What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery) (5 page)

A punk rounded the corner, bumping fists with a cohort. The pair sauntered toward them, the sun glinting off chrome chains draped from their belts. The wiry one zeroed in on them. With an unsettling smirk, he rubbed his hands together. “Oh, Mama...”

Tall and burly, the second thug smacked a leather band against his palm. “Yeah, now. C’mon, gimme some of that. Ow!” The two of them hooted conspiratorially.

Shana tightened her grip on her purse. “Ignore them, Grace. Just get inside the car. Hurry.” This day could get even uglier than it already was.

Obediently, Grace climbed into the rear seat and shut her door. Shana quickly circled the back of the car toward her side.

The pair of hoodlums continued to advance. “What’s your hurry, Baby? Stay, why don’tcha? Hang with us a while.”

Shana slid into her seat and hit the power locks.

“Oh, yeah.” The punk cackled sarcastically. “Better lock up tight, there, Miss Lady. Get your high heels on outta here, ‘fore something bad happens to your uppity-doo-dah self.”

Shana yanked her seat belt around herself.  “Buckle up, Grace.” Resolutely, she started her engine and pulled into the street. She had to get Grace away from that horrid place just as expeditiously as humanly possible. More than ever, she resolved herself. Whatever it took, she had to use every resource in her power to secure Grace’s future for good.

From her kitchen archway, Shana watched Grace, who sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. The appointments of the Fischer estate were worlds apart from Laurel’s downtown apartment. There was nothing like a trip to Laurel’s to make Shana appreciate what she had anew. Then again, everything reminded her of what she’d just lost.

Frank had picked out those stately cherry cabinets himself when they’d remodeled. Together, they’d chosen the imported marble countertops and the handsome stainless steel appliances. They were just things, she knew, but they were part of the life they’d been building together. Everywhere Shana turned was a reminder. Frank was gone, never to return.

Their matronly nanny, Helen Reed, ladled lentil soup for Grace. “Here. This should taste good.”

Grace just looked at the steaming bowl in front of her. “I had tuna at my Mommy’s.”

Helen unfolded Grace’s napkin and placed it in her lap. “This soup should go with that tuna just fine. Something hot to stick to your bones.”

Shana could hardly bear to watch. Still, it was just as hard to turn away.

Grace looked up at Helen, clearly disinterested in eating. “Did they tell you what happened?”

Helen exchanged a glance with Shana. Shana nodded. Helen stroked Grace’s hand, her eyes filled with compassion. “Yes, Love. They told me.”

Shana turned, hearing the sound of approaching footsteps. Her attorney, Howard Berg, concluded a phone conversation and tucked his cell into his pocket.

Howard had been Shana’s first call from Frank’s office. A salty contemporary of her late father, Howard had been there for Shana for many years. He’d handled all of her legal affairs since the death of her parents left her heir to their handsome estate and fortune. Howard didn’t come cheap, but he had proven himself invaluable in securing custody of Grace. That had been no small feat against Laurel, who had fought relentlessly for her maternal rights.

Shana glanced back toward Grace in the kitchen, then spoke in hushed tones to Howard. “She’s completely traumatized, Howard. You should have seen her. She was the one who found him. I’m telling you. Everything that was innocent completely drained from her face. I can’t believe I sent her into his office.” Tears welled in Shana’s eyes.

Howard put a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Stop punishing yourself.”

That was easier said than done. Shana brushed a quick hand across her face. She steeled herself the best she could. “Howard, I want this child. How soon can you get a court date to deal with the custody ramifications of this?”

“Already on it. Should know by the end of the day.”

Shana nodded. “Good.” Her hands trembled. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to control it.

As usual, Howard saw right through her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.

“Thank you, Howard. It’s just that...I know this woman. She’ll use this.”

Laurel drew insulin into a hypodermic needle. There wasn’t much privacy where Laurel worked at the Blackberry Grille, but Laurel had gotten used to treating her diabetes in the employees’ bathroom toward the back. Laurel raised her skirt and injected her thigh as her head waitress, Belle, exited a stall and headed for the sink.

Belle lathered her hands. “Girl, I do not see how you do that. I hate needles.”

“So do I.” Laurel rubbed the sore spot, then put her insulin kit away.

“You should go home. Not every day the boss offers.”

Laurel sighed. “I know.” If only her life were that easy. “I can’t live on my base.”

Without hesitation, Belle dug into her pocket. “Take my tips for today. You’ve covered for me enough times.”

Laurel gently waved Belle off. “You’re a good friend, Belle, but no thanks. I just need to push through this.”

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened. The Grille’s aging cashier, Mary Jo, poked her head in and spotted Laurel. “Got a guy out here asking for you.”

Laurel blanched. It had been everything she could do to return to work, given the events of the day. And since she had no man in her life, there was only one reason a man would seek her out at work. The inevitable questioning was about to begin. Laurel closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. There was no way she could face this alone. She needed strength she didn’t have. It would have to come from far beyond herself.

Laurel emerged from the back with Mary Jo.  Obviously, this man who was asking for her hadn’t come there to eat.

Mary Jo leaned close. “That’s him. Far end of the counter.”

“Oh.” Laurel took in a quick breath. “Mary Jo, I remember him. He’s a reporter. I saw him getting bounced from the crime scene this morning.”

“Handsome rascal,” Mary Jo observed. “Worst kind. Don’t let him turn your head.”

“Not for a second.” Laurel set her shoulders and approached him from the kitchen side of the counter. At least that barrier would remain between them. “Can I get you something?”

The man quickly shut the file he was reading, as if he were hesitant for her to see it. “Laurel Fischer?”

“Yes.”

“Joe Hardisty.
Kickerton Press
.”

Laurel blanched. Those brown eyes of his were so penetrating.

“I’d shake your hand,” he said, “but...actually, nobody shakes anymore, do they? What with all the mess going around. And I’m sorry. Really. Sorry for your loss.”

Laurel nodded. “Thank you.” This “Joe” may have been trying to establish a rapport with her, but with everything that had happened that day, she was hardly in the frame of mind to discuss her heartache with a stranger. She waited in silence.

“So,” he said. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

Mercifully, a nearby patron signaled Laurel for a drink refill. “I’ve got work.” She grabbed a water pitcher, stepped aside, and topped off the glass. As she passed Ralph, the Grille’s stocky proprietor, he set out two steaming plates of food.

Ralph slapped a bell. “Order up!” He eyed the reporter quizzically.

Laurel shot Ralph a penitent look. This reporter was not going anywhere. She would have to be more direct about asking him to leave. She smoothed her apron and marched back over to him. “Look, Mr...”

“Hardisty. But you can call me, Joe.”

“Joe. I don’t mean to be impolite, but the fact is that I can’t talk on the job and still make decent tips. And if you’re not here to eat, we really could use that stool.”

Joe pulled a business card from his pocket and pushed it across the counter. “A grand for the exclusive.”

“Not interested.” Laurel picked up a rag to wipe the counter. Her private life was not for sale.

“Or twenty-five hundred for a series.” He withdrew his hand, leaving the card there.

Laurel continued to work, unflinching. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

Ralph called out from the kitchen. “Gettin’ cold here, Laurel.” Laurel turned to pick up the order, grateful for the excuse it provided to cut the conversation with the reporter short.

Joe rose from his stool. He slid a twenty-dollar tip onto the counter, underneath his card.

Laurel’s stomach knotted as she rounded the counter. This guy wasn’t going to give up easily. The media circus was starting.

As Joe passed her, he lowered his voice. “Just think about it before you chat with anybody else.” And with that, he left her.

Why he thought she’d want to talk to anyone about Frank’s murder was beyond comprehension. Laurel put a pleasant smile on her face as she served the daily special to an elderly gent and his wife. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Joe amble through the door, just as another man entered. An unsettling shudder rippled through her. This man, too, she recognized from the crime scene, just hours earlier:

Detective McTier.

Why the lead investigator on Frank’s murder would be looking for her was no mystery. But she couldn’t help wonder exactly what Shana had said to the man.

Laurel returned to Joe’s spot at the counter. She glanced at Joe’s card as she wiped off his place. In a way, she hated to even touch that card, but then again, the last thing she wanted was for McTier to see that
Kickerton Press
had come calling on her. He’d think she was courting tabloid reporters.

Really, she had no other choice, what with Detective McTier already making a beeline toward her. Quickly, she pocketed Joe’s tip and card. She could always toss the card later.

There was a seat across the table from Laurel in the precinct’s interview room, but Detective McTier didn’t take it. Instead, he stood across from her. It was a thinly veiled tactic. He was deliberately invading her personal space. He’d offered her coffee. The door was open to the adjoining squad room, but there was still that purposeful air of intimidation.

Everything about that room was cold. The temperature was bad enough, but the metal chair made it worse. She could feel the chill of it through the skirt of her uniform. Nothing about this situation was comfortable. Nothing was the least bit sympathetic to the freshness of her grief. Instead, it seemed geared at disrupting what little calm she had managed to find in the midst of the gathering storm. Most disquieting of all was the fact that Detective McTier just stood there wordlessly. He was waiting for her to initiate. Again.

“Detective, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid.” Laurel glanced at her watch. Already, it had been close to an hour.

“You set the schedule.” McTier shrugged. “Tell me what I want to know and you’re out of here.”

“I hardly know Frank’s assistant. Why don’t you ask her these questions?”

“Funny, Rene thought I should question you.”

Laurel regarded him squarely. “I told you, Detective. I was asleep.”

“Alone?” A little smirk loosened his face.

Laurel held his gaze. “Since my divorce, yes.”

“From the victim?”

Laurel nodded. It didn’t take a prophetic gift to see where he was going. She let out a breath. “Am I under arrest?”

“We’re just having a conversation.” McTier paced across from her casually, though the situation was anything but.

“No, you’re grilling me,” Laurel said. “Like you see me as a suspect.”

McTier pulled out the chair. “You do stand to gain from his demise.”

Laurel felt her blood pressure rise. It couldn’t be her sugar level, not this soon.
Stay calm
, she reminded herself.
He’s only doing his job
.

Laurel folded her hands on the table. “I understand your process, Detective. I know what you have to do. But hear me when I tell you that you’re wasting your time.”

Finally, McTier sat. “Oh, I don’t know about that. See, the other Mrs. Fischer—or should I say the current Mrs. Fischer—she told me that you called just before they discovered the body. She said you were asking about the councilman, that you had a bad feeling. Care to elaborate?”