. “My turn to interrupt. Is everything okay?”

Ed cocked his head toward me. “There's no problem, but you may want to stay, since Hollis reports to you. I just asked her why the police were here to see her.”

Avery perched on the edge of the low bookcase that lined the length of the wall.

I had a couple of options. Only one made sense. “Ed, you know I'm an ex-felon. My fellow book club members are also ex-felons, as was the woman who … who died this morning.” To stop my hands from shaking, I tightly interlaced my fingers. “Last week another member was murdered. They think there's a connection. I—they thought I might have some information.”

“Good grief. I don't mean to be callous. You were hired based on Avery's recommendation. We've been pleased with your work, but the firm can't handle bad publicity.”

“There won't be any bad publicity. I didn't do it.”

Avery crossed his arms. “Hollis, can I assume the police were following up, since all the members are ex-felons?”

“Yes.” I wasn't about to go into the manner of the deaths. “It was Abby Caldwell, my book club friend you met at the restaurant, who died.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

Ed dropped all pretense of commiseration. “You realize, of course, that we have an obligation to protect our staff and clients.”