Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (3 page)

“Was Erica Vogel named in your action?”

“We’ve just finished working out the settlement. It could be a few months till we get a court date and---”

“Would she have been named?”

I couldn't help it. “As what? Whore of the year?”

His mouth twitched. “As co-respondent.”

I grimaced. “We're going with no-fault.”

“What exactly was Ms. Vogel’s position with your husband’s company?” He flipped back through his notes. “I’m sorry, what’s it called?”

“Your Face Is My Fortune. Erica started out as a model. Last year she became head of the marketing division.” By way of Rich’s bed I wanted to add, but didn’t.

“And they manufacture?”

“They manufacture and market products for the skin and hair.”

“Mr. Burnham’s the president?”

“President, CEO, and Chairman of the board.”

Rich has a thing about titles.

Brodsky looked directly into my eyes. “Was Erica Vogel the reason your husband left you?”

My mouth went dry. I tried to work up some saliva. “Why are you asking me that? You—-you don’t think I had anything to do with—-with what happened to her?”

“A neighbor saw you late yesterday afternoon at your husband’s home. She said you seemed”--he glanced down at his notebook--“extremely agitated. When I stopped you for speeding, you were still pretty upset.”

“I was upset because she’s—-she was living in my home, sunning herself by my pool-—in my lounge chair. She was on the phone with my husband, planning their wedding! You bet I was upset. But she was alive when I left.”

“Did the two of you have words?”

“I don't speak to her. She never even saw me.”

“You were close enough to hear her talking on the phone, though.”

It wasn't a question.

“Yes, I...”

“Was she wearing a bathing suit?”

“My God, was she raped?” Too late, I realized how stupid that sounded. He wouldn’t be questioning me if that were the case.

He answered anyway. “It doesn't appear so. She was still wearing the bottom part of the suit.”

“That's all she had on when I was there.”

He scribbled something in his notebook. “Did you notice if she was wearing any jewelry?”

I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “She... had on a gold chain.”

Did he know about Rich giving her my necklace? Was I incriminating myself? Should I stop answering questions?
“You have the right to remain silent”
flashed through my mind, legal jargon gleaned from a thousand TV shows. “Is that--is that relevant?”

“Looks like it was torn from her neck in a struggle. Left burn marks.”

I grasped at the straw. “Then it was robbery.”

“Possibly,” he replied, and I knew he didn’t think so.

“Was anything else taken?”

“Nothing from the house.”

“How do you know?” I persisted. “Maybe some of her other jewelry...”

“Mr. Burnham indicated everything was there.”

A burning sensation began in my stomach. “You didn’t tell me how—-what happened to her.”

“She was struck over the head and pushed into the pool.” He spoke as though he were describing a minor traffic accident. “The blow didn't kill her. She drowned in two feet of water.”

I stifled a gasp as my dream came back to me. “Look,” I managed, trying not to appear guilty, sure that I did. “I didn’t like Erica.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“All right! I hated her! You don’t love the woman who stole your husband. But that doesn't mean you go out and kill her.”

“It does go to motive.”

“But I’m not a murderer. I’m a mental health professional, for heaven’s sake.”

“I’m not accusing you. These are just routine questions.”

Routine?

“A lot of people didn’t like her,” I rattled on, unable to follow the advice of all those TV cops.

“Like who?”

My mind went blank. “She—-she was a hard woman to work for-—to do business with if she thought she had an edge. She made enemies.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

I didn’t want to blurt out names, get innocent people in trouble. “I’d—-have to think about it.”

He pocketed his notebook and rose to his feet. “Do that, and if you come up with something more concrete, give me a call.” He dropped a card on my desk. “And you might think about talking to an attorney.”

I stared at him, openmouthed.

“Ms. Carlin,” he said, almost indulgently, “you admit to hating Erica Vogel. You were seen at her home around the time of the murder.” He held up his hand, cutting off my protest. “You might feel more comfortable getting legal advice. For your own peace of mind.” At the door he paused. “Oh, by the way, don't bother sending anyone for your car. We've towed it to the station. Sorry, but we’ll need to keep it for a few days.” And he shot me a look that froze my blood.

When the blood defrosted enough to meander on up to my brain, it hit me—-why the police had impounded my car. They were looking for evidence. Maybe for blood traces. For the murder weapon! The old saying popped into my head about being careful what you wish for-—you just might get it. Clearly some mischievous deity had granted my wish and was sitting up there having himself a belly laugh. Because I was the police department's prime suspect!

RUTH-ANN WAS SITTING in the waiting room when the door to my office opened and the two cops filed out. She got up so quickly, her chair fell over backward. As he passed by her, Brodsky reached over and set it on its legs. She recoiled as though he were covered with porcupine quills.

Ruth-Ann’s grandparents are Holocaust survivors. They’ve never gotten over their terror of anyone in uniform. It’s a fear they've unwittingly passed on to their granddaughter.

“What’s happening? What are
they
doing here?” she whispered, after the door had closed behind them.

I masked my own panic with a forced smile. “Oh, it’s nothing...just—-they were asking me some questions about-—someone I used to know.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Oh, no, no,” I mumbled, brushing past her and sticking a note on the door, telling Vickie I’d had an emergency and would call to reschedule. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel today, Ruth-Ann. I'm really sorry, but there’s something I have to do.” I was having a tough time standing still, and I was edging away when she caught my arm.

“But are they going to let you...are you going to be able to have Group tomorrow? Or just on Thursday?”

I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice. “Both days. Nothing’s changed.”

Her lower lip quivered. “I was afraid you--I couldn’t stand it if anything---”

“Everything's fine, really. Just something’s come up I have to take care of.” Gently I detached her hand. “Call me tonight and we’ll make an appointment for one evening during the week. I promise, okay?”

She backed away, nodding, and I was out of there, running down the street, before she could say another word.

I knew I hadn't handled things well. Ruth-Ann’s very fragile right now. A few weeks ago she had a mind-blowing breakthrough, a reliving of a traumatic past experience, and she’s still pretty shaky. I’d have to make it up to her at her next session. When I glanced back she was standing in front of my office building, her arms wrapped around her rotund little body, shivering like one of those orphaned seal pups you see on the Discovery Channel.

“WELL HAIL, HAIL, the wicked witch is dead. Break out the champagne.”

Displaying gleaming white teeth, Meg grinned at me from behind the pristine counter of her café–art shop. Meg’s Place is suburban New York’s answer to Cheers, only for the foodaholic set. Like my office it’s located in the small town of Piermont. Situated on the banks of the Hudson, Piermont is a picturesque community struggling to balance old-world atmosphere with modern commercialism and doing a decent job of retaining its charm. The narrow main street winds through the center of a town that on weekends is congested with tourists bent on finding the ideal gift for the person who has everything, or the perfect antique for that glaringly bare spot in the living room. If the feet give out, there are multiple places to find sustenance, including those gourmet’s delights, Freelance Café and Xaviers, run by the talented Kelly brothers. And now, of course, there’s Meg’s Place.

Meg has decorated her café in shades of green and peach, designed to make you think it is spring all year round. Everywhere you look, you see magnificent arrangements of fresh flowers, tulips mixed with roses and lilacs and tiger lilies and daisies, surrounded by baby’s breath and lush ferns. In the fall and winter you'd think Meg would go with mums, but she pays the price and makes you believe it's still spring. A great place to be when you're feeling down.

Surrounding the small tables where customers pig out on even better than Starbuck’s coffee and delectable homemade baked goodies, are shelves displaying sculptures and art objects that Meg takes on consignment and sells. On the wall over the counter, she’s hung photographs she herself has taken, photography being her hobby and first love. She once had a show in New York City. For a reason I haven’t been able to get her to talk about, she gave up photography as a profession, moved to Piermont, and opened up the café. In less than a year and a half, she’s built up a steady clientele.

“You don’t understand, Meg. They think I did it.”

“Oh, please. You couldn't kill those carpenter ants that were eating your house.”

“Tell that to the police. That detective said I should call a lawyer.” I still owed money to Arthur Carboni, my divorce lawyer. The thought of having to hire another lawyer, a criminal lawyer, for God’s sake, nearly put me over the edge. “Where am I going to get money for a lawyer?”

“He’s just trying to scare you.”

“Well, he succeeded. I’m scared out of my gourd.”

Solicitously she placed a cup of chamomile tea in front of me. “Drink. It'll soothe your nerves.”

The first time Meg had served me chamomile tea she had just moved to town and was preparing for the grand opening of her shop. It was only a few weeks after Rich's precipitous departure.

As I'd stood by our bed, stunned, watching him pack, Rich had announced he was going to move in with Erica for a while. “For a while,” as though he planned to give me another chance if she didn’t live up to expectations. He still loved me, he’d added kindly, but it was a “different” kind of love than he felt for Erica. He might even come back, but right now he needed time off. Time off? From what? Me? Marriage? Car pools?

Just like that. Eighteen years. A marriage. Over. Not even a formal ritual, like walking around me seven times or tossing me back over the threshold.

Weeks later I was still beating myself up, trying to figure out where I’d failed him. Whatever the reason, it no longer mattered. He was gone. Out of my life, and I couldn’t accept the awful reality of it. I knew I was making myself sick. I was down to ninety-nine pounds, my hair was falling out and I'd begun having heart palpitations. I was living proof of the message I used to give my clients at the biofeedback center—-your body believes everything you tell it. I was telling my body that my life wasn't worth living.

That was my frame of mind when I happened to drive by Meg’s window display. I was passing through Piermont on my way to Nyack to check out office space when I began to feel dizzy and pulled over by Meg’s Place. There was a hole in my stomach the size of Alaska, and I decided to force myself to eat. I wandered into the shop.

Meg was up on a ladder hanging a sepia blowup of an elegant sloop that looked like something out of another more romantic century. Her long red-gold hair was caught up in a ponytail, and the extra large “Save our Rainforests” T-shirt worn over baggy blue jeans couldn’t hide the fact that her figure was spectacular. When she pivoted on the ladder to say “Sorry, I'm not open yet,” I wasn't prepared for the face that peered down at me.

Meg has the square chin of a photogenic model and skin so luminous it glows, but her most striking feature is her eyes. They’re large and almond shaped, almost Asian, but of a deep aqua-blue. I don’t believe I'd ever seen anyone off screen so stunning. I’ve been told I’m not bad looking myself—-at least, I wasn’t before I’d elected to go with the concentration camp look--but next to Meg I felt like the ugly duckling's twin sister. Not exactly what I needed on that particular day.

I mumbled an apology, started backing out, and tripped over a wire. My head met the corner of a cabinet. The searing pain opened the floodgates. The next thing I knew, Meg was leaning over me, handing me a mug and murmuring, “Here, drink this. It’ll soothe your nerves.”

We've been fast friends ever since.

“You're always in your office until five on Saturdays,” Meg said. “I can testify to that.”

I picked up the delicate porcelain mug and burned my throat downing the boiling liquid, on the off chance she might be right about the tranquilizing effects of herbal teas. “Not yesterday. My patient canceled. I was finished by three.”

“Where’d you go after that?” She handed me one of her butter-drenched blueberry muffins. “Someone must've seen you.”

I pushed the muffin away, nauseated. “I went for a drive.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Home,” I mumbled, avoiding her eyes.

“Home. Well, that’s not...you don't mean, home—-Rich's house?”

Miserably, I nodded. “I don’t know why I went there. I just freaked out after Allie told me about the wedding. Erica was by the pool jabbering to Rich on the phone about her damned five-thousand-dollar gown, and she sure as hell was alive! I just watched her for a while, and then I---”

“Anyone see you?”

“Sue Tomkins was out walking her dog. She gave that detective a blow-by-blow of how I was sneaking around and acting weird, and then my car died on the next block and they’ve impounded it, and I think they're looking for the murder weapon.” I stopped for lack of oxygen.

“Well, they're not going to find it, so you've got nothing to worry about. This detective—-what's his name?”