Death in a Major (21 page)

“Possibly. He might have believed Kevin was guilty in the beginning, or he might have thought implicating him was a good way to shift suspicion away from me. Jordan's always known that his uncle was a criminal and he was terribly mad at Kevin for stealing his iPhone last month. It was more than a theft, you see. It was a betrayal.”

I nodded with understanding. “I guess your brother was a good target for putting the blame on. After all, he did say he'd make sure you and he didn't have to deal with your father anymore.”

Mrs. Duffy gave me an odd look. “How do you know about that?”

“That's a long story,” I said quickly, not wanting to let on that I'd eavesdropped on her conversation with Kevin.

Luckily, she didn't pursue the matter.

“He never meant that he intended to kill our father. Kevin had his issues but he wasn't a murderer. Most likely he meant he was going to take part in a large-­scale robbery or get more involved in the drug trade.”

She let out a weary sigh and I knew it was time to let her go.

“Thanks for talking with me. Good luck with everything.”

She flashed me a weak smile and disappeared back into the building.

I remained there on the sidewalk for another moment or two, barely aware of the traffic rumbling past me a few feet away. As much as I wanted to talk to Jordan myself, I knew that wasn't possible. All I could do was hope that I'd assessed the situation correctly and that Mrs. Duffy would be able to convince him that he had no need to lie. As to whether or not the police would let him go if he recanted his confession, I didn't know.

Again, all I could do was hope.

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

A
S
I
WANDERED
away from the police station I realized that I couldn't ignore my growling stomach any longer. Anxiety over Jordan's situation or not, I needed food if I didn't want to pass out. I took a bus to my neighborhood and decided on a small restaurant nestled between a bookstore and a children's clothing boutique. A handful of other patrons occupied four of the small tables, leaving five tables and the café's three booths free.

I tucked myself into one of the booths and a young waitress with spiky blond hair approached right away with a laminated menu and a bundle of cutlery in hand.

After exchanging pleasantries I ordered a glass of root beer and a BLT. The waitress bustled off and returned a moment later with my drink. As I waited for my sandwich, I sipped at my root beer and gazed at the painting on the wall next to my table. Although the picture of a small log cabin on the edge of a frozen lake was pretty enough, I didn't take in many of its details. Too many thoughts filled my head, keeping the majority of my attention elsewhere.

My brief talk with Mrs. Duffy outside the police station made me doubt her potential as a viable suspect. Her distress over Jordan's predicament and her surprise at the thought that he could believe her to be guilty seemed so genuine. Then again, that didn't necessarily mean that she hadn't killed her father. Being a concerned mother who didn't expect her son to think her capable of murder didn't preclude her from being a killer. Yet, if her concern for her son was as deep and genuine as I believed it to be, and if she had killed Mr. Major, wouldn't she have already confessed to the crime to get Jordan off the hook?

The waitress interrupted my thoughts by placing my BLT in front of me and asking if I needed anything else. When I answered in the negative, she left me alone again and I dug into my sandwich with gusto, my stomach practically purring with gratitude and appreciation.

Three bites in, I paused for a sip of root beer, and my thoughts returned once again to Mrs. Duffy. The fact was that I couldn't prove that she had or hadn't killed her father, and it was possible that Jordan would still be in jeopardy unless someone could establish that another person was the guilty party. Most likely that someone would need to be me since Jordan and his confession had the police currently occupied.

As I finished off my sandwich, I mulled over everything I knew about all the suspects still on my list, but that didn't get me very far. I didn't know enough to firmly implicate any one person in Archibald Major's murder, certainly not to the degree the police would require. There had to be something I'd missed or some clue I'd yet to find.

With my BLT all eaten, I ordered a slice of chocolate cheesecake for some additional brain fuel. After savoring the first delectable bite, I retrieved my phone from my bag and accessed the Internet. My previous online search hadn't revealed much about any of my suspects, but I didn't know what else to do. Maybe I could uncover a helpful nugget of information that I'd overlooked before, or maybe something I'd already seen would take on new significance. A long shot, perhaps, but worth a try since I had no better ideas at the moment.

I made sure to enjoy every forkful of my cheesecake, but between bites I scrolled through search results and scanned articles and Web pages. After my last bite of cake, I flicked through a few pictures I'd seen during my previous search. One photo in particular gave me pause.

As a high-­pitched note of alarm sounded in my head, I enlarged the photo for a better look and zeroed in on a face I'd skimmed over previously. I could hardly believe my eyes. I peered more closely at the picture, but that didn't change anything. My eyes hadn't deceived me.

I read the caption beneath the photo. My heart rate upped its tempo and a mixture of worry and excitement jangled through my body. I tried to absorb the implication of what I was looking at. It was the clue I'd overlooked, the missing note that completed a murderous melody.

Although I still didn't understand quite how everything fit together, I knew enough.

I knew who'd killed Archibald Major.

After wrestling my wallet out of the depths of my tote bag, I pulled out a ­couple of bills and slapped them on the table as I slid out of my booth. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I hurried out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. My phone still clutched in one hand, I set off at a good clip down the street to the bus stop.

All my hurrying was for naught, however. When I reached the stop and peered up the street, I couldn't see a bus anywhere. Impatience plucking at my nerves, I pulled up the bus schedule on my phone.

Darn. I'd temporarily forgotten it was Sunday. That meant the buses ran less frequently and I'd have to wait another twenty minutes before one showed up that would take me back to the police station. I couldn't wait that long. I needed to share my revelation with Detective Salnikova as soon as possible, and with all the nervous energy coursing through me, I couldn't stand around waiting for a bus to show up.

Giving up on public transportation, I decided to head home and speak to Salnikova over the phone. As I hoofed it around the corner and along a side street, I selected the detective's name from my list of contacts and put a call through to her number.

I turned another corner onto my street and stopped dead in my tracks.

Shoot.

I cut off my phone call mid-­ring. As soon as I'd done that, I realized it was probably the last thing I should have done. I took a step backward, hoping I could sneak back around the corner and try calling Salnikova again.

“Ms. Bishop!”

Too late.

Dr. Beaufort, loitering outside the main door of my apartment building, spotted me before I could duck out of sight. He walked toward me with brisk strides and I gave up any hope of avoiding him. I was already keyed up and Beaufort's presence only served to send my anxiety level shooting toward the overcast and darkening sky. I kept my thumb hovering over my phone as he approached, ready to call for help.

“Dr. Beaufort, what are you doing here?” I asked, although I could guess the answer.

“I need to talk to you.” Tension seemed to spark off his body. “Did you tell the police you were mistaken? Did you tell them I wasn't the person you saw at Major's house?”

“Um.” I wondered if I should lie, considering how keyed up he was, but my momentary indecision was enough to give away the truth.

Beaufort's dark eyes flashed with either anger or desperation. Maybe both. “I thought we came to an agreement, an understanding. You need to talk to them as soon as possible.”

“I never agreed to anything,” I said as I edged past him, not liking the fact that he stood between me and my apartment building. “And I know I wasn't mistaken.”

“I assure you that you were. I have ­people who are willing to vouch for my whereabouts on that evening, and they certainly won't say I was where you think I was.”

My next words slipped out before I could stop them, ignited by a flicker of anger. “You might have ­people who will lie for you, but I still know what I saw. And besides, if you believe you have such a solid alibi, why are you worried about what I told the police?”

“It's awkward, don't you see?” The protruding tendons in his neck signaled his rising frustration. “The police are asking questions all over again. Even allegations and innuendo could be enough to damage my professional reputation, to harm the orchestra. Why can't you understand that?”

Again, I couldn't hold back my words. “If you didn't want to damage your reputation, you shouldn't have become a thief.”

A dark flush rose up his neck and into his face. “I'm not a thief!” Despite the force he tried to put behind the words, his voice wavered. “How many times do I have to tell you that you were mistaken?”

“You could tell me a thousand times and it wouldn't make a difference. Besides, I'm talking about more than the break-­in at Mr. Major's house. You're the one who stole the brooch at the opening night reception.”

He stared at me with a mixture of surprise and horror, his eyes bulging in a frightening way. Although he opened his mouth to deny the accusation, no sound came out.

His reaction was enough to confirm my theory.

“I know it was you,” I said, anger heating my words. “You took the brooch and when Mr. Major threatened to call the police, you decided you needed to get rid of it. So you slipped the brooch into Bronwyn Cassidy's bag. And now, thanks to you, ­people think she's a thief and she's in danger of getting kicked out of the orchestra.”

Beaufort tugged at the collar of his shirt. “I didn't steal anything.” His denial came out weak and strained, and I knew then that the rest of my theory was correct as well. After a second or two, he seemed to recover somewhat from his fright and surprise. He dropped his hand from his collar and glared at me, his nostrils flaring. “Mark my words, telling such lies will only lead to trouble.”

I'd made my way past him as we'd spoken, but I still edged a little closer to the front entrance of my building. I really didn't like the way he was glaring at me. My heart danced a frantic jig in my chest and I had to tighten my grip on my phone to keep it from slipping out of my slick hand. I glanced around and a modicum of relief eased my panic down half a notch.

A man was walking along the other side of the street, a German shepherd with him on a leash. He seemed oblivious to my presence and predicament, but at least he was within shouting distance.

“I'd like you to leave, please,” I said. Although my anger hadn't disappeared, my fear and anxiety had overpowered it and I had to struggle to keep my voice strong and steady.

Beaufort took a step toward me. “I don't think you get what's at stake here.”

As much as I would have liked to hold my ground, instinct kicked in and sent me back two steps. “If you don't leave now, I'll have to call the police.”

I had every intention of calling the police even if he left, but he didn't need to know that. The situation was already tense enough.

“You need to understand . . .”

He trailed off when I held up my phone. His flared nostrils twitched and his eyes hardened. My heart's dance increased its frenzied tempo and my pulse pounded in my ears like the beat of a bass drum. He raised his hand and I flinched, an automatic response. But instead of striking or grabbing me, he held his hand up in what I thought he meant as a placating gesture. The expression on his face and the undertone of anger beneath his next words didn't match the action.

“Fine. No need to involve the police. I only wanted to make you understand.” He took one step back. “I hope you'll reconsider and do as I asked before. It would be best for everyone, believe me.”

He turned and strode away down the street. I stumbled along the hedge-­lined path to the covered entranceway of my building and sagged against the wall. My legs had taken on the consistency of wobbly Jell-­O and threatened to give out on me at any second. In time the beating of my heart lessened its intensity and I drew in some deep, shaky breaths.

As soon as I thought myself capable of coherent speech, I hit Salnikova's name on my phone and remained leaning against the wall as the call went through. After three rings, the call went to voice mail.

No, no, no!
I wanted to shout at the detective's recorded voice.

Of course she wasn't available. She was probably busy interrogating Jordan. Even so, I really wished she would have answered her phone.

As I waited for the tone so I could leave a message, I searched through my purse for my keys. Aside from getting in touch with Salnikova, the thing I wanted most in the world right then was to get inside my apartment and lock the door behind me. Before my fingers touched my keys, the beep sounded in my ear.

“Detective.” My fear had left me short of breath and I had to pause after the first word. I gulped in a breath of air and pushed onward with my message. “I had a visit from Dr. Beaufort. He's not very happy with me and to be honest I'm a bit freaked out. But his visit isn't the only reason I'm calling. I found the missing link. Now I can prove that—­”

Something hard hit the back of my neck. I gasped with pain and surprise as my body lurched forward and down. Twin knife stabs of agony pierced through my knees as they hit the ground. My phone skittered out of my grasp and across the pavement. I tried to reach for it but the pain in my neck intensified with overwhelming ferocity.

A cry escaped my throat and my vision blurred.

I collapsed the rest of the way to the ground.