Murder.com (3 page)

"Why?"

"The police scared me. They might
think that you did this!"

"Kitty, that's absurd. I didn't
kill Ted."

"I know that. But they seem to
think you might have had something to do with it. And I'm scared
that they are going to come after you."

"Kitty, I appreciate your concern,
I really do, but let them come. I've got nothing to hide. I didn't
do anything. I'm not a murderer."

"I know that, Dutch. Listen to me.
The way they were talking last night, I'm just scared, that's all.
I think you need to do something. Poke around, see if you can find
out who really killed Ted. I don't want you to wind up being
arrested for something that you didn't do because of our
past."

"But—"

"Just promise me that you'll think
about it. It might be the only way to prove your
innocence."

I explained to Kitty a few more
times that I didn't kill Ted, that I had an alibi and that the
police were sniffing around the wrong hydrant and that she was
better off cooperating with the police, as I was going to do if
they came knocking. She begged and pleaded for me to help for "old
times' sake" and for my sake but finally gave in to my desire to
stay out of the mess. She got up from her seat, we all exchanged
some pleasantries, and off went Kitty Baxter, zipping into the
late-morning sun at the helm of her powder-blue Bentley
convertible.

Moments after the door slammed and
as we watched Kitty wind her way down my driveway back toward town,
Imogen turned to me and asked, "Your old fiancée, huh?
Interesting."

I knew that one was going to come
back to bite me. But what was I to do? I knew that I should have
filled Imogen in on my past. After all, things were getting
serious. I had just never found the right time to tell her. It
wasn't exactly the kind of thing that popped up during dinner
conversation.

"Does it matter? What did you
think of Kitty?"

"Does it matter that your
ex-fiancée lives around the block, and her husband, who stole her
away from you, is dead? Yes, it does matter. I think it matters a
great deal, Max. And for the record, I think Kitty is a gold
digger, if you really care."

She had a point.

"Jealousy does not become you, my
dear."

Sarcasm. That was about the only retort that I could
muster up. How else could I respond to something like that? Make a
joke and hope for the best. Slide it under the rug of laughs. Then
quickly change the subject.

Imogen smirked.

"What do you think?" I needed to
get her take on what had just transpired.

There was a lot to think about.
Were the police coming for me? I wasn't scared. I knew that I was
innocent. I didn't kill Ted. But why would they think that I could
have? That was troubling. What did Kitty tell them,
exactly?

"Well, for starters, I'm not sure
that I believe her," Imogen said.

"Believe the story about me, Ted,
and Kitty? Unfortunately, that's true. As much as I hate to admit
it."

"No. No. That's not what I mean.
I'm just not so sure that she didn't kill Ted."

"You think that she murdered her
husband?"

"I don't know if it was her, per
se, but I wouldn't put it past her. Anyone who is heartless enough
to run off with another guy and to call off an engagement isn't a
good person. I know that much."

"I couldn't agree
more."

I wasn't interested in getting
involved in helping Kitty solve the mystery of Ted's murder. If the
police came, they came, and I'd deal with it then. At the moment,
there were two things that did interest me. Having dinner with
Imogen tonight and fixing myself a scotch.

"Dinner tonight?" I asked, fixing
my cocktail. Halfway there.

"Jesus, isn't it a little early
for a drink?"

"It's not every day that your old
fiancée stops by asking to help solve the murder of her husband," I
said, and took a sip.

"You do realize we're not on the
set of
Mad Men
,
right?"

"Why must you keep reminding me of
that? I'd make a great Don Draper."

"You've certainly got the drinking
part down."

We went on with our day. Imogen
went home for a spell, most likely napped, showered, and changed.
We hadn't done very much sleeping last night. I played a little
tennis—after all, I needed all the practice I could get in order to
beat Imogen—showered, then had a pre-dinner drink while relaxing
and listening to some music.

When I finally got around to checking my phone,
there were several text messages, two of which were interesting or
desperate, depending on how you were looking at the situation.

Dutch, I realize our past wouldn't
exactly prompt you to cooperate but I could really use your
help.

What is your email address?

I decided to answer and sent Kitty my email
address.

Halfway through my drink, Imogen knocked on the
door. I fixed her a drink and we exchanged some small talk, none of
which included discussing Ted or Kitty. After about an hour, we
hopped in my black Audi RS 7 and headed off to dinner.

We were dining at Circle this evening. A very
upscale French fusion restaurant. Imogen looked fabulous in a black
dress. Her green eyes were glowing, accentuated against her
straight black hair and the dress.

"Charles," I said, extending a
hand, greeting the maître d'.

"Ah, Max and Imogen, lovely to see
you both. Give me a minute and I'll find you a table."

We ate out a lot.

"No rush, we'll wait at the
bar."

Imogen and I walked over to the bar and proceeded to
embark on our first drink of the evening. Technically, our second.
But who was counting?

"I've been thinking…"

"Never a good thing," I
retorted.

"Nevertheless, I've been
thinking." Ginny, as I was apt to call her on occasion, especially
when she was looking sexy, turned toward me, crossing her legs and
revealing a bit of exposed thigh.

"About?"

"Things."

"How about you elaborate a bit, my
dear?
Things
is a
bit broad."

Just then, Charles walked over to us and informed us
that our table was ready.

Saved by the bell.

He escorted us off to the left of the restaurant
into a private booth.

We picked up the menus and scanned them briefly.

"Red or white, my
dear?"

"White."

The waiter took our drink order, filled us in on the
specials, and then disappeared. Moments later he returned with our
bottle of wine, poured two healthy glasses for us, and then once
again departed to give us time to sip our wine and to decide on
dinner. Imogen and I always put our phones on vibrate when we
arrived at a restaurant in order to make sure that we would not be
distracted by them. No checking Facebook, Twitter, texts, or email
during dinner. Any message, email, or status update could wait
until after.

"As I was saying, Max, I was
thinking." Ginny looked intensely into my eyes.

"Yes, I believe we have covered
the fact that you've been thinking." I took a sip of my
wine.

"I've been thinking about
us."

"I think about us all the time," I
said.

"Isn't it time?"

"Well, it's about
nine."

"You're such an
asshole."

"What?"

"I wasn't asking the
time."

"I know. I'm sorry. Go ahead. You
were thinking about us, and what did you come up with?"

"Well, we've been together for a
while and I love being with you and spending…"

At that moment my phone went off
with a notification that I had received an email. Normally I would
not have cared, but Kitty's text had me a little curious. I
couldn't help myself.

"Hold that thought," I said,
reaching for my phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Give me one second," I said,
viewing the notification on my phone that I had received an email
from Kitty. I opened my email, and this appeared:

From: Kitty Baxter

Subject: Fwd: *CONFIDENTIAL* SCV

To: Max Slade

Thought you should see this. See below.

Regards,

Kitty

Begin forwarded message:

From: Mike Miller

Subject: *CONFIDENTIAL* SCV

To: Ted Baxter

I've discussed this with Clarke,
and Overlord is a go. With or without you. ACAE. For your own
well-being I would suggest that you reconsider our last
conversation.

—
MM

Mike S. Miller,
Esq.

Partner

Baxter, Miller & Clarke Capital Inc.

"Dinner's on you," Imogen informed
me.

She was right. Dinner was indeed
on me. The rules of our game stated anyone who picked up their
phone during dinner also picked up the bill.

"You're worth it. Get a load of
this."

I read Imogen the email.

"Kitty sent you an
email?"

"Yes."

"How'd she get your email
address?"

"She texted me earlier. I sent it
to her."

"Your ex-fiancée is now texting
you? I'm beginning to really not like this woman."

"Jealousy does not suit you, my
dear."

"Didn't we cover that already?
Deal with it."

"Forget about Kitty for a second.
What do you think about the email?" I sat back in my chair, sipping
my wine.

Ginny thought for a moment.
"Possibly a veiled threat, that's, um, not so veiled."

"Possibly. What do you make of
'Overlord'?"

"Not sure. I think that was the
code name for D-Day. Maybe Mike or someone at Baxter, Miller &
Clarke has a World War Two obsession?"

"Yeah, maybe. Who knows? Could be
a threat, could just be work stuff. The tone's a bit strong. I
certainly don't send emails like that, but that doesn't really mean
too much," I said.

"I don't either. At the very least
there was some disagreement at the office. But would that lead to
murder?"

"Who knows? I am sure that
whatever Overlord is it must be worth a whole lot of money. Men
have killed for a lot less than that."

"I guess. Can we get back to
dinner, Max?"

"So, you were saying…"

One thing was for sure: something was going on.
Something odd. And Kitty was in the middle of it. And, thanks to
her, I just might have been as well. Damn Kitty.

Something woke me around three in the morning. At
first I thought it was Jabber nuzzling my left arm that was draped
off the left hand side of the bed, but I soon learned that it was
Imogen rubbing a cold glass against my arm, the ice clinking a bit,
the noise helping to rouse me.

"You up?" Imogen whispered quite
loudly.

"I am now."

Imogen was sitting up in the bed, drinking.

"Don't worry, yours is on the
nightstand."

I lifted myself up into a seated position next to
Ginny, leaned over, and grabbed my drink off the nightstand.

"Glenfiddich 18, neat," she
said.

"Very thoughtful."

"I couldn't get something out of
my head," Ginny said, and raised her glass to her lips, drops of
water falling off the glass onto the bed.

"Clearly."

"SCV."

"What?"

"SCV. That was the subject of the
email."

I was trying to rouse my brain from the haze of
sleep. I took a sip of the scotch.

"Right, I think so. I have to
check."

"That wasn't a question. I can't
figure out what SCV means."

"You think a scotch and soda at 3
a.m. is going to help you figure
that
out?"

"No, but I think talking to you
might help."

"I appreciate your faith in my
intellect, but I'm not that sharp this early in the
morning."

"That's why I poured you a
scotch."

I took another sip. The backs of my eyelids were
calling.

"Maybe SCV are the initials of the
next victim?" she proffered.

"So, now we've got a serial killer
on our hands?" I said, making myself more comfortable rearranging
my pillow against the headboard.

"Maybe it's just the initials of
someone who's in on this whole scheme."

"Could be, but would you put the
initials of someone who's in on some conspiracy in the subject line
of an email after you've already named your co-conspirator by name
in the body of the email? He mentioned Clarke—why not mention
anyone else by name too?"

Imogen pondered my response and took a sip of her
drink while Jabber, now up, was pacing slowly around the bed.