The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (19 page)

“With all due respect,” he says, “Ivy is part of my show, so it does concern me.”

“We have a few questions for your contestant regarding her sister’s murder case. We’ll have her back to you in no time.”

I’m praying that Dominic will tell her that she has no jurisdiction here, but that would create a messier scene, so I place my hand on Dominic’s forearm and put on a brave face. “It’s okay, Mister Bacci. I’ll get this over with quickly, in time for the announcement tonight.” I turn to the detective. “I’ll be back by then, right?”

She nods.

I let my hand drop and follow her across the lobby where the audience parts around me like the Red Sea. People whisper, point, gasp. It’s just as shameful as the press conference. My heart is blasting against my ribcage, making my sea foam bodice vibrate. I pray no one can see it.

The early afternoon sun is blinding. I keep my eyes on it long enough to create a glare that erases the rest of the world around me. Blood gushes through my eardrums, dimming the ambient clamor. The detective mutters something, but I don’t hear her words. I doubt she’s talking to me anyway. She opens the door of an unmarked vehicle and waits for me to settle in the backseat before slamming it shut and sinking into the front seat.

“Fucking move, people,” yells the young guy with silver hair, slapping the steering wheel. He starts nosing the car through the crowd. Surprisingly, he doesn’t roll anyone over. “I don’t get this show,” he adds, spinning the wheel so abruptly that I’m thrown against the door.

I gather the soft hem of my dress in my fingers and roll the material between my calloused thumb and forefinger. The softness reminds me of the rolls of cloth in Mom’s locked drawer. While they dated, my father would gift her rolls of exotic fabric after each of his trips. She’d kept them all intact, never once cutting a strip to use in her quilts. Every time I’d visit her in the psychiatric hospital she’d been relocated to last spring, she’d ask me if I’d kept my promise not to tell Aster about them. She was afraid my twin would trash them out of spite for her. I don’t think Aster would ever do such a thing, but what do I know? My sister’s mind works in mysterious ways.

The precinct is teeming with visitors and cops and ringing phones. Detective Clancy takes the lead once inside and guides me toward an elevator. We exit on a high floor and head down a hallway of closed doors. She knocks on the one emblazoned with the number two, and then she pushes through and points me to a chair. While I sit, the silver-haired detective comes in with a folder tucked underneath his arm. He closes the door behind him and they both take a seat across the desk from me.

“So,” Detective Clancy begins, clicking on a small device in the middle of the table. “This interview is being recorded. I’m Leah Clancy and this is my partner, Austin McEnvoy. Could you state your full name and date of birth?”

“Ivy Redd, born December 21st, 1996.”

“Thank you. May we call you Ivy?”

I shrug.

She tips her head to the recording device on the table.

“Yes,” I say.

“The date is August 25, 2016 and the time is 3:13 p.m. The interview is being conducted at the Midtown North Precinct in New York City. The purpose of your presence here today, Ivy, is to shed light on your involvement with the deceased mobster Troy Mann.”

“My involvement?”

Detective Clancy holds up her finger. “One of your neighbors saw Mister Mann leave your apartment on the morning of August 17th. Could you tell us what he came to see you about?”

On cue, Austin flips open the folder. There’s a picture of Troy and me standing by my open apartment door. I know exactly who took it: Mister Mancini, nosiest neighbor in all of Kokomo.

“He bought a quilt from me,” I say.

“We’ll give you a chance to explain yourself in a second, but first I’d like to state that this is an out-of-custody interview.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

“Meaning you are not under arrest and you are free to leave anytime,” she says.

“Like now?”

Austin gives me a challenging look. “We wouldn’t advise you to leave now.”

I narrow my eyes.

“You are entitled to free and legal representation—”

“I don’t need a lawyer.”

“But you are entitled to one.”

“Great,” I say.

“You don’t have to confess to anything, but it will harm your defense if you willingly withhold or falsify information. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Okay. So, with that in mind, if you decide not to answer a question today and that question later comes up in court, and you decide to answer the question then, you may be found liable of aiding the commission of a crime.”

“I’m here of my own free will, am I not?” I snap.

Leah Clancy presses her pale lips together. They’re practically the same shade as the rest of her skin, a sharp contrast to her dark brown hair and eyes. “Ivy, who is the man in the picture?”

“Troy Mann.”

“So you knew him?” Austin asks, leaning back.

“
Knew
is a broad word.”

He taps the tip of his thick finger on the picture. “You’re talking with him.”

“Yeah. I am, but I didn’t know him. He discovered me through the feature the Masterpiecers—”

“The Masterpiecers is the reality TV show Ivy is competing on,” Leah states for the digital recorder. “Go on.”

“He saw me on TV and tracked me down to purchase one of my quilts.”

“Could you describe the quilt he purchased?”

“Why is that relevant?” I ask.

“Because we didn’t find the quilt,” Detective Clancy says.

“Maybe he sold it to someone else.”

“Just describe it already,” Austin says.

I glare at him. “The quilt represented two people kissing.”

Thankfully, there’s no flare of recognition on either detective’s faces.

“How much did he pay for you for it?” Austin asks.

“That’s confidential.”

Detective Clancy eyes me in silence for a second, and then she says, “Then we’ll have to subpoena your bank records.”

“He gave me cash.”

“Did you declare the sale?” Austin asks.

“I didn’t have time to,” I lie. Hell, I’m not going to tell the police I had no intention of paying taxes on it.

Austin snorts. “Sure.”

“Ivy, did you know you were dealing with the mafia?” Detective Clancy asks.

“No.”

“Yeah, right.” Austin grunts and crosses his feet on the table.

“It’s true. I had no idea.”

“Your sister knew he was part of the mob. Said it in her testimony,” Austin remarks.

“We don’t tell each other everything.”

“I still have trouble believing you didn’t know who you were dealing with.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Detective McEnvoy?”

“Not yet,” he says.

Detective Clancy gives him a pointed stare. “Was your sister aware that you sold him a quilt?”

“No.”

“We received an anonymous tip that your sister had a blanket on her lap the night of the murder. Could that be the quilt which you sold to Mister Mann?”

“She keeps one of my quilts with her in the car because her heater doesn’t work.”

“It was August!” Austin says.

“She’s always cold.”

“The Honda was searched and it wasn’t in there,” Detective Clancy says.

“Then maybe she took it out.”

“You want to know what I think, Ivy?” Austin says. “I think you sold a quilt to Mister Mann, then once you found out he was part of the mob, you asked your sister to retrieve it so that you wouldn’t be associated with him.”

I try to suppress my increasing urge to punch him by folding my arms together. “I don’t know how you treat your siblings, Mister McEnvoy, but I actually respect my sister. I wouldn’t send her to do my dirty work. If I’d found out Mister Mann was part of the mafia, I would’ve attempted to contact him myself to cancel the transaction.”

“
Attempted
to contact him?” Austin asks, tipping one of his eyebrows up.

“It’s not like he left me a business card.” I fix my gaze on the cigarette butt wedged in the sole of McEnvoy’s work boot.

“Now, about the hit and run.” Detective Clancy shuffles through the folder and takes out a picture of a dead body annotated in red pen. “Are you aware that according to the coroner, your sister hit Mister Mann, then proceeded to back up the car and roll over him?”

I swallow as a bitter taste fills my mouth. “No.”

“Does your sister have a history of violence?” she asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “She’s not violent, but she’s not always…there.” I drop my voice on the last word, hoping it’s so faint the recorder won’t pick it up. If Aster ever hears what I think of her, it will break more than her heart. It will break
her
.

“What do you mean by that?” Detective Clancy asks.

“She suffers from mental illness,” I murmur.

“What sort of mental illness?”

“Schizophrenia.”

A wave of silence swells through the room. It hovers and finally comes crashing over me when McEnvoy asks, “Are you saying that your sister’s action on the night of August 17th could’ve been prompted by a bout of craziness?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying. Not at all.”

“But you just said that your sister’s not always,” Austin continues, “what was the word you used? Oh, yes,
there
.”

“He threatened her.”

“No kidding. She tracked him all the way to where he was staying,” he counters.

“Because she was trying to be a good Samaritan.”

“Good Samaritans don’t crush people under their car tires.”

“He tried to strangle her. That must be in the police file. She had red marks on her neck.”

Austin shrugs. “Could’ve done it to herself.”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are we done here? Because I have to get back to the show.” I make to get up.

“Whoa there, Ivy,” McEnvoy says, “you didn’t tell us where
you
were on the night of August 17th.”

“Where
I
was?”

“What my colleague is asking is how do we know you’re not the twin in the car?”

The blood drains from my face. “What?”

“You have motive. More motive than your sister.”

“What?” I repeat, too stunned to think of anything else to say.

“We just want to check your alibi,” Leah says.

“I was at home. Working.”

“Anyone can attest to that?”

“I work alone, so no.”

“So you have no alibi?” Austin states.

“I
have
an alibi. I just have no one to confirm it.”

“That could prove problematic.” He slips his feet off the table and plops his forearms on the metal surface.

“My sister confessed to the crime,” I say.

“Perhaps she’s covering for you so that you could go on that little show of yours.”

My heart is pounding so loudly that it feels like it’s trying to kick its way out of my ribcage. “I’d like a ride back to the museum now.” When neither gets up, I repeat, “Now.”

Detective Clancy holds up a finger to her lips. “In conclusion, Ivy Redd attests to not knowing Troy Mann was involved with the mafia. She also states to having sold him a quilt. And she says that Aster may not have been
herself
on the night of August 17th. Is this all correct, Ivy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Thank you. The time is 3:25 p.m. and the day is August 25th. This was Leah Clancy and Austin McEnvoy.” She presses down on a button to click off the recorder, then rises and leads me back down to the lobby and out of the police station.

The paparazzi haven’t wasted a second to find out where I was taken. They probably followed the black sedan Dominic sent to fetch me. Danny, the driver with the tangled eyebrows, doesn’t address me once during the ride back, but he does peek at me several times in his rearview mirror, disappointment and curiosity warring on his face. It’s the same look everyone on the show gives me the second I step back into the museum, from Cara to the film crew.

As I get into the elevator, eyes cast downward to avoid the stares, a hand slides between the closing doors and presses them back open. And then Brook steps in and dismisses my assistant and the doors shut. When the elevator starts rising, he tugs the red emergency lever. It stops and the lights dim.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, but he remains silent. Then his lips part and close, and then they part again.

“What?” I ask when I can no longer take it.

“Dominic’s worried about you. He’s worried you have a lot on your plate. Perhaps too much. He thinks that maybe you should…”

“Maybe I should what?”

His shadowy gaze drifts over the floor, then over the wall behind me, and finally perches on my face. “He thinks that maybe you should drop out.” He speaks quickly, as if saying the words fast will dampen their sting.

“Drop out? Of the Masterpiecers? No…no way. I want to stay. I
need
to stay.”

“Ivy, you’re doing well, but—”

“But what?”

“But there’s a lot to think about. Between the media, and Kevin, and your sister. You should see what’s being written up in the newspapers.”

I snort because it finally dawns on me where he’s going with this. “I’m bringing the show bad press. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Well…not exactly.”

I narrow my eyes.

He scrapes his hand through his perfect black hair. “Yes.”

“Don’t you know journalists love scandals?”

“I know that, but—”

“They don’t intimidate me, Brook. And neither does Dominic. I’m sorry about the bad press, but I’m not leaving the show. This is my one chance. Maybe you don’t understand because you’ve never had to worry about where your next meal came from, but I
can’t
drop out. And I’ll say this again however many times I need to, but I had
nothing
to do with Kevin’s pictures.” I shake my head, and my hair flutters against my bare shoulders. “You know, for a second there, when you cornered me, I thought you were going to ask me how I was doing. I thought you were worried about me. But I guess people like you, like Dominic, like Josephine, only worry about themselves.”

“Don’t say that,” he says, stepping forward. He’s close enough to touch me. Thankfully he doesn’t. “I
am
worried about you. The situation sucks, Ivy. Really, it does.”