Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (16 page)

    
“You’re kidding.” She was impressed. “How did you manage that? Green dress?”

    
“Green dress.” I laughed, remembering the way Jack had given me the slow up-and-down. “Never fails.”

    
I don’t know what it is, but my bottle green Tahari tank dress makes me irresistible to the opposite sex. When I get married (God willing), I’m having it bronzed.

    
She frowned. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to go out with him?”

    I grinned. “How else can I get close enough to find out information.”

    
“How close are we talking?”

    
“Don’t worry.” I dismissed her concerns with a wave of my hand. “Dana’s chaperoning. I will say though, Jack’s really very attractive if you’re into perfectly chiseled all-American types.” I smiled to show her that I did.

    
“Just keep your wits about you,” she said pointedly.

    
“Always,” I replied, just as pointedly. “We’re going Thai for dinner, then maybe UltraViolet for drinks.”

    
“Jacob’s favorite bar. Interesting.”

    
“Is it?”

    She let me off the hook and turned the subject onto what we’d learned from Nancy Browley. “Oscar taking the discs? The plot thickens.”

    
“We should check with Angela on that one,” I pointed out. “See if she thinks he could’ve pull that one off. Unless we find out someone else could’ve managed it, she and Robin are still our best suspects. They both had access that other suspects didn’t.”

    
“Angela still isn’t returning my calls.”

    
This time I did roll my eyes. Why were we running around trying to help someone who obviously didn’t appreciate it? Oh, yeah, because guilt’s a bitch.

    
“Nancy was pretty candid about her flings,” I put us back on track.

    
“Disturbingly so.”

    
“And Robin all but admitted she knocked off her husbands. Are we really good at this detective stuff, or are our suspects just not threatened by us?”

    
It was Mom’s turn to roll her eyes. “I think the entire lot of them are crazy. Cheating spouses, black widows, Saul and his investigations, Oscar and his Santa suit doling out gifts - sickening.”

    
“You forgot the ambitions of our little Angela and the Beaumonts.

    
Mom made a face. “Who could forget the Beaumonts?”

    
“We need to finish questioning all our suspects,” I continued, “while at the same time looking for those discs, because whatever’s on…”

    
“Good Lord, Chloe, how can you see out of those glasses?” Mom couldn’t stand it any longer. Ten minutes she had waited. A personal best.

    I cleaned them on my T-shirt and continued, “Because whatever’s on them might give us new motives we don’t even know about.”

    
“What better motives do we need?” Mom counted off on her fingers. “Saul might have had proof of Robin’s crimes. He knew about Nancy’s affair. He was taking advantage of Angela. He was doing something with Tony Trianos, and Oscar was dying to know what.”

    
“And the motives for killing Oscar?”

    
“All of the above. If Oscar had Saul’s discs, he knew what Saul knew, and he also might’ve known who killed Saul.”

    
I rattled the ice in my glass. “So motives we have, but we still need the discs to know which one was worth killing for.”

CHAPTER 17

    
Thursday morning was uncommonly productive for me. I trained Martie Hollister in her spectacular home gym, paid bills, and did sketches for Marla Finster’s vintage-inspired baby nursery, all before the morning talk shows ended. Then I hit a couple of shops in search of the antique broaches I planned on giving Mom, Bridget and my grandmothers for Christmas.

    
Procrastination? Not this year.

    
I already had a beautiful onyx Art Deco pin for Mom’s mom and a funky, jeweled dragonfly for my sister. Two down and two to go, but no luck on this particular outing.

    
Exhausted before ten o’clock, I consoled myself with a Chai Latte, feeling virtuous for resisting a cranberry muffin. All in all, this was way harder than I usually work, but it couldn’t be helped. Fitting detective stuff and holiday shopping into my already haphazard schedule was a challenge.

    
Today, I was supposed to meet Mom at Margie’s flower shop to pick up supplies for Monica Dupree’s house. Then, if we got the chance, we would head over to Saul’s to see if Angela was around. All of which didn’t leave much time for extensive grooming required before my night out with Jack Lassiter.

    
Before I could do any of that, though, I had to drop Mom’s files off at the police station, our having stalled as long as she dared. According to Dad, who made a point of running into the detective at the courthouse, McGowan didn’t seriously consider Mom as a suspect. Still, looking over the files was an unchecked box on his to-do list, and McGowan prided himself on being thorough.

    
So did Mom. She had pulled the invoices, highlighted the overages in three different ink colors, attached corresponding approvals and photocopies of the deposited checks, and then outlined everything in a typed cover letter. My acting as her messenger was her brand of passive resistance.

    
When I arrived at the police station, Detective McGowan was taking a call. He took in my grey BCBG pencil skirt, layered tanks and clacky sandals as if he were going to identify me in a lineup.

    
We were on the final countdown before Christmas, and yes, I was in short sleeves, no jacket. The thermometer read mid-sixties, but the day was pure ‘80’s, as in 1985 or 1986. Chances of a white Christmas? Slim to none.

    
“The files you asked for.” I plopped them on his desk when McGowan hung up.

    
“Thought I was going to have to get a court order. Your mom thinking about claiming client-decorator privilege?”

    
He waved at me to sit. I perched.

    
“She was giving you every chance to come to your senses.”

    
“It’s been known to happen. Coffee? It’s fresh.”

    
I shook my head.

    
“It’s Starbucks. Made it myself. That swill you read about cops drinking in detective novels is pure fiction.”

    
“I don’t drink coffee.”

    
“Don’t tell me. Herbal tea? Squeeze of lemon, when you’re feeling sassy?”

    
“Diet Coke.” I hoped he couldn’t smell Chai Latte on my breath.

    
“Be right back.”

    
While he was gone, I leaned over to see if I could find anything of interest on his desk. Autopsy report. Suspect list. Anything along that line.

    
Instead, I saw a framed picture of a Golden Retriever. A girl’s arm was draped over the dog’s neck, but her part of the picture had been folded to the back. Just as I had suspected - the dog came first.

    
“I get a kick out of you Southerners and your soda at breakfast. Don’t see a lot of that in Boston.” McGowan popped open my can (presumptuous of him) and handed it to me.

    
If there are two words I loathe hearing together, it’s “you” and “Southerners.” Ranks right up there with sneeze guard and sanitary napkin. And it’s usually followed by pithy observations like “I can’t believe you Southerners have paved roads” or “I didn’t know you Southerners had access to dental care.” But at least now I had a reason for my ambivalence - the man was a Yankee.

    
“So, did you need anything else?” I asked.

    
“Signed confession?”

    
“’Fraid not.”

    
“Anything you want to tell me about Angela’s relationship with Saul?”

    
“She worked for him.”

    
“And that’s all?”

    
“That’s all.” Or so I hoped. It was time I spelled a few things out for him.

    
“Look, Angela sometimes rubs people the wrong way. The whole hyper-intense reporter thing, it’s her passion. But it’s also her way of keeping people at a distance, so she can relate to them in a way she’s comfortable with.”

    
“All of which means what to my investigation?”

    
“That she shouldn’t be a suspect just because she’s standoffish or because Saul was her mentor and seemed closer to her than most. Underneath her hard exterior and sketchy social skills is a kind of naïve girl.” I was surprised to discover I believed what I was saying - a good sign. I might have an easier time proving Angela’s innocence if I were convinced of it myself.

    
McGowan smiled his indulgence. “Angela’s not a suspect because she isn’t a social butterfly. She and Robin are suspects because they have the strongest motives for stealing Saul’s discs and killing him.”

    
“What motive could Angela have?” Feigned ignorance really doesn’t become me.

    
McGowan’s version of events played out like Robin’s. No surprise there. My trying to refute his arguments only made him defend them more strongly, so I tried another tack.

    
“But Robin’s a better suspect, right? I mean, men who hang around her do have a way of dropping dead.” Sorry, Robin, desperate times and all that.

    
McGowan wasn’t impressed. “She’s definitely a suspect. I’d say they’re neck and neck. On the other hand, the discs and the icicle? Robin’s an ice princess, too cool for that foolishness.”

    
“Whereas Angela, right up her alley?”

    
“I think you had it right. There’s a lot going on under the surface there.”

    
Great work, Chloe. At this rate I’d have them convening a grand jury.

    
I tried the old stand-by - best defense is a good offence. “What you’re really saying is that you don’t know anything. You suspect a lot of things and have a few theories, but as for cold, hard facts, you’ve got nothing.”

    
McGowan’s face hardened. “We know quite a few things actually.”

    
“For instance?”

    
“For instance, I know where you can find a guy whose left hand doesn’t know what his right hand is doing.”

    
I couldn’t hide my shock. “You found the one-hand man?”

    
“In the flesh. What’s left of it.”

    
I gaped at him. “Spill it. Who is he? What’s his connection to Saul? How the hell did his hand get cut off?”

    
McGowan laughed at how I was salivating for information. If we hadn’t been discussing severed body parts, I might’ve wondered if he was flirting with me.

    
“Vice arrested a guy on an unrelated case and he coughed up some information he thought might earn him some points with the DA. As in the location of a dismembered body, buried behind a warehouse in a not-so-nice section of Birmingham.”

    
“Who is he? Was he?”

    
“Charles Moriarty. No criminal record, no connection we can find to Saul or Oscar. But according to our informant, Moriarty had a gambling problem that he couldn’t stay ahead of. Stole some money from the wrong folks and got himself killed.”

    
“Gambling?” I repeated.

    
“Illegal gambling, most likely. The kind someone with a problem usually gets mixed up in. And sooner or later, their problem becomes our problem.” He twirled his pencil. “Every time we shut down one of these operations, another one springs up within a week.”

    
I sat back in my chair. “But Moriarty couldn’t have killed Saul or Oscar…”

    
“Not single-handedly.”

    
“And if he wasn’t connected to them, how does he fit in?”

    
“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

    
I grabbed my purse. “Good luck with that.”

    
I started to make my exit, but McGowan had some questions of his own.

    
“So, why wasn’t your boyfriend at those parties?”

    
“What makes you think I have a boyfriend?”

    
“If you didn’t have a boyfriend, you would’ve had a date. Going alone says one of two things to me - steady boyfriend who works odd hours or a military guy overseas. Or maybe you have an unsteady boyfriend, and you two are on a time out. Maybe he’s one of those guys who picks a fight around the holidays, so he doesn’t have to get you a gift.”