The Lies That Bind (12 page)

“Minka LaBoeuf is teaching in the other classroom,” I said helpfully.

“I’ll take this room,” Lee said immediately.

Jaglom grimaced. “Great. See you later, Ms. Wainwright.”

“You bet,” I said, and waved in sympathy. They’d both had unpleasant run-ins with Minka during the investigation of Abraham’s murder.

Lee took off her trench coat and draped it over one of the tall chairs. I couldn’t help but notice she’d put on a few pounds. It looked good on her. And while it was none of my business, she could afford to gain another ten or twenty.

“What’s up, Brooklyn?” she said, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms across her chest. She was Asian-American, tall and pretty, with a throaty voice some might consider sexy, but which I knew came from smoking too much. She had fabulous hair, thick, black, and shiny. And she intimidated the hell out of me.

“Not much,” I lied, kneading my temple where another headache was brewing. “Although to tell you the truth, I’m a little tired of running into dead bodies everywhere I go. How are you doing, Inspector?”

“I’m a bitch on wheels since I gave up smoking,” she said. “Otherwise, life is like a dream. I know what you mean about the bodies, though. I seem to have the same problem. Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“I guess,” I said, chuckling. “Hey, congratulations on the smoking thing.” I guess that explained the weight gain.

“Yeah, whatever. Turns out, my mother was right. Guys don’t like to kiss an ashtray.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, but who needs guys?” She shoved away from the counter and walked to the worktable, where she tested one of my student’s glued pages for dryness. “This your class?”

“Yes, bookbinding.” I glanced around the empty room. “My students are all hanging out in the gallery, soaking up the excitement.”

“Excitement,” she repeated, as she fiddled with the wing nuts on the press, flicking them back and forth a few times. “I hear there’s been a lot of it around here lately.”

“You could say that.”

“Yeah, I could.” She smirked, then seemed to remember she was there to do a job. “So, tell me about the victim.”

I paused, unsure where to start, then figured I’d start at the top. “She was despicable.”

“Hey, don’t sugarcoat it. Tell me how you really feel.”

“I kind of hated her.”

She leaned back and crossed her ankles. “Guess it’s a good thing you have a rock-solid alibi.”

I blew out a breath. “It sure is.”

She splayed her hands out. “So, tell all. Why was she so awful?”

I held up my hand and counted on my fingers. “She cheated, she lied, she came on to all the men, and she ruled this place through fear and intimidation.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work.”

“I had an argument with her two nights ago.” I explained about the
Oliver Twist
, emphasizing the fact that I had left the book with Layla’s body. “I’m ashamed to admit I went along with Layla’s lie because I was afraid she’d ruin my reputation, maybe blackball me in the community and keep me from working here.”

Lee nodded. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Like I wanted to kill her.”

“Over a book?”

I shook my head. “It was the principle of the thing.”

Lee cocked her head. “Boy, give the woman an alibi and she goes to town. You’re sounding more and more like a suspect, you know.”

“But I’m not,” I said, smiling grimly.

She leaned her arms on the back of the high chair. “I heard some rumors about a situation in Edinburgh.”

“I didn’t do it.”

She laughed. “They should’ve called me.”

“So you could give me a character reference?”

“Of course,” she said, then slapped her hands together. “Well, I should get back to kicking ass and taking names.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s what I live for,” she said. “But first, tell me about the other people here. Did everyone hate this woman enough to kill her?”

I hedged. “Well, some were more enamored of her than others.”

She eyed me sideways. “You giving me a little clue here?”

My lips twitched back and forth. “I hate to be a snitch.”

“This isn’t
Scarface
, Brooklyn. I need to find a killer. Throw me a bone.”

I gave her a two-minute summation of everything that might relate to Layla’s murder, including Tom and Cynthia’s oddball behavior, Ned’s general demeanor, Naomi’s passive-aggressive ways, Minka’s attack, and the Asian man who stormed out of Layla’s office that first night.

“Sounds like a lot of strong emotions running rampant.”

“You could say that.”

“Are you thinking this angry Asian might’ve snuck back in here and knocked out Minka instead of Layla?”

“It’s possible.”

“Can you describe him?” she asked, writing in her notepad as fast as she could.

I gave it my best shot, then added, “I wish he was the only one she’d pissed off.”

“That would make my job easier. But unfortunately, this seems to be a suspect-rich environment.”

“I hate to think someone I know could’ve done this. Maybe there’s a random psychopathic killer loose in the neighborhood.”

“You know, there just aren’t as many psychopathic killers running around as people think.”

I took it philosophically. “Another myth busted.”

She shrugged. “That’s my job.”

After I led her out to the gallery and pointed out the various players, Inspector Lee corralled most of my students back into the classroom. She isolated Cynthia and Tom, as well as the four staff members, Naomi, Ned, Marky, and Karalee, in separate offices, each with a cop taking preliminary information from them.

My students and I were dealt with quickly and told to go home. I walked back out to the gallery just as the front door opened. From across the wide space, I saw two men walk in with Gunther between them. Seconds later, Derek strolled into the foyer.

Without thinking, I gave a little cry and ran toward him. Derek saw me coming and opened his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered, not even caring if I sounded like a wimpy girl.

“And I’m glad to be here,” he said. “Especially now, with you wrapped around me.”

My insides shuddered at his words. Could we just find a room somewhere and forget everything that had happened here tonight? He’d dressed up for our date, too, in a beautiful black suit, crisp white shirt, and dark crimson tie. I didn’t know an Armani from an armadillo, but I knew his outfit had to cost a few thousand pounds. And it was worth every last penny, I thought, as I nuzzled up next to him and felt the soft wool against my cheek.

“What has you so upset, darling?” he said, his breath unsettling the fine hairs of my neck. “We saw the police cars. Was there another attack?”

“Yes. Oh, Derek.”

“You’re shaking, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Layla Fontaine.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“She was murdered. A bullet in the chest. Blood.” I shivered again.

He pushed back and held me at arm’s length. “Layla Fontaine? Murdered?”

I gulped. “I didn’t do it.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it quickly. He drew me close and I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Of course you didn’t do it. For heaven’s sake. I didn’t for one minute think you were responsible.”

“But I found her,” I whispered. “And somebody’s going to connect her death to Abraham’s and, you know, what happened in Scotland. They’ll just assume I had something to do with it.”

He rubbed my back in a soothing, circular motion. “They’ll answer to me if they do.”

“Stone?”

Derek whipped around. “What is it?”

Gunther’s face was pale. “Did you hear? Layla. My God, she’s dead.”

“Yes, I’ve just been told.”

Gunther’s Austrian accent seemed to grow thicker as he became more agitated. “Is this some kind of joke?”

I took a small step away from Derek. “No, it’s not a joke.”

Gunther’s gaze homed in on me. “Who are you? What happened? A heart attack? Did she choke?”

I looked at Derek, then back at Gunther. “She was murdered.”

“Commander Stone?” Inspector Jaglom approached. “I thought that was you. Welcome back to the States.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Derek said, shaking the man’s hand. They had worked together during Abraham’s murder investigation. The first time I’d heard Jaglom greet Derek by the title of Commander, I realized the guy was actually a former commander in the Royal Navy. Before that, I was pretty sure he was a killer. Of course, he was convinced I was, too. Ah, the memories.

Derek continued, “Inspector, let me introduce you to Gunther Schnaubel.”

There were somber murmurs of greeting; then Gunther said, “Inspector, I demand to know what happened here.”

“That’s what we intend to find out, Mr. Schnaubel.”

Gunther rubbed tight knuckles across his jawline. “This is unacceptable. I spoke to Layla a mere hour ago. She sounded fine. We were to meet here and discuss certain arrangements.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Schnaubel,” Jaglom said, studying the Austrian carefully as he pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. “What sort of arrangements were you planning to talk about with the deceased?”

Gunther licked his lips. He had the grace to look flustered, as if he was just now realizing how big a bull’s-eye he’d painted on himself.

I cleared my throat. “Inspector, Mr. Schnaubel is one of the honored guests Ms. Fontaine invited to the book festival running these next two weeks. He’s a world-renowned artist and he’s teaching several classes as well as donating some important pieces to the silent auction.”

Gunther looked pleased by my words.

“I see,” Jaglom said, as he wrote in his notepad. “What sort of artist are you, Mr. Schnaubel?”

“What does that matter?” Gunther said, angry now and posing with his fist on his hip and his nose in the air, as though he expected some underling to clean up the mess that was causing havoc in his well-ordered life.

“Let’s talk some more in here, Mr. Schnaubel,” Jaglom said, pointing down the hall to one of the rooms the police were using.

“I have nothing else to say,” he said, his lips in a tight pout. Could he be more of a diva?

Derek leaned closer to Jaglom. “Inspector, could I have a word, please?”

“Certainly.”

The two men walked slowly as they talked, down the ramp to the gallery, then up another ramp and into the east hall. What were they discussing? I wondered. What did Derek know that I didn’t and how soon could I find out? And meanwhile, what was I supposed to do?

Gunther eyed me with suspicion but said nothing.

“I love your work,” I said lamely.

He raised one imperious eyebrow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Okay, enough small talk. I should’ve been nicer to him since he was a world-renowned artist and a guest here at BABA, but all the niceness had been drained out of me. I excused myself and walked away, wondering when this nightmare would be over.

“You still haven’t slept with the man?”

“Shh,” I said in a frantic whisper. “I’d rather not broadcast it to the world.”

“I don’t blame you,” Robin said in a loud whisper, as she arranged three kinds of cheese and crackers on a tray. “I’d be embarrassed, too.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” I hissed, then had to take a breath to calm down. I wasn’t embarrassed, really. Just horribly disappointed that last night had been such a bust.

I’m not saying we would’ve ended up in bed together, but we didn’t even go out. No dinner, no drinks, no nothing. It was a sad waste of a perfectly great dress and sexy shoes.

The whole evening had been consumed by Layla and the murder investigation. Even dead, the woman was ruining my life. By the time I got home, alone, I was exhausted. And once again, Layla had taken center stage. I winced at the unkind thought and waved it away. It was spiteful and stupid, and probably counted as another black mark on my karma scorecard. I just hoped the time I spent protecting the crime scene from the likes of the peculiar Tom Hardesty and the shrieking Naomi would weigh in my favor.

The police had questioned everyone. Gunther had been so flipped out after his interview with Inspector Jaglom, or his “grilling with the KGB,” as Gunther so dramatically put it, that Derek and all of his men had to babysit him the rest of the night. Who knew a big guy like that could be such a little girl?

“So what happened?” Robin persisted.

“Nothing,” I snapped, then took a calming breath and gave her the highlights: Derek’s demanding client, a few screwy students and staff, murders, attacks, police all over the place.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess it’ll happen when it’s meant to.”

“Now you sound like my mother,” I said, smiling reluctantly.

“No, your mom would channel Romlar X, who would advise that the precise optimal moment for mating must be analyzed vis-à-vis your cosmic destiny.” She smirked as she unscrewed the top off a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.

“Oh, dear God, you’re right.”

Robin and I were closer than two sisters, so she knew when I was upset or in trouble. I first met her when we were eight years old. My parents had moved my two brothers and three sisters and me up to the wilds of Sonoma County, to live on land they’d purchased with the other members of the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness. The first person I noticed when I stepped out of my parents’ Volkswagen bus was Robin Tully, a short, fierce, dark-haired girl who clutched a baldheaded Barbie in her tight little fist. We clicked from day one.

Robin’s mother was always traveling, searching for the miraculous all over the world. So Robin lived with us most of the time. That was fine with me.