Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (23 page)

Guest finished his call and set down the phone. “Sorry about that. No rest for the wicked, unfortunately. Please have a seat. Something to drink?”

“No thanks.”

Guest settled back into one of the chairs. “Of course, you’re on duty, I should have realized.” He reached in the bucket for the half-empty bottle and refreshed his glass. “I’ve been on the phone all morning. Nathalie’s lawyer is taking charge of the funeral arrangements.”

Morrow said, “Can you provide us with their name and contact information, please, sir?”

Jackson, ramrod straight in his chair, carefully removed the cap of his pen. Guest consulted his smart phone and gave Jackson the information.

“Any idea who gets Nathalie’s estate?”

Guest nodded. “We were planning to change our wills but we hadn’t executed them yet. Now everything will go to her sister. It’s not much. About four or five hundred thousand.”

Jackson’s mouth opened and shut.

It’s all relative, Morrow thought. People murdered for quarters if they thought they were next to the right slot machine. “I’m really just here to fill in a few gaps,” he said, taking his digital recorder out and switching it on. Guest avoided looking at it but didn’t object. “The night of the party you and Nathalie were dancing together. Tell me what happened before you ran into Bobby and Shawna.”

“They ran into us,” Guest corrected him. “I told you, Bobby is a terrible navigator.”

“If that’s the case why weren’t you looking out for him?”

Guest threw up his hands in a theatrical expression, inviting them to share his exasperation. “You’re right, I should have been. My attention was focused mainly on Nathalie. I did notice Eduardo and Barbara from time to time.”

“Why were you watching them if you were dancing?”

“No reason, really.”

No reason, my ass. After his earlier skirmishes with Sanchez and Wolfe he probably wanted to make sure he wasn’t ambushed from the sidelines.

“Before the collision did you notice anyone else cross the dance floor, to get a drink or go to the bathroom, maybe? Antonia Blakeley or Christian Cookerly, perhaps?”

“I wasn’t paying close attention, I’m afraid.”

“What about after? You sat with Nathalie. Did you put your arm around her?”

“I may have.”

“Professor Glass says you did.”

Guest smiled easily. “Then I must have. Why, is this important?”

Take the shot. ”If the stain on your jacket turns out to be Nathalie’s blood she was stabbed in the dining room.”

Guest froze. “That’s not possible.”

“Professor Glass and Antonia Blakeley both say you didn’t set foot in the bedroom again once you went to the kitchen for ice, and the physical evidence confirms it. You picked up that stain when you put your arm around Nathalie immediately after you left the dance floor.”

“Jesus.” Guest shook his head and stared into his wine glass. “Jesus. I can’t believe it.”

Silence was one of the best interrogation methods ever invented. Morrow waited, guarding Jackson out of the corner of his eye to make sure he kept his lip buttoned.

Guest finally said, “I can’t believe Eduardo would do something like that.”

“Why him? You said earlier you didn’t see anyone cross the dance floor.”

“I know.”

“Still think so?”

“I must have been mistaken.”

“If Eduardo Sanchez wanted to kill Nathalie why would he do it in front of everyone?”

Guest burst out, “He’s Latin, for chrissakes, how should I know? He’s insanely jealous. Maybe he wanted to pin it on me.”

“Did he know you and Nathalie were getting married? Before the party, I mean.”

“Nathalie might have said something. I didn’t.”

“Who
did
you tell?”

“No one. Except Shawna of course. And she’d have had no reason to say anything.” Guest smirked. “She wants me to be happy.”

Morrow saw Jackson stiffen in his seat but thankfully he kept quiet. He said to Guest, “Of course there’s another possibility. Someone might have accidentally killed Nathalie when they were really going after you. Know anyone who’d want
you
dead? Besides Eduardo Sanchez, of course.”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

“Bobby Glass? You did business with him didn’t you?”

“Yes, but he had no reason to kill me. And he’s totally incapable. Look at him.”

“Christian Cookerly?”

“We barely know each other.”

“Barbara Wolfe?”

Guest’s hand strayed to his cheek. The scratches Barbara Wolfe had made were still visible. “It couldn’t be a woman.”

“Why not? Women make excellent murderers. How long were you involved with her?”

Guest gave him the queasy version of a man-to-man look. “Well, you know how it is … just the one weekend.”

Jackson’s writing hand jerked and he promptly scribbled something in his notes to cover his movement.

“When was this?”

“Mid-September.”

“While you were seeing Nathalie.”

Morrow had interviewed his share of philanderers but it was still nauseating to hear Guest try to justify his behavior. “Women …” Guest paused, and Morrow saw the cliché coming—a long forward pass, crossing the forty, the thirty, the twenty, finally connecting with the receiver—“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

 “You cheated on your first fiancée, screwed over your friend, cheated on your second fiancée, and jilted your weekend conquest, and you still don’t think anyone might want to kill you?”

 “This is abuse,” Guest said predictably, rising from the table and circling around the back of his chair.

“Shawna Muir. What about her?”

“Never.” Guest seemed sincerely shocked at the idea. “She couldn’t. She’s the most rational woman I know. We’re still friends.”

“Did you make wills together when you got engaged?”

“Yes, but if you’re thinking she might be after my estate you don’t understand her. She doesn’t care about money. She never has.”

“Speaking of money. You came into your partner’s half. What are you worth dead?”

Roland Guest gripped his chair so hard that it wobbled on the flagstones.

Elimination

GUEST COULDN’T GET THEM
out of the house fast enough and as far as Morrow was concerned the feeling was mutual.

Jackson said, “Do you really think the perpetrator tried to kill Roland Guest and missed?”

“He’d have to have struck while Guest was dancing with Nathalie LeFebre but nobody seems to have seen anything. We’ll see what Forensics has to say.”

Jackson pulled out his car keys and unlocked the door. Morrow settled into the passenger seat, yawned, and stretched, working his left shoulder. His rotator cuff was bothering him again. “I need caffeine.”

“Caribou okay, sir? There should be one around here.”

“Sure.” He’d just about given up trying to convince Jackson to settle for plain old-fashioned convenience-store coffee. In some respects the guy was surprisingly untraditional.

Jackson started the car and set out for the nearest Caribou Coffee with the blind optimism of a pioneer crossing the Rockies. They headed north towards the university, passing Druid Hills golf club, one of the most exclusive in Atlanta. Probably where Guest got his tan.

“Let’s go over what we have so far,” Morrow said. “Who had opportunity?”

“Guest, Glass and Miss Muir were dancing. That leaves Sanchez, Miss Wolfe, maybe Cookerly, and Miss Blakeley.”

“Blakeley’s clear; she was in the kitchen. But Guest could have done it while he was dancing with Nathalie. Don’t forget the blood on his sleeve.”

“So it’s down to just the four.”

“That guy’s teeing off, watch it.”

“Got it.” Jackson pumped the brakes and slowed the car. The golfer sliced, sending the ball into the rough, and Jackson put his foot back on the gas.

Morrow said, “Where do you think the killer stashed the steak knife before they used it?”

“Well, he either picked it up and used it right away or he carried it around in his Halloween costume. Sanchez was in normal clothes. He could have put it in his pocket or up the sleeve of his sweater, I guess. I don’t remember if Cookerly’s wizard outfit had any pockets; I’ll check. Miss Wolfe could have hung it in her garter.” They’d arrived at North Decatur Road. Jackson turned right. “Maybe they hid it in the potted plant.”

“Nice try,” said Morrow, “but then we’d have found dirt on Nathalie LeFebre’s clothing. But that raises the question, how do you think the knife got there later?”

“Either the perp put it there right after he used it … no, sir, I forgot, everyone was in the room.”

How about that, Morrow thought, a Caribou Coffee right on the corner.

Jackson turned into the parking lot. “There’s one other thing that’s been nagging at me. Why they didn’t use the knife that was lying on the counter instead of one from the kitchen drawer? Why not take the one that was out already? Unless they were afraid they’d get cheese parings on them.”

“Could be. Here’s another question. How do you think the killer managed to attack without being noticed?”

“It’s dark inside, just candles. Everyone’s pretty drunk.” Jackson pantomimed a stabbing motion with his free hand. “They find the right psychological moment where nobody’s watching.”

Morrow stifled a yawn. “I don’t buy it. Why commit murder in a room full of people?”

“Seems awfully risky when you put it that way, sir. They couldn’t expect to get away with it.”

“And yet, someone has. And Ms. Blakeley is going to show us how.”

Shanghaied

ANTONIA SAT, TRAPPED,
in a booth with cracked red vinyl seats and bobble head springs, waiting for Detective Morrow to decide what he wanted for lunch, dinner, or whatever the heck people ate at four in the afternoon. According to the stained, laminated menu the choices included coffee, homemade donuts, biscuits and gravy, grits, bacon, hash browns, or eggs any way. The Runaway Diner was in a part of town real estate agents euphemistically described as “transitional” but the place was almost full so the food was probably good.

After her abortive attempt to get to Bobby she’d spent the early afternoon trying to track down Roland but her calls to his cell phone kept going straight to voice mail, so she’d driven over to his place only to find Morrow had beaten her there. With all the fighting and running around she’d skipped lunch and was physically, mentally and emotionally frazzled.

A time-warp waitress bustled to their table, took a number-two pencil from between her unnaturally white teeth and proudly informed them, “We’re out of grits.”

Antonia decided she might as well eat. “What do you recommend?”

“It’s all good, except the grits.”

The detective shut his menu. “Try the eggs.”

She ordered hers scrambled, very fitting considering her state of mind. Morrow asked for his fried, with bacon and toast. And coffee. Maybe he was human after all. Coffee sounded good so she ordered a cup too.

She had no idea what her friends might have seen at the Halloween party, no idea what they had told Detective Morrow. Christian had been willing to tell the police his movements. That should be a point in his favor. On the other hand there was his past history. Who knew what the police would make of that? One thing was certain, Detective Morrow was a cop so she couldn’t trust him with anything he didn’t already know, which brought her back to her original question, what did he suspect?

“Are you going to grill me again?” She hoped her delivery sounded natural and carefree, something flirtatious, along the lines of
Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?

 “Actually I’m hoping this will be over easy.”

She groaned and rolled her eyes in her best imitation of a relaxed person. “I can see I’ll have to watch my mouth around you.”

 “Sorry you feel that way.”

The food came smelling of burnt butter and she discovered how ravenous she was. She tucked into her eggs with enthusiasm. Detective Morrow ate economically. The scraping of knives and forks against china and the buzz of conversation from the other diners sounded pleasantly domestic and would have been rather peaceful if she hadn’t needed to be on her guard. She’d lied to the authorities and here she was letting one of Atlanta’s finest take her to lunch. “Are you going to eat the rest of your toast?”

Detective Morrow slid his plate towards her. She took a slice of toast and spread strawberry jam on it.

He set down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with one of the paper napkins from the dispenser, giving his mustache a final pass before he finally spoke. “You were in the kitchen when Bobby and Shawna ran into Roland and Nathalie.” He pulled out his recorder and pressed the play button.

Antonia heard a tinny version of her voice say:
Bobby came into the kitchen and told me they’d taken Nathalie to Shawna’s bedroom and that he’d taken a back step against the line of dance and rammed Nathalie and Roland, and I said—

“He wouldn’t have needed to tell you that if you’d been on the scene.”

Say nothing, she thought. Nothing, nothing, nothing. She munched her toast, which had turned dry in her mouth, and tried to look like a cooperative, if somewhat dense, witness.

“Did you forget?”

She coughed and a few crumbs sprayed from her lips.

He passed her a tumbler of water. “Glass confirms he saw you go into the kitchen.”

“Oh?”

“That puts you in the clear.”

“Ah.”

“What are you afraid of? Think Christian did it?”

 “No, of course not.”

“You’re lying again.”

“No I’m not.”

“Don’t. You’ll just dig yourself in deeper.” His eyes locked with hers and she felt the full force of his personality press against hers in one big mental arm wrestle. “You’re in a lather over Christian. You started out holding your butter knife in a relaxed grip. When I asked you what you were afraid of, you clenched it. When I mentioned Christian, you twitched, you put down the knife and reached up to touch your neck, which by the way has flushed to a healthy arterial red.”