A Body to Spare (The Odelia Grey Mysteries) (2 page)

two

“Where’s my mother?” I
asked Fehring.

“She’s being questioned,” Fehring answered. Since I’d last seen Andrea Fehring, she’d let her hair grow long enough to be pulled back away from her face. She was a trim woman somewhere in her forties with great posture and a no-nonsense demeanor. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and blue blouse—her usual working uniform. She was good at her job and I respected that, even if at the moment I wasn’t pleased to be the object of her scrutiny.

“Did you cuff Mom too?” I asked, rubbing the red mark around my wrists. Shortly after the police had arrived at Twinkle Clean, I was read my Miranda rights, then cuffed and stuffed into a patrol car and driven to the station.

“Of course not,” Fehring said with a slight smile she tried to suppress. “Greg showed up and brought her to the station. They’re both here now.”

“Am I officially under arrest?” I asked. “I’m a little foggy on that point.”

“Should you be?” Fehring asked.

Before I could answer, a tall, trim African-American man entered the room. “Her husband called their attorney,” he announced to Fehring. “The guy should be here soon. The mother’s not saying another word until he gets here.”

“My attorney?” I asked with surprise. I knew I hadn’t asked for one, but the fact that Greg had already called someone told me he’d felt it necessary. That also meant I should follow Mom’s lead and shut my mouth for the time being, but for me that’s more difficult than it sounds.

“To answer your question, Andrea,” I said, using the detective’s given name, hoping it would give a chummy feel to the awkward atmosphere, “no, I should not be arrested. I haven’t done anything wrong. I have no idea what this note is about or who the dead guy in the trunk is.”

“Guilty people usually say stuff like that,” said the guy.

I turned to him. “And you are…?”

“Forgive my bad manners, Odelia,” Fehring said with heavy sarcasm. “This is Special Agent Shipman.”

“Special Agent?” I asked, the question squeaked out as if half strangled.

“Federal Special Agent Gregory Shipman,” the man clarified. “I’m with the FBI.”

“Gregory,” I repeated, choosing for my sanity’s sake to ignore the rest of his title until I could wrap my head around it. “Like my husband. And Shipman would mean you two have the same initials: G. S. Your middle name isn’t William by any chance, is it?” I was babbling—something I do when nervous.

“No,” Special Agent Shipman answered. His face was stern, except for his eyes. They danced with cautious amusement. “It’s Winston.”

“Huh,” I said. “The same initials for sure—G. W. S. Hopefully that’s an auspicious sign.”

The amusement in his eyes dimmed. “I’ve heard all about you, Odelia Grey,” he said. “You’re the famous Corpse Magnet.” He pulled out a chair across from me and folded his long, lean body into it. Fehring remained standing. “You’re a legend. A seemingly ordinary woman with a nose for dead bodies and friends in low, dark places.”

“You like Garth Brooks, too?” I asked. I was being glib, but under the table my right leg was vibrating in a nervous seizure.

Special Agent Shipman studied me. “One of these days, you might be responsible for one of the bodies you stumble across. Maybe this is that time?”

I fixed Shipman with a weepy look and spoke through trembling lips. “I’ve already crossed killing a human being off my bucket list, Special Agent. It happened several years ago. Or didn’t you do your homework beyond listening to gossip?” I didn’t have to fake the weepiness. Every time I recalled the horror of pulling the trigger of a gun and ending someone’s life, the waterworks started. It was something I knew I’d never get over.

I wiped the back of one hand across my eyes, not caring if I smudged my makeup, and turned my attention back to Fehring. “Can I speak to Greg while I wait for my attorney?” My gaze bounced off Shipman. “
My
Greg,” I clarified.

“At the moment,” answered Fehring, “
your
Greg is with Mrs. Littlejohn, helping her through her statement.”

I was glad for that. Mom’s a tough old bird, but who knew what she would say. She thinks my finding the odd body and getting embroiled in danger is cool—and fodder for her blog. I couldn’t trust her not to embellish once she got on a roll. Greg would keep her grounded.

“It’s probably best he help her,” I said.

Shipman got up. “Would you like a soft drink or maybe some coffee, Ms. Grey?”

“Oh hell,
Greg
,” I said with false bravado, “call me Odelia. All the other cops do.”

He leaned forward. His narrow face was so close to mine I could smell toothpaste. Like Fehring, he was probably in his forties but closer to fifty than to forty. “And you can call me Special Agent Shipman.” He straightened up and started for the door. “What’s it to be?”

I thought about the iced mocha I’d been craving earlier. “You don’t happen to have an iced mocha anywhere on the premises, do you?”

“Did you see
Starbucks
posted anywhere on the front of this building, Odelia?” Shipman asked. The sarcasm was heavy, and this time there was no amusement in his look or tone.

I was pressing my luck. “A black coffee with no sugar would be nice, Special Agent Shipman. Thank you.”

Once he left, Fehring took the chair he’d abandoned. “I see you’re just as adept at making friends as always, Odelia.”

“Never hurts to ask,” I answered with a shrug. “Who knows, you might have one of those pod coffee machines around. They make lattes.”

Fehring chuckled. “With our budget, we’re lucky we don’t have to reuse the coffee grounds a couple of times.”

She leaned back in her chair. “So who’s coming? Seth Washington or Mike Steele? Or have you finally put a criminal attorney on retainer?”

“Probably Seth. Steele’s on his honeymoon.”

“His honeymoon?” Fehring sounded surprised. “He never struck me as the marrying kind.”

“He finally found someone who could handle him. And he didn’t have to chloroform her to get her down the aisle either.” Fehring and I shared a laugh. Mike Steele was my boss, an arrogant attorney and royal pain in the ass. “She’s a doctor,” I continued. “A pediatrician. Her name is Michelle Jeselnik. She’s super nice and down to earth, and he’s head over heels for her. They’re currently skiing in Switzerland.”

“Nice,” Fehring said with a nod of approval. “Speaking of friends taking life-changing plunges, what do you think about Dev Frye’s retirement announcement?”

“Dev’s
retiring
?” I looked at her with saucer eyes.

Fehring looked like she’d just let an angry cat out of the bag and was trying to figure out a way to stuff it back in. “I’m sorry. I thought he would have told you since you’re such tight friends. I heard about it last night from another Newport Beach detective. It was just announced.”

“Dev did invite Greg and me to dinner tomorrow night,” I told her. “Maybe he was going to tell us then.” It made sense, especially since Dev specifically said he had some news to tell us, but I didn’t like being out of the loop so late in the news crawl.

“I’m sure that’s it,” Fehring said, making a quick save. “He probably wanted to make it a special announcement.”

I glanced at the closed door and leaned forward like Fehring and I were girlfriends sharing a secret. “So what’s up with Mr. FBI?” I asked.

A half smile crept partway across Fehring’s face before coming to a halt and changing its mind. “You’ve hit the jackpot this time, Odelia. You’ve stumbled into a federal investigation.”

“What?” I asked, nearly coming out of my chair. “That dead guy is wanted by the feds?”

Before Fehring could say anything more, a uniformed officer brought in my coffee with Shipman and Seth Washington on his heels. The two men were about the same height, but Seth had a wider and more solid build that he carried with expert posture. Seth and his wife Zenobia, better known as Zee, are our best friends. Zee’s been my bestie for more than twenty years. Seth had obviously come from his office and was dressed in a snappy gray suit. He nodded to Detective Fehring, having met her on several occasions. “I’d like a few minutes with my client,” Seth told Fehring and Shipman.

Client?
I didn’t like one of my dearest friends calling me his client. Nope. Not one bit. But at the moment I’d have to swallow it like a bitter pill. Seth isn’t a criminal attorney, but he’d be able to guide me through the questioning and determine whether or not I would need more expert representation. It had been Seth who’d tagged me with the nickname
Corpse Magnet
many years ago. The obnoxious moniker had obviously stuck, having spread to the Long Beach Police Department and even the feds.

When the detectives left us alone, Seth placed his briefcase on the table and got down to business. “What in the hell is going on, Odelia? Greg said you have a dead body in the trunk of your car.”

“Had,” I corrected. “I’m sure they’ve removed it by now.”

“This isn’t a time for your flippancy, girl.” Seth unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in a chair next to me. A very handsome African-American man in his late fifties, Seth had a deep baritone voice. Jacob—his and Zee’s college-age son—was the spitting image of him. His close-cropped hair, once jet black, was now salt and pepper. It looked great on him.

“I have no idea how that body got into my trunk, Seth. Really, I don’t.”

He pulled a pen and a legal yellow pad out of his briefcase and started jotting down notes. “When was the last time you opened the trunk of your car?”

I gave the question some thought before answering. “It was Monday afternoon—President’s Day.” I told him. He jotted it down. “I’d done some grocery shopping and bought two cases of water. Greg and I always keep a case of water in each of our vehicles for emergencies and sporting events, and it was on sale. I pulled one case out and moved it to Greg’s van shortly after he got home from work that night.”

“Wasn’t his office closed for the holiday?”

“Yes, but Greg went in for a few hours to catch up on some paperwork. He got home sometime between three and four, I think. I know it was before supper time. And that’s when I transferred one of the cases to his van.”

“And there was no body in your trunk at that time?” Seth asked.

I looked at Seth as if his brain had skipped a beat. “Don’t you think I would have noticed a little thing like that?”

“One would hope, Odelia,” he said, his eyes on the pad as he jotted down the information. “How about the name Zach Finch?”

“Who’s Zach Finch?” I took a sip of my coffee. It was the temperature of pee and of a similar taste—not that I’ve actually tasted pee.

Seth looked at me. “The dead guy in the trunk. At least that’s the story his prints are telling. That’s all Shipman told me just now. They didn’t mention his name to you?”

I shook my head. “But I’m sure they would have gotten around to it.”

“For some reason,” Seth said slowly as he poked the end of his pen at the pad, making an abstract figure of tiny dots, “the name sounds familiar to me, but I can’t place from where or why.” He looked up from his art project. “Does the name ring a bell with you?”

I closed my eyes and quickly ran the name through my personal data bank, whirring it around like laundry on the spin cycle. I shook my head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

“Then why would he be in your trunk with a note pinned to him saying ‘found me’? Were you looking for anyone?” Seth held the pen over the pad and waited for any answer.

“These are the same questions the police have been asking me,” I complained.

Seth continued to hold the pen aloft over the paper. “And now I need to ask them if I’m going to help you.”

“First off,” I began, trying not to let my exhaustion amp up my already considerable crankiness, “the note was not pinned to him. He was naked; there was nothing to pin anything to. The note, I believe, was taped to him with silver duct tape—the same tape that bound him. At least that’s what the police told me.”

After writing down that the note had been taped to the body, Seth looked at me expectantly for the rest of my explanation.

“As for looking for the guy,” I said, “I have no idea who he is…or was…so how could I be looking for him?”

“So you’re not helping out one of your oddball acquaintances or friends with a little amateur sleuthing on the side?” he asked, then tacked on for good measure, “It’s not like you haven’t been involved with stuff like this in the past, Odelia.”

“Let me remind you, Seth, that I count you and your family among my oddball friends.” I put down my pee-temperature coffee hard enough to make it slosh onto the table. “And whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Your side, Odelia.” Seth put down his pen. “But I need to know everything. We have to figure out why this guy and why your car? It’s only natural, given your past, that this might have something to do with your penchant for stumbling into trouble. If we can’t find a link to something or someone else, you’re going to go to the head of the suspect list. Do you want that?”

“Oh, please,” I said, trying to be indignant when really I was ready to have a major stroke. “If I killed that guy, do you think I’d casually forget and drive my car, with the body in the trunk, to Twinkle Clean?” I gave Seth a one-eyed stare. “With my mother in the car, no less?” I paused, then asked. “And how did he even die? The police didn’t tell me that.” I took a short breath and continued my rant. “And do I look like I’d be able to hoist a grown man’s body into the trunk of a car? Even though that guy—that Simon Fletcher or whatever his name was…”

“Zach Finch,” Seth corrected.

“Zach Finch,” I repeated. “Even though Mr. Finch was trussed and folded like a turkey in a roasting pan, he looked pretty strong and fit to me. And young. I can barely lift the kettlebells at the gym more than a few times.”

“You could have had help,” Seth suggested.

“Right. Mom helped me. Together we’re quite the killing machine.” I started doodling in the puddle of coffee to calm myself down.

Seth leaned toward me. “Odelia, did the police ask you about Willie Proctor or Elaine Powers?”