Four-Patch of Trouble (16 page)

Although, maybe there was something I could do. I took a closer look at the soap dispenser, trying to figure out how I could make the stalker slip and fall. I just needed to get the soap and water out into the hallway. Then, best-case scenario, I'd be able to push past him while he was slipping. Worst-case scenario, I'd pass out at the mugger's feet from the stress of confronting him.

Anything was better than passing out in here, leaving myself vulnerable for when he decided to abandon the element of surprise and break down the flimsy door.

I checked my pockets again as if I might have somehow forgotten I'd packed a weapon in one of them when I got dressed this morning. All I found was the pair of cotton gloves I used for appraisals. They were better than nothing. Not a lot better, but I was running out of time and options.

I reset the hand dryer and then squirted soap onto each of the gloves. I turned the faucet on to a quiet trickle, drenching the cotton material. I squeezed them, and slick bubbles appeared all over the surfaces.

"Listen carefully, lady." A low, barely audible voice came through the door. "Forget about Tremain. He's got a lot of powerful friends, and they don't want his reputation smeared. Let him rest in peace."

I froze, hoping the person would leave now that he'd said his piece, but I didn't hear any movement away from the door.

"I know you're in there," the voice said. "I'm not leaving until I know you got the message."

"You can leave now. I got the message."

"Good," he said. "Just remember, I know where you live. Used to have an account there, actually, so I'm quite familiar with the layout and the security measures. Don't make me visit you again."

I listened for retreating footsteps, but there were none. Was he waiting for me to leave, planning to give me a more physical message than the verbal warning? What would he do if Alyse came into the hallway and caught him by surprise? This wasn't a casual intruder who would flee if caught lurking.

I couldn't just sit here and wait, especially since my nausea was growing into what I recognized as the final warning before I passed out. I only had a few remaining seconds of consciousness. I might be able to call on enough adrenaline for a quick escape if I acted right away, but the longer I waited, the more likely I'd end up asleep on the floor.

I took a deep breath to calm the nausea and fuel a scream for help, and then I turned the lever on the lock. The deadbolt bar fell into its housing with a
thunk
that, at least to my adrenaline-heightened hearing, sounded as loud as if I'd slammed the whole door. Any element of surprise was gone, so I jerked the door open, drawing back the first soapy missile and looking for my target.

The hallway was empty.

Instead of slumping against the wall in relief as I wanted to, I forced myself to jog down the hallway and into the shop itself, dripping soapy water behind me. I stopped at the side doorway to collect my messenger bag and sling it over my shoulder.

The shop appeared empty. Where was Alyse? What if the thug had done something to her before cornering me? I retrieved the cell phone from my bag and prepared to dial 9-1-1.

"Alyse? Are you still here?"

"Keely?" She emerged from her office. "I didn't know you'd come back."

I let myself drop into a nearby chair. "I needed to use the restroom. Someone followed and threatened me. I was afraid he might have hurt you."

"I can't believe I forgot the front door was still unlocked," she said. "I've been such a mess since, well, you know. I got a call right when you and the prosecutor were leaving, and I took it in my office without thinking about the door. Anyone could have wandered in. I'm so sorry you were bothered."

I barely had enough energy to wave my phone at Alyse. "I'm about to call the police to report the threat."

"Police?" Alyse reached into the pocket where her cigarette case should have been, but she must have put it somewhere else, because her hand came out empty. "Do we really need to get the police involved? You weren't hurt, and it doesn't look like anything was stolen."

Alyse did seem to be at her breaking point, and I knew that feeling a little too well. I didn't really want to hang around the shop until the police could assign someone to take my statement. I thought the threat was related to the murder investigation, not just the fraud complaints, but the police might not see it that way. There was no guarantee they wouldn't give it low priority. It would be faster if I went to the police station and talked directly to Bud Ohlsen instead of dialing 9-1-1. No need to put Alyse through any more distress than she'd already experienced.

Besides, now that my adrenaline levels had settled down, I could look at the threat more rationally. I'd been threatened before while representing controversial clients, and I'd learned to compartmentalize the fear, locking it into a little mental box where I wouldn't have to think about it until the litigation and the threat were both over. It had kept me functional, at least for a while, but my doctor seemed to think my syncope was a long-term consequence of ignoring my fears. He thought the stress had been eating away at me until my body had demanded my attention by causing me to pass out.

In any event, this latest threat wasn't even close to as scary as some of my previous ones. It was unsettling that the thug knew where I lived, but that was pretty typical of small-town life. Everyone in Danger Cove knew where I lived or could find out easily enough. Besides, making good on the threat would only bring more attention to Tremain's case, the exact opposite of what the thug was aiming for.

No, the threat wasn't worth worrying about. I was reasonably sure there wasn't any real risk as long as I took reasonable precautions.

"You're right," I told Alyse. "There's no point in calling the police."

"You do look rather pale," Alyse said. "Would you like some water or something?"

"No, I'm fine." As fine as I could be, knowing I was just one stressful thought away from unconsciousness. I had to keep it together. I didn't think Alyse could handle seeing another body on the floor of the shop.

*   *   *

The walk to the police station helped dissipate the last of my nausea, so when Richie Faria greeted me with a disbelieving look and the question, "What did you remember about the crime scene this time?" I didn't pass out on the spot.

"Nothing about the crime scene per se," I said. "I need to report a threat against a witness."

"In the Tremain case?" he said, looking more jaded than his years could account for. "Who got threatened?"

"I did." I could feel him restraining the urge to roll his eyes. "Just tell Detective Ohlsen I'd like to make a statement. I don't expect you to investigate it, but if something happens to me, I want it on record that I was threatened and why."

"Bud's busy. I can take your statement." Faria led me into the interrogation room, and despite his obvious skepticism, he was reasonably courteous while I completed the paperwork. He skimmed it and then said, "Are you sure you don't know who the person was?"

"He was speaking so low I could barely make out the words. I can't even be sure it was a male. It could have been a woman with a deep voice." It crossed my mind that Alyse had a somewhat low voice, roughened by her cigarette smoking. Could she have disguised her voice that thoroughly?

Faria stuck the brief statement into a file. "You're not giving us much to go on."

"I would have liked to cross-examine the guy who was threatening to come to my house and wreak havoc, but he just wouldn't stay in the witness box or follow the rules of evidence."

The door opened as I was speaking, and Detective Ohlsen entered. "No need for sarcasm, Counselor. We're on the same side here. We want to find Tremain's killer, and we don't much care if it was a career thief or a little old lady."

"
Some
people would prefer it to be a little old lady."

"We're aware of that," he said calmly. "More than you can imagine. But we can only work with the information we have. If you think of anything else about the events surrounding the murder or the crime scene, we're always grateful for the assistance of our citizens."

It was on the tip of my tongue to mention Alyse's change of clothes, when I caught Faria smirking, as if something the detective had said was the punch line to an inside joke. Was Ohlsen simply doing a better job of humoring me than the openly skeptical Faria?

I could be as superficially polite as the detective any day. I'd had plenty of practice in the courtroom, where even the most despised opposing counsel had to be referred to as my "learned" or "esteemed" colleague. The fake deference had saved me from contempt of court on a number of occasions and would save me from an exercise in futility today.

I didn't really think Alyse was a particularly likely suspect anyway. Considering how she continued to defend Tremain's reputation, it wasn't likely she'd known about the frauds, and that meant she hadn't had any reason to kill her partner.

"Don't let me keep you from more-important things, gentlemen," I said as I stood. "I'm sure there's nothing I might have noticed at the crime scene that you missed."

Lindsay's car was parked in my driveway. As I approached, she jumped out and came across the grass to meet me on the sidewalk. "Where have you been? I've been sort of trying to call you forever."

"I turned my phone off so I wouldn't be interrupted." And so I wouldn't have my phone confiscated, as the signs throughout the police station had threatened to do. "Did you find out anything more about the lawsuit between Tremain and Stefan Anderson?"

"A little," Lindsay said as I was unlocking the doors and letting us inside the house. "I've got the Better Business Bureau complaints against Tremain. Stefan's attorney sent them to me."

I tossed my messenger bag on the sofa and continued on into the kitchen. "Before I forget, there's going to be a fax for me at your office from the prosecutor's office tonight. It's information on Tremain's special clients. It's possible he sold them fake antiques, which would make them potential suspects in his murder. See if you can organize them into a single alphabetical list, with their names and contact information, and then e-mail it to me."

"Sure," Lindsay said. "I'll get on it first thing tomorrow morning."

"There won't be any problem with your going into the office during your hiatus?"

"I can handle it."

"Without getting into more trouble with Veronica?"

Lindsay straightened her shoulders. "If I do, it'll be worth it."

It might, at that, if Lindsay learned from the experience and approached all her assignments with this much determination. "So, tell me the condensed version of what's in the BBB files."

"There are more complaints than you'd expect on a business that's only two years old, and none of them sounded like the usual buyer's remorse. The customers were all pretty clear that they were willing to spend big bucks on a real antique, but what they got wasn't what they'd paid for."

Lindsay settled into one of the seats at the peninsula that divided the kitchen from the living room. Neither of us had time for a nice leisurely dinner at a restaurant, so I rummaged through the pantry for something edible among the paper towels and cleaning supplies that I'd stocked up on during a friend's visit when she could drive me to a warehouse store. All I came up with was a can of tuna. Still, if I added it to the remnants of the other night's salad from the Smugglers' Tavern—I was convinced that the owner, Hope Foster, had been topping off the leftovers with an extra serving or three when she packed them up for me, as if I needed additional reminders of why I'd been eating there so often—there ought to be enough for the two of us for dinner.

While I worked on our meal, I mulled over what Lindsay had told me. A high incidence of complaints against Tremain suggested something was rotten at Monograms, but it wasn't enough to prove fraud. "Anything else I should know?"

"There might be one interesting thing," Lindsay said. "I didn't think of it before, but you asked me to see what I could find out about Alyse. She's pretty well known in silver-collecting circles. She was a collector before she became a dealer. If you look at the BBB complaints against Monograms, they're all about the quilts, never the silver."

I finished tossing the two salads and pushed one across the peninsula to Lindsay. "No complaints against Alyse at all?"

"Not in what Stefan's attorney gave me, and he'd requested production of all the complaints against the shop, not just against Tremain individually. I wondered about it too, so I checked the BBB's records. The total number of complaints on record matches how many I got from Stefan's attorney."

"Good work." I grabbed silverware and a bottle of salad dressing and placed them in the center of the peninsula before taking a seat across from Lindsay. "It pretty much kills one theory I had—that the reason Tremain had put up all the seed money for the shop was that Alyse provided all the know-how for scamming customers. She could have been selling fake antique silver all along and taught Tremain how to do something similar with quilts."

"It's still sort of possible," Lindsay said. "She could just be a better con artist than he was."

"Or better at silencing her critics." Except Tremain should have been able to put considerable pressure on anyone complaining about him. Tremain had powerful friends, according to Wolfe. They might well have prevented the prosecutor's office from taking a closer look at Tremain before he was killed. Those same powerful friends were probably doing everything they could to cover up his crimes now to avoid being associated with them. They might have even hired the thug who'd threatened me if they thought pressuring the prosecutor's office wouldn't be enough to protect Tremain's reputation.

If Tremain's friends were that determined, it was somewhat surprising there were any complaints at all against Monograms. "Tell me more about the BBB complaints. Were there any dollar amounts mentioned for the claimed losses?"