Nursing a Grudge is Murder (A Maternal Instincts Mystery) (18 page)

He nodded, seemingly satisfied that I wasn’t going to fall to pieces on him. He turned and walked down the hallway, in search, I guessed, of first aid supplies.

I studied my torn-up jeans. Blood was dripping down the denim and onto my sneakers. The sight of it turned my stomach.

The painter returned with a bottle of disinfectant, cotton balls and tweezers. He wiggled his eyebrows at me and grinned. “Take off your pants, lass; it’s time we got down to business.”

“Not on your life,” I said.

He turned serious. “You can trust me. I’m a gentleman.”

“No. I’ll wait for a doctor.”

“I’m practically a doctor.”

“You’re a painter.”

“Same thing,” he said.

“No, it’s not.”

He made a face. “Sure it is, painting is all ‘bout cutting out disease; mold, mildew, lead, you name it and then putting on a fresh, healthy finish.”

“I don’t think it’s the same thing.” I tried to straighten my legs and winced.

“There are a lot of similarities.”

I tried to roll up my jeans starting at the ankle. I got as far as an inch and then it was clear that I wouldn’t be able to roll them up past my knees.

He grinned wickedly. “You’re going to have to take them down from the waist, love.”

I flashed him a death stare, which he took well. He wiped the grin from his face, then handed me a throw blanket that was on the foot of Melanie’s bed. “Here,” he said. “You can use this to cover up.”

I wrapped the blanket around my waist and lowered my torn, bloody jeans. He worked with incredible speed and gentleness. The disinfectant stung, but the overall sensation when he removed the glass from my legs was relief.

I looked around the room as he worked. What could I tell from the scene of the crime? Had Sam and Melanie had a final fight? The room looked relatively undisturbed, except, of course, for Melanie’s corpse.

My eyes landed on her feet and I suppose I must have been staring, because the painter said, “She’s not, you know.”

“What?”

He flashed me his lopsided grin. “She not cuter than you.”

“She’s dead!”

“Well, yeah, I get that. But I meant, if one were to overlook that—”

“You can’t overlook it! She’s dead! ” I nearly screeched.

He lowered his eyes and looked appropriately chastened. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” He secured the bandage on my knee and asked, “Do you have any cute single friends who aren’t dead?”

“Christ, you’re incorrigible,” I said. “Are you done?”

He examined my knees. “You clean up well. Very pretty knees.”

I pulled up my jeans in a huff and dispensed of the blanket. He laughed.

“Thank you for the first-aid,” I said. “You surprised me.”

He smiled. “I was a medic in the army.”

“Ah,” I said, limping over to Melanie’s body. I studied her. Her bruised and swollen face was slack. I sighed and fought back the feeling of despair that threatened to overtake me. No, better to get right to work than to give in to anguish.

“Did you touch or move her?” I asked.

“Yeah, I tried to get her pulse.”

“Was she face down?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

I bent over Melanie and examined her. Of course, I couldn’t tell anything from the body. She was dead. That much was certain. But I had no clue as to the cause or time. That was something the Medical Examiner would have to determine.

I glanced around the room. I couldn’t help but feel like I needed to take advantage of being on-site. Something V.D. was not—ha!

As soon as I had the thought, I immediately felt bad. Melanie was dead and I wanted justice for her. It didn’t matter if I were the one to solve the crime or V.D., as long as there was some closure…but…surely there was
something
I could pick up while being here that would bring me closer to solving the mystery.

“Were you here yesterday?” I asked the painter.

“Yes,” he said.

“What time did you leave? Was everything normal? Did you see Melanie? Did you see anyone else?”

He held up a hand. “Whoa, lass. What’s with all the questions?”

“I’m a P.I.”

He was quiet for a moment then said, “I was here yesterday. Now that you mention it, she came home and it seemed like she’d been followed.”

Fear churned in my stomach.

“Followed?” I asked in disbelief. “Guy in a green Prius?”

“No, two guys in a white Volvo.”

Jim’s car. The painter had seen Jim and David follow Melanie home to make sure she got home safe.

And she had. Only something else had happened after that.

“Did you see anyone else come or go?”

He shook his head.

“What happened with the window?” I asked.

The painter looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“It broke, I know, but was it closed? Or compromised? Why did it break?”

“It was open a bit at the top. I tried to lower it and it crashed out of the frame. But don’t worry, lass, I can fix it. You get a new glass and—”

I tuned him out and looked around the room. Had someone come into Melanie’s apartment via the window and scaffolding?

“Was there anything different about the scaffolding? Anything missing or moved or…”

“No.”

“Does it always shake that way?”

He laughed. “I suppose you get used to it.”

My gaze returned to Melanie. It didn’t seem like there had been a forced entry. So it may have been someone she knew.

In fact, hadn’t she and Sam had plans last night?

The phone on her nightstand buzzed. I leapt toward. The caller ID read out “Jill.” I wanted to answer the call, but hesitated.

The cops would already be raging mad at me for being inside the apartment and they’d certainly pop a gasket if I touched anything, so I refrained from picking up Melanie’s phone.

Although…

What if her phone went missing?

I could easily pocket the phone.

I felt the painter’s eyes on my hand and backed away from the nightstand.

What was I thinking? Deliberately tampering with evidence?

Maybe I was a criminal!

Chapter Nineteen

An engine idled outside. I crept toward the window and peeked out. In the middle of the street, an unmarked police car was stationed with its hazard lights on. An arm reached out of the skylight and placed a revolving blue and white light on the top of the car. I prayed that it was any cop other than McNearny.

Although McNearny was Galigani’s former partner at the SFPD and was usually helpful, he and I had had a rough beginning. He was, as a general rule, not always happy to see me. In fact, I was sure that if he never laid eyes on me again or heard my name, he’d be a happy man.

I must have been living life well, because Officer Jones stepped out of the car. I’d met him a few months ago, when I was working my first case. He’d been with McNearny then, but now he was alone.

I did a happy dance.

The painter frowned. “What are you so happy about, lass?”

“Much nicer cop then the one I was expecting.”

The painter shrugged and said in a skeptical tone. “There are nice cops?”

A secondary vehicle turned the corner. I watched in horror as that vehicle double parked behind the first one and the hazard lights came on. Jones waited for the other driver to get out of the car and, as luck would have it, a stocky, balding man stepped out.

McNearny!

I groaned. Clearly, I wasn't living all that well.

“What is it, lass?” The painter asked.

“Uh…” I said.

The painter raised an eyebrow. “Good cop, bad cop?”

“Exactly,” I said.

The painter patted my shoulder. “I can’t see you having anything to worry about, lovie. We found the body, we didn't…” He took an involuntary step back and stared at me. “At least I didn't— ”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous. I didn't kill her. It's just that…” I watched as McNearny and Jones headed toward the massive staircase, soon they were out of my line of vision. I limped toward the front door. “Never mind, you'll find out soon enough.”

I opened the door to the officers. “Hello, good officers,” I said cheerfully.

McNearny’s face immediately betrayed him; he turned so beet red that the only thing missing was steam coming from his ears. “What the devil are you doing here?” he spat. “I should have guessed. Any time there’s a homicide in the city you’re never far behind.”

“Already at homicide?” Jones asked, surprised. “How do we know that?” Officer Jones was younger than McNearny, with kind eyes and short dark hair that was gelled back. He smiled sympathetically at the painter and me.

McNearny ignored Jones and squinted at the painter. “Are you the one who placed the 9-1-1 call?”

The painter nodded and stuck his hand out toward McNearny. “Sean O’Neil.”

McNearny shook the painter’s hand, then reached into his breast pocket and produced a badge reading INSPECTOR PATRICK MCNEARNY. He showed it first to the painter and then flashed it at me saying, “So you don’t forget!”

Jones smirked and patted McNearny on the back as he came further into the apartment. “No one can forget you, Mac.”

The painter followed Jones into the apartment and gave him an accounting of our arrival on the scene. McNearny listened quietly and took notes only stopping to look up occasionally and scowl at me.

When the painter had finished, McNearny said, “And why exactly were you here, Mrs. Connolly?”

“The victim is the—”

“Whoa, we don’t know she’s a victim yet. We don’t know cause of death or time or anything,” Jones said.

“Right,” I nodded. “Sorry, her name is Melanie Welgan, and she’s the sister of Perry Welgan whose body was recovered after a fall from Painted Rock.”

Jones let out a low whistle. McNearny growled and the painter simply looked at his hands.

Jones suddenly scratched at his forehead. “Didn’t we bring in Mr. Miles for questioning on that one?”

“And Galigani broke an ankle hiking Land’s End,” McNearny rumbled.

Crap! Guilt overwhelmed me. Not only hadn’t I been able to prevent Melanie’s death, but it was probably my fault that Galigani was laid up in the hospital.

McNearny turned to the painter. “I’ll need you to go downtown and get fingerprinted.”

The painter frowned but nodded politely.

McNearny turned to me. “We have your prints on file, Connolly.” He then exchanged glances with Jones.

Jones outstretched an arm and ushered the painter toward the door. “My car is outside. Why don’t I pop you on over to the station?”

The painter walked with Jones to the front door, but stopped suddenly and flashed me a worried look. “Lass, you going to be alright?”

I smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m in good hands with old Mac.” I patted McNearny on the shoulder who in turn grunted.

When they’d left the apartment, McNearny said, “I want to hear your theories.”

“You do?” I was stunned, but suddenly felt proud. I was starting to command some respect at SFPD.

“Not really, but I should. At least, then I’ll know what I can dismiss.”

So much for respect.

I took a deep breath. “Miles is represented by Barramendi, the top
criminal
defense attorney in San Francisco.”

He folded his arms across his expansive chest. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Barramendi hired a P.I.”

McNearny cocked an eyebrow at me. “Let me guess, her name is Kate Connolly.”

“No.”

McNearny frowned. “No?”

“He hired some guy named Vicente Domingo, who I happened to know is looking into Melanie’s boyfriend, Sam Kafer, as suspect
número uno
for the death of Perry.”

“And you know this how?”

I couldn’t very well tell McNearny that I’d broken into V.D.’s house, so I shrugged.

“Ah, I see.” He rolled his eyes and said in his most sarcastic and dismissive tone, “Very helpful.”

“Well, I do believe there may have been a history of abuse,” I said.

McNearny uncrossed his arms.

“Abuse between Sam and Melanie, that is,” I clarified.

“And you won’t tell me how you know this either?” he asked.

“My friend, Jill. She was dating Melanie’s brother. The first victim. The guy who fell off—”

“She’s the restaurant critic?” McNearny pressed.

“Right.”

“The one who panned Miles’ restaurant,
Philosophie
?”

“Exactly,” I said. I explained my theory about Melanie knowing the assailant and that Sam had plans to see Melanie last night.

McNearny paced around the room. When he got close to the bed, the kitten peeked out.

“Whiskers?” I called out.

The kitten came to me and I picked it up. He was all grey with a small patch of white from his chin to his belly. He was trembling, so I pressed him into my chest and stroked his ears.

“It’s starting to look as if Perry’s fall had nothing to do with Miles, isn’t it?” McNearny asked.

Before I could respond, his eyes landed on a bloodstain on the carpet.

“Wait a minute. Look at this!”

I cringed. “Sorry, that’s my blood.” I indicated my torn-up jeans. I cut myself on the glass from the shattered window.

“Christ, Connolly!” McNearny exploded. “Next time stay out of my crime scene!”

<><><>

After he collected his temper, he decided to walk me to my car. I’m sure his primary goal was to make sure I actually left, not chivalry.

He yanked on the front door and ushered me out.

“Got crime scene techs coming, you gotta go,” he said.

“Can I keep the cat?” I asked. “I think it was Perry’s. Maybe Jill will want—”

McNearny waved at me. “Keep it for now. I’ll follow up with next of kin and see what they want to do.”

I glanced around for a cat carrier, but McNearny was already hustling me to the door, and he didn’t seem in the mood to help me with cat care.

We walked down the flights of stairs and crossed the street.

He immediately spotted my car bumper encroaching on the neighbor’s driveway. He pointed at my car and said, “You’re lucky the neighbor didn’t call it in.”

“I’m surprised you’re not giving me a ticket anyway.”

From the look he gave me I almost feared he would. But then his expression changed and he reached into his pocket. “How about I give you this instead?”