Shoots to Kill (15 page)

“Do you have the autopsy report yet?” I asked Dave.

“No,” he answered, glancing through the file. “And all the coroner’s statement says is that the death was not accidental and would be preliminarily classified as a homicide. Let’s see what else is on the police report. . . . Time of death was between four and five in the morning.”

“Still dark out then,” Marco noted. “Easier to dump the body.”

“That reminds me,” I said to Dave. “Did you ask Libby about driving the van to Sally’s house rather than her Corvette?”

“Libby told me that when the cops found her, she had just parked the van in the alley behind her shop so Oliver could use it later. She had left her Corvette in the alley earlier that morning and was in the process of moving it to a parking garage. The cops asked where she’d been, and she stated she had been to see her client Sally Mitchum. She didn’t specify which vehicle she’d used because she didn’t realize the importance of it at the time.”

It sounded logical enough.

“Here’s some new information on Delphi,” Dave said. “Her body was discovered wearing a pair of pink silk pajamas, a pink silk robe, and matching slippers.”

“Then we know she wasn’t killed in her bed,” I said. “If she took time to put on a robe and slippers, she must have gotten up for some reason—maybe to answer the door.”

“Libby and Oliver have house keys,” Marco said. “It wouldn’t have been for them.”

“Maybe it was Tilly Gladwell, the clerk Delphi fired,” I said, eager to wow them with Grace’s discovery. “Tilly had a motive, obviously, and the opportunity to have a copy of Libby’s car key made. Not only that”—
drumroll,
please
—“but according to Grace’s source at the British embassy, Tilly is an impostor. Her real name is Cora. The real Tilly Gladwell is a wealthy Londoner.”

Dave raised both eyebrows, clearly impressed, but Marco didn’t say a word. So I told them about Cora’s criminal background, along with Grace’s belief that Cora knew how to hot-wire cars and pick locks and might have purchased a wig to commit the crime.

“Grace learned that no red wigs were sold by any salons in the county in the past three weeks,” I said, “but that doesn’t rule out catalog or Internet sales, so Grace is going to try to track down all deliveries made to our suspects to see if any of them came from a wig supply house.”

“Good luck with that,” Marco muttered, then gave me a look that said,
Take that!
His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, a little hotter than I would have expected, too, given the state of our relationship. For a split second, even the corner of his mouth quirked, that sexy little upward curve that always drove me wild. Was he flirting with me? By the hot flush on my cheeks, my body thought so.

But then his provocative little grin was gone—or maybe it had never been there, just wishful thinking on my part.

“If this Cora broke into Delphi’s home,” Dave posed, “wouldn’t she have attacked Delphi in her bed?

“Maybe Delphi heard a suspicious noise and got up to investigate,” Marco said.

“If Delphi is like most women,” I reasoned, “she’d call the cops first. And don’t forget, Delphi is a former model. She wouldn’t risk bodily harm. Now, if she thought it was Oliver or Libby coming in, she’d put on her robe and slippers and go see what they were up to. Maybe Delphi surprised Cora.”

“Until we find out where the initial crime scene was,” Marco said to Dave, “we’re wasting our time speculating. For all we know, Delphi might have been killed in the Corvette.”

“She was in her pj’s,” I said, “and probably without makeup. She wouldn’t have left her house that way unless there was a weapon pointed at her.”

“There was no mention of any weapon in any of the reports I have,” Dave said, “so that’s an unlikely scenario. I’ll call the prosecutor first thing in the morning and see if he knows where the initial crime scene was, and I’ll let Detective Wells know about Tilly being an impostor. Anything else we need to discuss tonight?”

I reviewed my list and said to Dave, “What about Kayla Olin? She seems to have a strong motive—a damaged face and ruined modeling career.”

“I requested a copy of the court docket from her lawsuit and a copy of the bankruptcy filing,” Dave said. “They should be ready tomorrow afternoon.”

“I did a preliminary workup on Kayla,” Marco said. He pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photo and placed it on Dave’s desk. “I got this off of the talent agency’s Web site. That was Kayla at the age of sixteen, before her surgery.”

“She was beautiful,” I said. “She didn’t need any work done.”

“According to what I found, Kayla is five feet nine,” Marco said, “tall enough to need to push Libby’s car seat back. And her dark hair could have been dyed red. I went to the address I have for Kayla—her mother’s house— but her mother wouldn’t let me see her. She was very anxious to keep me away from her daughter. I’m still trying to find out where Kayla works so I can talk to her there.” Marco closed his file. “That’s all I have.”

“For our next meeting,” Dave said, “I’ll see if Detective Wells knows where Cora is. Marco?”

“Besides tracking down Kayla, I’m going to interview Oliver,” Marco said.

“I’ll follow up on the wig search,” I said.

“If Marco has any trouble with Oliver,” Dave asked, “will you assist, Abby?”

I didn’t glance at Marco, but I guessed he was bristling at the thought of needing my assistance. “No problem. Oliver and I are simpatico.”

Dave pushed away from his desk. “Let’s plan to meet again tomorrow at five o’clock.”

I slipped on my peacoat, grabbed my purse and scarf, and walked out of the office. “Good night, Martha,” I called, tossing the end of my scarf over my shoulder and swinging my hips a bit more than was necessary as I sashayed out the door. I knew Marco was right behind me, but I pretended I didn’t.

As I headed down the long flight of stairs that let out onto the sidewalk below, the door at the bottom suddenly burst open and there, outlined by the glow of the street-lamp, stood Libby. With her features in shadow, it could have been me standing there.

“Oh, Marco, thank God I found you!” she cried, wringing her hands. She pushed past me to run up the stairs to him. “Someone just tried to kill me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Leave it to Libby to steal the scene every time. But after that shocking declaration, there was no way I could depart without knowing more. I turned back to see Libby cradled in Marco’s arms, both of them sitting on the carpeted steps. Libby was wearing a black peacoat and a white silk scarf shot through with silver threads, silver boots, and a silver and gold plaid purse, as usual looking like me, only ten times more chic.

“It was awful,” Libby cried, shuddering against him. “I closed up at five and drove home, stopping at my mailbox to pick up the mail. But when I pulled down the little door”—she buried her head against his leather jacket—“a snake tried to bite me.”

“What kind of snake?” I asked.

She turned to glance at me, only then realizing I had stuck around. “A hideous, scaly brown snake.”

“How long was it?” I asked.

“I didn’t stop to measure it!” she cried. “Besides, it was coiled up.”

“Was it thin?” I persisted. “Maybe it was a garden snake that crawled in for a nap.”

“It was fat, okay? Besides, the door was shut. Someone put it there on purpose.”

“Abby,” Marco said quietly, giving me a glance that said,
Don’t press her. She’s upset.

Poor baby. Unfortunately, I wasn’t finished with Libby because I had a hunch she had made up the snake, just as she had her stalker. She seemed to like the role of victim.

“Did it bite you?” I asked, ignoring Marco’s lowered eyebrows.

“No, I drew my hand back before it could strike.” She gazed into Marco’s eyes and in a whiny voice said, “I was peering inside, ready to reach for the envelopes, when it lifted its head and started to hiss at me. Honestly, Marco, it could have bitten me in the face.” She put her hands over her eyes and began to wail, “Someone wants me dead, too.”

She was so melodramatic I almost laughed, but my conscience reminded me that I was still judging her by past behavior. Maybe a snake really had been in her mailbox. Until I could prove otherwise, I had to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Hmm.
Maybe I should have a look.

“Come on,” Marco said to Libby, “let’s go up to Dave’s office and get you some water. Then you can let Dave know what happened.”

As Marco ushered Libby up to Dave’s office, I left the building and headed toward the parking lot to get my car. Halfway down the block I heard Marco call, “Abby, wait up.”

I stopped and turned. What a sight he was, striding up the sidewalk in his leather jacket and tight jeans. He was so masculine he took my breath away. “Did you want something?” I asked, trying to sound bored.

“Yeah, I want you to stay away from Libby’s mailbox. ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going home.”

“Right. Home via Libby’s street. You’re not fooling me. I could tell by your questions that you weren’t buying her story.”

“Marco, I truly don’t know what to believe about Libby’s story.”

He studied me, as though trying to determine if I was being straight with him. I gazed back, hoping to look convincing while not noticing how the glow from the streetlamps lit up the gold flecks in his chocolate brown eyes, which always made me go all soft and gooey inside.
Be a pro,
my conscience chided. But it was too late. I
had
noticed his eyes.

Apparently, I also hadn’t convinced him of anything. “Look, I know you’re going over there,” Marco said, “so you might as well ride with me.”

Sit beside him in the very same car in which we used to make out? I took a step backward. “I don’t think so.”

“If there
is
a snake in her mailbox, do you want to be the one to find it? Besides, if we carpool, you’ll save gas.”

That was certainly a selling point, considering that my Corvette, with gas prices so ridiculously high, was burning up half of my pitiful income every month. Still, riding in his car was bound to bring back many bittersweet memories. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

Marco arched one eyebrow. “We’re supposed to cooperate, remember?”

He was challenging me, knowing full well that I had never been able to turn down a challenge. The question, though, was why.

“My car’s around the corner,” he said, his mouth quirking devilishly.

As we headed south through town, crossing the highway to an area where new condos and town houses had seemingly sprung up overnight, I sat stiffly in Marco’s passenger seat, determined not to let his proximity get to me. It was a losing battle, however, as soon as I caught a whiff of his spicy-musky aftershave lotion I loved so much. From the corner of my eye I could also see his right hand on the steering wheel, the hand that had often held mine. I stared out the side window, wishing I hadn’t agreed to ride with him.

Marco knew right where to go, turning down one curving street and up another. How many times had he been here? He wound deeper into the new development until he reached a cul-de-sac of brick and cedar two-story town houses, where the mailboxes stood on posts at the bottom of long, curving driveways.

He pulled up near a large black metal mailbox whose door was slightly ajar. Then he reached across me to open the glove compartment, removing black gloves, a flashlight, and his tiny digital camera, sending the seductive aroma of his aftershave past me yet again. We got out of his car and cautiously approached the mailbox. Marco glanced around, saw a thick twig lying near a bush close by, and picked it up.

“Stand back,” he said, then used the twig to free the latch, causing the door to swing down. When nothing slithered out, Marco shone the flashlight around the interior, using the twig to push the envelopes aside so he could see all the way to the back. Wearing heavy gloves, he carefully removed the envelopes, handed them to me, then scanned the inside again.

While his attention was diverted, I quickly shuffled through the stack of envelopes, trying not to think of how many laws I might be breaking. The first two were from utility companies; the third was addressed to Libby in a bold script, the strong, diagonal letters topped with sharp points and long tails. To me it seemed like angry writing.

There was no return address on the envelope, just a hastily scribbled
R. Shah.
The date stamp said PITTSBURGH, PA.
Hmm.
Hadn’t Libby attended school in the Pittsburgh area?

“Nothing inside the box,” Marco reported, switching off the flashlight. “The door wasn’t shut tight. The snake must have escaped.”

Or maybe the reptile had never been there in the first place.

As we walked back to the car, Marco took the envelopes from me and glanced through them, pausing at the one with the angry writing. Was it the handwriting that had caught his attention, I wondered, or was it the name R. Shah? Could it be a letter from Libby’s stalker? Would a stalker put his name on the envelope? I didn’t think so.

Marco merely tucked them in his inside jacket pocket and got into the car.

“I meant to ask earlier,” I said, trying to sound casually interested, as we pulled away, “have you had any luck tracking down Libby’s stalker?”

“I’m about to wrap up that case.”

Was there really a stalker?
I wanted to ask, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything. I was so used to being able to discuss ideas with him that it was hard not to get angry all over again. The problem was, I wasn’t sure whom to be most angry with—Libby, Marco, or myself.

Maybe I could tie my question in with the murder investigation. “Is it possible Libby’s stalker murdered Delphi?”

“I don’t think they’re related,” Marco said. He looked like he was about to say more, but he stopped himself. Damn those confidentiality clauses.