Shoots to Kill (10 page)

I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. Behind
my
shop! A redhead driving a
yellow
Corvette. Who else could it have been but Libby? Leaving the body behind Bloomers must have been the last step in her plan. She probably had an airtight alibi all worked out.

My heart began to race. What was
my
alibi? Nikki could sleep through a tornado. I could easily have slipped out and returned without her ever knowing. “The police didn’t even question me, Dave, so how were you able to get me released?”

“The rookie trooper didn’t have a clue as to who you were. Once everyone calmed down, they realized that you had no reason to commit murder, nor were you likely to have done so. And you were fortunate that your dad sent Sergeant Reilly to intercede in your behalf.”

“My dad sent him?” Then my parents had heard the news, too. No wonder there were so many messages from them.

“After Reilly explained your concerns about Libby’s odd behavior,” Dave continued, “the police were willing to concede their mistake.”

“I just can’t believe it. Libby—a murderer?”

“It would appear so, especially since she’s missing. That’s why the APB went out—with a description matching yours.”

“Something must have gone wrong with her plan. Maybe someone alerted her that I’d been released and she realized she was in trouble. But still, why would she kill her mother? That woman gave her everything she wanted. Libby adored Delphi.”

“They could have had an argument, Abby. If Libby was off balance to start with, maybe she snapped. Crimes of passion happen all the time, you know.”

I rubbed my forehead, trying to make sense of everything. Libby had gone to such great lengths to look like me. . . . Was that simply so she could get even with me? Or was her plan to get even with me
and
get rid of her mother—and let me take the blame? But if that were true, why had she felt the need to worm her way back into my family? Why had she coaxed my mom into exhibiting her work at Blume’s Art Shop? Why had she schemed to take Marco away from me?

“I’m so confused, Dave.”

“You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to figure it out. Leave it to the detectives. If you want more information later on, I’ll do what I can to help.”

Martha buzzed in to tell Dave the prosecutor was on the line. I started to get up, but Dave motioned for me to sit. Then he put the receiver to his ear. “How’s it going, Mel?” He listened a moment, then sat forward, reaching for his pen to take more notes. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and looked at me. “They have Libby. The police spotted her in her Corvette pulling into the alley behind her shop about nine this morning. She’s been in custody for a while, but the DA wasn’t told until just now. The cops were probably hoping to get a confession from her first.”

I watched Dave put his legal pad in his briefcase “Why does Mel want you there?”

“Libby asked for me.”

Now she was even stealing my lawyer? “You’re not going to represent her, are you?”

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t.”

“You heard my side of the story. Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Think back to your law school days, Abby. There’s no case against you, hence no conflict.” He stood up and walked with me to the door. “Want to come with me?”

“Seriously? You’ll let me get involved?”

“I think Libby already made sure you were.”

At the police station we had to go through two security checks, then were taken to a conference room where Chief Prosecuting Attorney Melvin Darnell was waiting with a slew of paperwork for Dave. He appeared to be surprised—and embarrassed—to see me.

Well over six feet tall, Darnell had a wholesome, country-farmer appearance, with thinning blond hair, a ruddy complexion, and a slow smile. As usual, he wore a light-colored suit, white shirt, and robin’s-egg blue tie, believing that a prosecutor should never wear black, as it might give a jury a negative impression.

With him was a classy-looking blond woman wearing a black suit over a melon top with a colorful silk scarf around her neck. She had a natural look—little makeup and a smooth, golden complexion. Her thick hair was gathered in back in a loose bun held by black and gold chopsticks, and she wore a flat black leather shoulder bag across her body, resting on the opposite hip, as though to protect herself from pickpockets—or to conceal a gun.

“This is Lisa Wells,” Darnell said, “the newest member of our detective bureau. She’s going to head up this case.”

“I’ve known Lisa for a few years,” Dave said with a smile, shaking her hand. “Lisa, this is my assistant Abby Knight.”

As I shook her hand, Darnell narrowed his eyes at me. “Assistant, huh?”

“Abby used to clerk for me, so I asked her to take notes for me today.” Dave opened and closed his right hand. “Sometimes my arthritis acts up. You don’t have any objections, do you?”

Darnell seemed to suddenly remember my run-in with the state trooper. “No objections.”

“Good,” Dave said, tossing me a quick wink. “And that brings me to my next question. Are you charging Libby Blume or not?”

“All indications are that Miss Blume is guilty,” Darnell said, “but we’re still gathering evidence, so as of now no formal charges have been filed.”

“You’ll give me a heads-up if and when that happens, I trust?” Dave asked.

At Darnell’s nod, Dave said, “So is my client free to leave?”

“Unless she wants to cooperate with us,” Lisa said with a bright smile.

Dave returned her smile. “I think you both know that my standard operating procedure is never to allow my client to speak to the police.”

“It was worth a try,” Lisa said.

“Go get your client,” Darnell grumbled.

The conference room was a small, windowless box with dingy white walls and a black-and-white asphalt floor that was stained and cracked from wear. In the room were a standard government-issue steel desk, gray metal folding chairs around a long veneer-topped table, and an old coffeepot on a hot plate sitting on a stand in the corner.

Peering through the small glass door pane, I could see Libby hunched over the table at the far end, her head nestled in her arms, her red hair spilling over them. I glanced down at my own outfit—brown boots, khakis, and a green sweater—then at hers: brown boots, khakis, and a brown sweater. My identical twin could have been sitting in that room.

Hearing the door open, Libby raised her tearstained face. I stayed out of sight until Dave had introduced himself; then I slipped quietly through the doorway. The instant Libby saw me, she ran toward me, arms outstretched like those of a child needing a hug. Though I was still fuming inside, there was nothing I could do but let her hug me.

“Abby,” she sobbed, her head on my shoulder, “Mummy is d-dead!”

She said it as though Delphi had been my mom, too. It made me want to shake her until her teeth rattled. Instead, I found myself comforting her. “I know, Libby. I’m so sorry.”

She lifted her head, her cheeks wet with tears, her red-rimmed eyes searching mine as though she was desperate for answers. “Someone m-murdered her, Abby, and the police arrested me! Why? Why would they arrest
me
? I loved Mummy. Now she’s dead and they think I killed her!”

Her sobs turned to a deep keening as she held on to me with a grip that no one could have pried loose. Her grief certainly seemed genuine, but Libby had fooled me before.

“Who could have done it, Abby? Who?”

“I don’t know, Libby.” But I had a few suspicions.

She was sobbing so hard I could barely understand her. “Wh-what am I going to do without her? I c-can’t go on. How will I go on?”

“You’ll manage, Libby. You have Oliver.”

“Oliver?” she cried. “He’s no help. He’s hopeless. Mummy had to take care of him. Now he’ll be my responsibility. ”

“Abby,” Dave said, “why don’t we head back to my office? We can talk there.”

“Come on,” I said to Libby, treating her as though she were eleven years old again. “Let’s go with Dave so he can help you get this sorted out.”

“We have to find out who did this, Abby,” Libby said. “We have to.”

“Yes, we do,” I said, and meant it.

I put my arm around Libby and she wrapped her arm around my waist, leaning heavily against me as I helped her out of the room. She was trembling all over and looked so pale I thought she might faint. I couldn’t imagine the state I’d be in if my mother had been killed.

Back at the law office, Martha seated us in Dave’s conference room and brought in coffee. I opted for water and asked for a yellow pad so I could take notes. I knew Dave didn’t need my help, but I was too keyed up to sit idly by. Besides, I might catch something he missed.

Libby sat at the head of the long, oval table, and Dave sat at her left, so I took a seat opposite him, where I could see them both. I especially wanted to be able to watch Libby’s face.

“Ready to answer some questions?” Dave asked her.

Libby reached over and squeezed my hand, as though she needed my strength.

“Everything you tell me is in total confidence,” Dave said. “I can’t relate our conversation to anyone under any circumstances, and neither can Abby, so you must be totally honest with me no matter what you did or didn’t do. In return, I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

“Okay,” she said meekly.

Dave began by asking for personal information, such as date of birth, members of the family, and education, before he got down to the important part—Libby’s alibi. “Can you account for your whereabouts at five o’clock this morning?”

“I was sleeping.”

“In your own home?” Dave asked. At her nod he said, “Can someone verify that?”

“I live by myself”—Libby’s eyes welled with tears— “in a condo Mummy bought me.”

“That’s not going to cut it in a courtroom, Libby,” Dave said. “This is a question that could be asked in front of a jury, so you’ll have to do better than that. We need to find someone who can put you at home at the time of the murder, because a redhead in a yellow Corvette was seen leaving the site where your mother’s body was found.”

Libby’s face lost all color. “It wasn’t me,” she said with quivering chin. “I didn’t get up until nearly seven o’clock this morning. And when I left the building, my car was parked where it always is. There has to be a mistake. It must have been another redhead in a yellow . . .”

With a gasp, she turned an accusing gaze on me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Don’t even think about making me a suspect,” I warned Libby. “I was already arrested for that, thank you very much.”

“Honestly?” Libby’s eyes widened. “They put you in jail? I’m so sorry.”

“Libby, what time did you leave your apartment this morning?” Dave asked.

“I had an appointment to meet with Sally Mitchum— a customer—at eight, to deliver some art, so I left about twenty-five minutes before eight to pick up the paintings at the shop.”

“I’ll need the customer’s address and phone number to verify that,” Dave said.

Libby gave him the info from her BlackBerry, which I also wrote down.

“Did anybody see you leave the condo or the parking lot?” Dave asked. “Did you wave to anyone on your way to your client’s house?”

She thought a moment. “Not that I remember.”

“Did you go straight back to town after you met with your customer?”

“Yes.”

“Does anyone else have access to your car or the keys to your car?”

“Not at five o’clock in the morning. My keys were with me all night, in my purse.”

Dave jotted some notes on his yellow pad. “Is there a duplicate set?”

“Mummy kept a set when she bought the car”—Libby reached for a tissue from the box on the table, holding it beneath her eyes to stanch her tears—“in case I got locked out.”

“How about your brother?” Dave asked. “Didn’t you tell me earlier that he lived with your mom? Wouldn’t he have access?”

“Oliver lives in the apartment over her garage and comes and goes from her house whenever he likes, but he wouldn’t hurt Mummy. She supports him.”

“When you went to your car this morning,” Dave continued, “was it parked
exactly
where you left it last night?”

“I think so. It was in my parking space.” She paused, her forehead wrinkling, then looked up in dismay. “My car seat! I had to move my seat up because it was farther back than usual.”

I’d been watching Libby’s expression closely, and this sudden recollection of the car seat seemed to genuinely astonish her—which gave me my first doubt about her guilt.

“How tall is Oliver?” Dave asked.

“Five foot ten, but you don’t think—” She shook her head. “No. That’s impossible.”

Was Libby having doubts about her brother or giving us a performance?

“How tall are you?” Dave asked her.

Libby glanced at me with a tearful smile. “Five foot two, just like Abby.”

“Do you ever leave your keys lying around your art shop?” Dave asked.

“I usually drop them on my desk next to my purse.”

“Is this desk in a private office?”

“No, we’ve partitioned off an area in our storage room.”

“Would you list your employees for me?” Dave asked.

“It’s just Oliver and me and Mum—” She caught herself, then instantly burst into tears, holding her hands over her face. “Oh, God, what am I going to do? How can she be gone?” She wept so hard she had to gasp for breath, and I found myself comforting her again as my own eyes welled up. I vowed to call my mother as soon as I left Dave’s office.

“Have some coffee,” I urged, my voice thick and raspy. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Would you like to take a break?” Dave asked her gently.

Libby shook her head, quieting after a moment. She blew her nose, then took a deep breath and said in a wavering voice, “I’m sorry. I still can’t believe . . . it doesn’t seem real, like I’ll wake up in the morning and this will be just a horrible nightmare.”