A Scrying Shame (21 page)

Wyatt bit his lip, Bill Clinton-style. “Yeah, well . . . like I said, they were going through a rough time. And so you know, they were actually split up then. So it wasn’t like we were doing anything wrong. Not really. But . . . uh . . . I don’t see any reason for you to go into details about all that with Chad. Do you?”

Not with Chad, maybe. But that didn’t mean O’Shea wouldn’t be interested.

“Or Kelli, either,” Wyatt added.

Arie tilted her head quizzically. “What’s Kelli got to do with it?”

Other than inheriting all Marissa’s money, that is.

“Nothing. But like you said, her sister did just die. There’s no reason to tarnish Marissa’s reputation, is there?”

“No,” Arie said. “No reason at all.”

Arie sat huddled in her chair, hunched over her breakfast of iced coffee and a chocolate croissant. She needed caffeine to clear the cobwebs and chocolate to soothe her nerves. Chandra was of the dreaded species: Morning Person. Worse, the restaurant they’d met in seemed full of them, lots of chattering and clanking of spoons and laughing.

Good lord. Didn’t anybody sleep in anymore?

“Why are the cute ones always such scumbags?” Chandra said.

She’d been talking for at least five minutes while Arie yawned and struggled with reopening her eyelids after every blink. She’d ingested just enough coffee to be able to decipher her friend’s words from the background noise of the shop, but the cheerful, chipper tone still made her flinch. She took another slug of coffee.

“Right?” Chandra said.

“Yes. Right.”

“Were you even listening to me?”

“Kind of.” No.

Chandra sighed. “Try harder. I have to leave soon.”

“Okay, okay.” Arie pulled a piece of paper from her purse and passed it over to Chandra. “I did this last night.”

“Ooh, a suspect list. This is so Agatha Christie.”

Arie sucked down the remaining third of her iced caramel macchiato with a quad shot of espresso. She needed another.

“Four names, huh?” Chandra said. “Are they in order of preference?”

“Not really. I put them down as they came to me.”

“Okay, so Wyatt Striker came to you first, huh?” Chandra smiled.

“That’s because I’d just seen him. And you can wipe the smile off your face. He’s a flirt, but unless I win the lottery, he wouldn’t pay me the least bit of attention. Except maybe . . .”

“To sleep with,” Chandra finished. “He’s obviously after Kelli now, and I doubt he gave her a second look before Marissa died. Why does being a male gold digger seem worse than a female one? That’s jacked up, isn’t it? To have a double standard for something that’s already despicable.”

“Because society supposedly has higher expectations for guys.”

“That sucks on multiple levels.”

“Yup,” Arie said. “Anyway, if Wyatt did it, it would be a crime of passion. The only way he’d have a chance at Marissa’s money is if she was alive. Whoever killed her was definitely in a rage, but I think if it was Wyatt, he would have done it when she went back to Chad after their fling.”

“Wait a minute. You said he needed Marissa alive if he was going after the money, but don’t you think he stands a better chance now that Marissa’s out of the way?”

“You mean—”

“Kelli,” Chandra said. “It’s obvious he’s chasing her, even if he can’t really stand her. That kind of shows you what he’ll do for money, doesn’t it? With Marissa, he’d have had love and money. With her getting married, he’s stuck being a man-whore again.”

“He knew about Brant. Kelli knew, and she could certainly have told someone.”

Chandra’s eyes grew big. “Brant?”

Arie grimaced. She hadn’t meant to talk about that—not even with Chandra. With a sigh, she filled her friend in on her visit to her brother’s place in Madison.

While Chandra absorbed the new info, Arie got a much-needed refill. As soon as she sat down, Chandra picked up the list and continued.

“Chad, of course.” She lifted her eyes to Arie’s. “Especially if he found out about your brother, which he probably did. It’s obvious Kelli wants him. I could easily see her throwing her sister under the bus by spilling the beans to Chad.”

“Me, too, but do you think she would risk Plus it would be too obvious if Chad suddenly learned about Brant. Kelli was the only other one who knew they were meeting in her apartment.”

“So did Riann.”

“But Kelli wanted both the money and Chad,” Arie said. “I think she wanted to
be
Marissa.”

“Well, if she didn’t tell Chad, maybe it really was Riann. She was angry enough over Marissa’s so-called hypocrisy. Either way, Chad found out, confronted her, and then it got ugly.”

Luckily, Guts called Arie and Grady in the next day for another job.

Death was picking up.

The building manager at the new job, a nice lady named Brenda, let Arie and Grady into the apartment through a side door.

“It happened right in the front foyer.” Brenda’s voice was tight and high-pitched. “Mrs. Schults from across the hall heard a terrible crash, but by the time the police got here . . .” She shook her head, apparently deciding to let the grisly details speak for themselves. “I can’t believe such a thing could happen in my building.”

The apartment itself was barely furnished and seemed strangely impersonal. They crossed through the kitchen and then through a small living room. The only item that looked expensive was the sixty-five-inch LED TV mounted on the wall.

Bachelor, probably
.

When she walked past the armchair she realized she was right. A jacket hung over the back as though tossed there in passing. The blood-smeared foyer lay beyond, but it was the jacket . . .

Wyatt’s jacket.

Arie recognized it from the night before. She turned to Brenda. “Who . . .?” She swallowed and tried again. “Who lives here?”

“His name was Striker. Wayne, I think. He was a good tenant. Quiet. Always paid on time. I can’t believe someone would kill him right here in his own home.”

Grady pulled out the paperwork, and the building manager turned her attention to it. She stood next to him in the living room, nervously clicking a ballpoint pen, which set Arie’s teeth on edge.

She moved to the edge of the foyer, examining the space as if evaluating it for cleaning. Blood pooled in three spots and had stained a small section of the carpeting beyond.

“How did he die?”

Arie’s voice bounced off the tiles, louder than she’d intended. It startled Brenda, and she dropped the pen. Grady picked it up.

“One of the EMTs said it looked like he was knifed,” Brenda said. “We would’ve heard a gun, I imagine. Or at least, Mrs. Schults would have. She’s sixty if she’s a day, but her hearing is still sharp as a tack. After all, she heard the crash.”

Arie turned her back on the other two, facing the entryway but trying not to look at the blood. Not yet.

This time was different. She knew Wyatt. Not well, of course, but enough that she was entirely freaked out at the thought of seeing his memories through her own eyes. What if she saw herself? What if seeing herself set off some weird fifth-dimension sci-fi event like time traveling or something?

Arie took a deep steadying breath. She was losing it.

Behind her, Grady escorted the building manager back to the side door. As he left, he called over his shoulder, “I’m gettin’ the equipment. Be right back.”

Arie didn’t have time to screw around with hysterics. He’d be back in just a few minutes. She took another deep breath, got down on her knees, and stared into the closest puddle.

She was immediately enveloped in the red haze. Rage shot through her body like an electrical current.

Flash.

Dad is after me. No good running, he’ll . . . it’ll be worse. It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it! Please, don’t! But he’s already swinging. The belt whistles through the air, then cracks across my head and shoulders. I fall down and curl up. It’s better if he can only get my back.

Flash.

“Holy, holy, holy.”

Flash.

The bookshelves rise up above me like a cage, but one I never want to leave. My fingers bump across the spines of the books while my eyes scan the white tab on each, looking for the right combination of letters and numbers. It’s like a code that only secret agents—and librarians—understand. My finger stops. I found it. I pull the book down and open it, looking around to make sure no one is watching, and bury my nose between its pages.

Flash.

Marissa splays across my baby blue sheets like a diamond ring winking at me from a Tiffany’s box. So lovely. She smiles and holds her hand out. As if she needs to ask . . .

Flash.

The doorbell. What the hell? Who’s bugging me at this time at night? I open the door. What do you want? Like I care. Might as well get a beer. This is probably going to take a while. I head for the kitchen. Bam—something punches me in the back. It burns. I spin, but my heart sinks because I already know it’s too late. I can’t believe—an arcing gleam of silver streaks past my eyes, and another punch lands—this time to my throat. It’s . . . it’s a knife. I’m cut. This is crazy. My legs give out, and I fall. A blizzard of strikes. The knife rising and falling—my arms, legs, chest. I try to raise my arms, but they don’t . . . I curl up. Maybe if he can only get at my back . . .

The side door slammed, pulling Arie out of the vision. She scrambled to her feet. Grady walked in carrying two crates with their cleaning equipment in his arms. He set them down on the floor near the entryway.

“At least we don’t have to bother with setting up a clean zone.” He tossed Arie a biohazard suit.

Arie kept her face averted as she pulled it on. To say she was shaken would’ve been an understatement. She doubted she would ever get used to being murdered, even if it was only in her mind.

Luckily, the job itself was pretty straightforward. Grady set to work cutting out the patch of carpet over the spot where Wyatt had died.

“Something wrong?” Grady stared at her.

Arie jumped. “No, nothing.” She grabbed the spray bottle of disinfectant and started squirting.

After the initial shock, Arie felt numb. She concentrated on her job and was careful to not look directly into any of the blood. As expected, it had turned out to be a quick job. In fact, they had finished and were just packing away their supplies when Grady’s cell phone rang. He’d already degloved, so he answered it.

Arie could tell from Grady’s side of the conversation that it was Guts. Maybe they’d gotten another job already, which would be nice. Instead, Grady turned a quizzical look her way.

“Okay, boss. Sure.” He ended the call. “Guts wants you back at the office.”

“Me? What for?”

Grady shrugged but didn’t meet her eye. “I don’t know. He just said for you to head back. Don’t worry about the rest of this.” He waved his hand at the crates and the contaminated carpet they’d rolled and then duct taped.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I got it. Guts said you were supposed to come right away.”

“Grady? Am I in trouble?” Arie’s heart thumped. This felt like third grade, when she’d been sent to Principal Richter’s office for putting a pine cone on Mary Crossman’s seat. And it had seemed like such a good joke.

He finally faced her. “Look, I really don’t know. He said for you to stop what you’re doing and come into the office. As far as I know, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

It helped, but only a little.

Arie’s confusion lifted as soon as she entered the main office and saw O’Shea leaning on the desk. The fear didn’t go away, though. In fact, it expanded.

“Uh, you can use my office as long as you need.” Guts slid his bulk from behind the desk and exited as quickly as he could.

All the moisture in Arie’s body relocated from her mouth to her kidneys. If she were to die now for the second time, it would either be from dehydration or embarrassment at wetting herself in front of Connor O’Shea.

The detective gestured to the hard-backed chair in front of the desk, the same chair Arie had interviewed in a month or so ago.

Time flies.

“I have a few questions for you.” O’Shea didn’t wait for Arie’s nod before continuing. “Let’s start with last night. What were you doing with Wyatt Striker?”

“We were . . . I guess you could call it a date.”

“A date.” It wasn’t a question. “And how did that happen?”

“What you mean? He asked me out, and I accepted. How else do dates usually happen?”

“I see,” O’Shea said. “Let’s do it this way. How did you meet him?”

Arie swallowed hard. “I . . . uh . . . we met at my job.”

“Your job. You’re telling me you met Striker while you were cleaning Marissa Mason’s apartment?”

Crap.

“Not exactly. I met him working for Riann Foster. I’m her . . . I guess you could call me her assistant. It’s only a couple of hours a week. I—you know, things like scheduling her appointments, helping her arrange things. She’s planning a wedding but . . . her own, I mean. Even though it doesn’t look like Dick is ever going to—”

O’Shea’s face scrunched up like an origami piece sculpted by a five-year-old with absolutely no eye-hand coordination. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I met Wyatt at a party Riann gave.”

“You were a guest?”

“Not exactly.” Although it was thirty years too soon, Arie experienced her first hot flash. Sweat beaded along her hairline, and her armpits felt soggy. No wonder her mother was so crabby. “Riann wanted me there to . . . uh . . .”
Oh, double crap.
“To give a reading.”

O’Shea crossed his arms and stared at her under lowered brows. Arie stared back.

Finally, he said, “A reading.”

“You repeat things a lot. Is that, like, an interrogation technique?” Arie attempted a laugh.

O’Shea added tight lips to the lowered brows, and Arie’s little let’s-pretend-this-isn’t-serious chuckle died a sad, lonely death.

Oh, well.

“I do psychic readings. That’s how I met Wyatt. I was doing a group reading for Riann Foster’s party.”

To his credit, O’Shea didn’t openly roll his eyes. He did, however, stare up at the ceiling and nod his head in short, little microbursts of exasperation.