Coming Unclued (3 page)

“I’m sorry,” the officer told her. “This is a crime scene. You can’t come in right now.”

Heather looked stricken. “A crime scene? What happened?”

The officer looked somewhat awestruck himself. Heather might be looking a little wan this morning, a little overly cleansed, but she was still pretty striking.

“Are you all right Val?” she called.

“I’m fine. I’ll tell you everything later.”

“You’re not hurt?” she called, sounding quite panicked.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “It’s nobody you know. My boss.”

“Your boss?”

“You’ll have to leave Miss,” the officer said, shaking his head a little sadly.

Miss. She’s only six years younger than me. Heather hesitated. I could tell that she was contemplating whether or not to argue with the officer. She was used to getting her own way. She must have decided that this wasn’t the best time to force the issue. Heather shot me a concerned look. “Call me. I’ll be at home if you need me. Have you eaten? I can run down to Starbucks.”

That was typical of her. Quite sweet really. Always feeding people. She subsisted on salad, water, olive oil and the occasional protein bar but she took great pleasure in watching other people eat.

“I’m fine,” I called. I was far from fine, but I was trying to appear strong. Actually I was quite hungry. “There’s banana bread in the kitchen. I’ll grab another slice of that.”

The officer gave me a bemused look. Well maybe he’d had breakfast, but I needed something in my stomach. I’d never been one of those people who can’t eat when they’re upset.

As Heather left, two men, both in black suits and unbuttoned coats, showed up at the door. The young officer seemed to know them. The men trekked into the bedroom and the young fellow came over, handed me a coffee and sat down beside me. I thanked him and gave a wry little smile. A ‘can you believe this?’ smile. I sat there, sipping my coffee and wracking my brain, trying to come up with some images, some memories from the night before, that would help make sense of this. I could remember sitting at the table in the restaurant. We’d had a private party room at Hy’s steakhouse. The party committee, which consisted only of Annette, Mr. Potter’s long-suffering assistant, had decided that given the tough economic times this should be a no spouses or dates event, which meant the Christmas party was even less festive than usual. All dressed up and no one to talk to. I could remember sitting beside Mr. Potter while he droned on about something, more than likely complaining about the poor quality of my work. I had a vague vision of myself continually sipping from my wine glass as he talked, inhaling the aroma of the wine, trying to protect myself from the foul stench of his breath. Mr. Potter was renowned for his halitosis. I’m actually surprised that he has any clients at all. It suddenly struck me that perhaps that was why I had evidently drank so much at the party. Escaping into my wine glass to evade Mr. Potter’s breath had caused me to overindulge and black out. Was it possible that Mr. Potter’s halitosis is what had got me into this predicament?

I shut my eyes, trying to dig deeper, dredge up something that would answer the question of why my boss had come home with me. At least I assumed he’d come home with me. Could he have shown up later? Maybe he dropped by to cry on my shoulder after a fight with his wife? It could happen. No it couldn’t. We weren’t exactly close. Our communication didn’t normally extend beyond him giving me a disappointed look when he dropped off a piece of paperwork that needed to be redone because of my less than persnickety attention to detail. Or the incident on Friday when he totally lost it. He caught me shredding a pile of documents I was supposed to be filing. They keep way to much paperwork in that office. It’s ridiculous. You would think they had never heard of the digital revolution. Luckily Mr. Potter thought I was tossing everything into the shredder because of my incredible stupidity, rather than cleverly trying to avoid hours spent filing, but he was as angry as I’ve ever seen him. Even so, it didn’t seem likely that even he would follow me home just to gripe some more about my shoddy work habits. And there was no way he would come running to me if his wife had kicked him out. Why would she have thrown him out anyway? Mr. Potter wasn’t the kind of man you had a screaming fight with and tossed to the curb. As long as he didn’t breathe on her he was likely so innocuous his wife wouldn’t even notice if he was there or not. Oh God. And now he was dead. The late Mr. Potter. My eyes welled up as I pictured him lying there on my brand new bed, his blood soaking into my new duvet cover and the nicest sheets I’d ever owned. The poor poor man.

Through the blur of my tears I saw one of the black-suited men hovering over me. He nodded to the young officer to get up, heaved himself down in the chair and flashed his badge at me. “Detective Crowley. Homicide. Can I ask you a few questions?” The detective had a fat, friendly face and a belly that strained to escape the confines of his shirt. Skinny little legs though, which made him look a bit like a large hand puppet.

“Of course,” I said, in a gracious, cooperative voice. “I don’t know how much I can help you.”

“Your name?”

“Valerie. Valerie Valentyn.”

The detective winced slightly. And why wouldn’t he? But as my mother once said, “Sorry, I thought it was a cute name at the time. So sue me.”

“This is your apartment?”

“Condo. I own it.”

He glanced around. “Very nice.” But he looked less than impressed. Concrete walls and exposed pipes aren’t to everyone’s taste. Including mine as it turns out. “The deceased was your employer?”

“He owns the company. I didn’t actually work with him that much.”

“What company is it?”

“
Secure Your Future
. Financial services. I do admin stuff. Paperwork. Booking appointments.”

“Hmmm.” He wrote something down in his notebook. “And what was your relationship with the deceased outside of the office?”

“Nothing. We didn’t have one. We barely have a relationship inside the office.”

“He was in your bed. Normally that indicates some sort of relationship.”

“Not in this case. I have no idea what he was doing here.”

The officer scratched his nose and squinted at me. “Nothing intimate going on between you?”

“No! God no. Uchhh!” What a revolting thought. Me and Mr. Potter. Intimate. “We were at the staff Christmas party last night. I may have had a little too much to drink. I can’t remember every detail of the evening.”

“How about you tell me what you do remember?”

This was going to be a problem. “It’s all pretty hazy. We were at Hy’s steakhouse.” I gave him a little smile. “Just your typical office party. Pretty boring.”

The detective didn’t appear captivated by my charm. “Except that your boss ended up in your bed with multiple stab wounds.”

“That part I can’t help you with. I wish I could.” I had a sudden, horrible thought. “Who’s going to tell his wife?”

“We’re taking care of that.”

The poor woman. I’d never much liked Mrs. Potter actually. She came in occasionally and strutted through the office in her expensive clothes like she owned the place. Technically she did own the place, but since she didn’t work there it was off-putting. But still, she must be beside herself, worrying that her husband hadn’t come home from the office party and then getting a phone call that he’d been murdered.

The firemen and paramedics were leaving. Now it was just the first two police officers, the homicide detectives and the forensics team. The forensics guys must have been busy in the bedroom, but the police didn’t seem to be doing much. I could hear two of them lamenting the previous night’s Leafs game.

“Have you dusted for … with your hands … on the end of them?” Oh no. I was losing my nouns again. Perfect. Yeah, perimenopause. “You know …dusting…” I waved my hands around. C’mon. Think. What were they called? “Fingers!” I exclaimed with satisfaction.

“Fingerprints?” asked the detective.

“Yes,” I replied, in a dignified voice.

“The forensics team is here.”

“Because there must be something on the doorknob. Oh no — it’s probably too late —with all these people coming in and out. You’ll never get a clear print now.” I wasn’t a fan of cop shows. I had no idea if they could get a good fingerprint off the doorknob with all the people that had been barging around, but it didn’t seem likely.

The detective was staring into space, seemingly deep in thought. “Do you normally lock your door?” he asked.

“Well, sure. Of course I lock the door.”

“There was no sign of forced entry,” he replied.

“Really?”

“Really.”

How could that be? Did I lock the door? I mulled this over for a minute.

“It was locked! I had to unlock it to go out in the hall this morning. I remember that.”

“Is there anybody you can call?” asked Detective Crowley. “A family member? A lawyer?”

“A lawyer? Do I need a lawyer?” The only lawyer I knew was my divorce lawyer, and what a disappointment she’d turned out to be. “Do you think I need a lawyer?”

“Look, Ms — he looked at his notebook a minute. “Ms Valentyn. A man, your employer, was found murdered in your bed. There are no signs of forced entry. You say you have no memory of what transpired last night. I’m just suggesting that you may want to contact someone.”

“Someone like a lawyer?”

“We’re going to have some more questions for you and you may want to have a lawyer present.”

“But I have nothing to tell you. I have no idea what happened in there. I’m as shocked as you are.”

“Oh nothing much shocks me anymore,” said the detective, settling back into the chair.

I was getting a very bad feeling here. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this do you?”

“Like I said Ma’am. You might want to call someone.”

Oh my God. I was stricken by my stupidity. Of course they figured I killed him. An open and shut case so to speak. They believed I staggered home, Mr. Potter in tow, and then stabbed him a few times before curling up on the loveseat. I needed a lawyer.

What lawyer could I call? I didn’t know any criminal lawyers. Did they even work on Sundays?

A tall, thin detective with a shaved head, who seemed to be running the show, came over and gestured to Det. Crowley, who stood up and stepped away as they conferred in whispered voices.

“Quite a morning,” the detective said in a friendly voice, as he slid his lanky frame into the rickety dining room chair vacated by Det. Crowley. “How are you holding up?”

He seemed like a kind man. Worried about me.

“Well I’m still in shock,” I said. “You can imagine. Finding Mr. Potter like that. I just can’t believe it.”

“Do you think you could go over exactly what happened for me?” he asked. “I know you’ve been through it with Detective Crowley, but I’d like to hear it myself, just so I can get everything straight.”

“There just isn’t that much to tell. I woke up — I was sleeping on the loveseat, and then Julie came over,” —

“And Julie is?”

“She’s my friend. She came over with a mousetrap because I saw a mouse, and then she left and the mousetrap went off and I went in my bedroom, and there he was. I mean I’m just — I’m shocked. You can imagine.”

“And you don’t remember Mr. Potter coming to your apartment?”

“I do not. I’m quite surprised actually. We weren’t that friendly.”

“Really?” asked the detective. “Why was that?”

“Personality conflict,” I answered. The conflict being that I had a personality.

“Had you had a fight recently?” he asked. “Something you needed to discuss? Maybe he came over so you could talk.”

“Oh I don’t think so,” I said.

“You had your Christmas party last night?”

“That’s right.”

“Did something happen at the party? Perhaps he was getting fresh?”

Getting fresh? What decade was this guy living in? And what was he insinuating? That I stabbed Mr. Potter because he was getting fresh?

“Look,” I said. “Detective Crowley said I should get a lawyer.”

“That is certainly your right,” he said.

“But do I need one?”

“It would be advisable for you to have legal counsel.”

Instead of a lawyer, the first person I called was Julie. She was the smartest person I knew. She’d know what to do. She was in line at the grocery story when I reached her, and remarkably calm given what I had to tell her. “I’ll be right there,” she said. “Don’t say anything.”

A little late for that.

The forensics team was in the kitchen with their little boxes of equipment, swabbing and bagging and casting quick, furtive looks at me. They were making me very nervous.

“Is it all right if I go across the hall to my neighbors? She’s right over there.” I gestured in the vague direction of Heather’s condo. “I’m feeling faint. I need a change of air.”

The detective thought for a moment. “That’s fine. But don’t go anywhere else. We need to know where to find you.”

“Of course Officer. When my friend Julie shows up could you please tell her where I am?”

The detective hesitated — apparently relaying messages from alleged murderers wasn’t in his job description — but he nodded. “Fine.”

“Oh my God! What happened?” Heather gasped as she yanked open the door. She had changed her clothes since I’d first seen her that morning. She was now wearing tight fitting jeans, boots with a three inch heel and a black turtleneck that hugged her very slight curves. Her makeup was perfect. She looked like I would aspire to look if I had a date on a Saturday night. If I ever went on dates on Saturday night.

“Come in. Oh Val, I have been so worried.” Heather grabbed me by the arm and led me to the couch. “Sit down. Take a deep breath.”

Heather perched herself on a chair, and taking her own advice, shut her eyes and took a deep, dramatic breath. “Okay,” she said, once she was sufficiently oxygenated. “Tell me everything.”

“My boss, Mr. Potter, the old guy…” I reconsidered for a moment. He was probably only fifteen years older than me. “The older guy. Remember how I said I slept on the loveseat?”

Heather nodded.