“The evidence is only circumstantial,” she said, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
“It’s the painting,” I improvised, playing on that uncertainty. “It’s motive. He was with her when she died, he could have substituted the poisoned pills for her heart medicine anytime over the weekend, and she left him a painting worth millions. Means, opportunity, and motive, as the cops say. He’s screwed.”
I waited a beat, hoping… for what? That she’d leap in a taxi and drive straight to the nearest police station to confess? After a moment, it became clear she wasn’t going to say anything more. Feeling tears start to my eyes, I hurried to the door, glancing back when I reached it. Lavinia stood by the sink, tugging her robe around herself as if she were cold, and tucking her hands into her armpits.
I left.
Chapter 32
A rude pounding on my door woke me early Saturday morning. I glanced at the digital clock on my bedside. Six twenty-eight. Who in the world was at my door at this ungodly hour? My mind leaped to my mom, my dad, Danielle. Something had happened to one of them. Swinging my legs out of bed, I grabbed my robe and shrugged into it as I made for the door. A peek out the slit of a window beside the door showed me Detective Lissy. Oh, no. A homicide cop on my doorstep at this hour wouldn’t be good news.
Fumbling with the lock, I jerked the door wide, anxiety making my heart pound in my chest. “Is it my sister? My mom or dad? What’s happened?”
Lissy showed me an irate face, not one pulled down by having to impart tragic news. He was immaculately turned out, even at this hour, in a dark suit, crisp shirt, and patterned tie. “Your sister? What? Oh. No, your family is fine.”
I pulled the door wider, silently inviting him in, still coming to terms with the fact that nothing had happened to my family. Breathing easier, I faced him in the hallway. “What happened?”
“I need you to come with me. Throw some clothes on and let’s go.” His face, impassive, told me nothing.
I was half-startled, half-curious. “Where? What? Are you arresting me?” Suddenly conscious of the sheerness of my nightgown and robe, I crossed my arms over my chest. Lissy seemed totally unmoved by my state of partial undress, his eyes staying on my face seemingly without effort.
“Have you done something I should arrest you for?”
“Of course not!”
“Just get dressed, Ms. Graysin. We’re wasting time.”
Confused, sleepy, but relieved that my family was okay and that he wasn’t arresting me, I closed my bedroom door and scrambled into a summer skirt, peasant blouse, and sandals. Brushing my teeth and running a brush through my hair, I rejoined Lissy in less than five minutes.
“Impressive,” was all he said as he gestured me to the door.
I climbed into the front seat of his brown Crown Victoria and buckled up. “Can we get coffee?” I asked.
For answer, he pulled into the nearest fast-food drive-through, and we both ordered extra-large coffees, black. I shot him a glance; it felt weird to have something in common with Lissy, even something as minor as how we liked our coffee.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we headed out Route 1 toward D.C. There was virtually no traffic this early on Saturday, and we sped along above the speed limit.
“In due time, Ms. Graysin, in due time.”
I relaxed back into the seat, sipping my coffee, but after a few moments the silence got to me. “Did your grandson win his game?”
Lissy slid his eyes my way and said, “You’re not really interested.”
He had me there. I relapsed into semisulky silence, irritated at having my sleep interrupted and irritated with his high-handed, secretive behavior. What in the world could possibly have come up that would make a homicide detective kidnap me at the crack of dawn? Maurice! I sat up straighter and was about to ask Lissy whether our field trip had anything to do with Maurice when we crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge and I realized we weren’t headed toward Maurice’s house.
I had just raised my cup to my lips for a sip of coffee when Lissy jolted into a pothole. Coffee splashed out of the cup and onto my blouse and I yelped.
“Don’t get it on the seat,” Lissy said, reaching over to liberate napkins from the glove box.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said. “Second-degree burns-nothing to worry about.” Blotting coffee off my yellow blouse, I didn’t notice we’d arrived until Lissy parked at the curb. An ambulance, doors wide, and a couple of police cars were parked askew in the narrow street fronting Lavinia Fremont’s studio and apartment. Oh, no. “What happened?” I whispered.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Lissy said. When I didn’t say anything, he opened his door and got out. I followed suit, scrambling onto the sidewalk and staring as EMTs carried a stretcher down the stairs from Lavinia’s apartment. The sheet-shrouded figure lay still except for movements induced by the jostling descent. The sheet covered her face, but I knew it was Lavinia.
A young cop looked at me curiously, and I realized I was holding the coffee cup so loosely that coffee was dribbling to the sidewalk. I chucked the cup into a nearby trash can and moved to join Lissy at the door. “Don’t just stand there,” he said, starting up the stairs. “And don’t touch anything-put your hands in your pockets.”
I did as he said. When we entered Lavinia’s apartment, I glanced around, expecting to see signs of mayhem. But everything appeared as it had last night: orderly, warm, cozy. It didn’t look like a homicidal maniac had gone rampaging through the place. I looked a question at Lissy, whose gaze hadn’t left my face since we came in. Finally, it seemed, he was ready to tell me why he’d dragged me down here.
“You will have gathered that Ms. Fremont is dead,” he said. He paused a moment, as if waiting for me to argue with him. When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “It looks like a heart attack, not an unusual occurrence for a seventy-three-year-old. A neighbor found her-”
“At six in the morning?”
“They walk together every day at five thirty, apparently,” Lissy said. “As I say, her death would normally not have occasioned much remark, except…” He paused for emphasis. “Except that last night you were on me like paparazzi on Angelina Jolie, trying to convince me that the now-dead Ms. Fremont murdered Corinne Blakely. To top that off”-he raised a hand to stop me as I opened my mouth-“your fingerprints are all over the apartment, and the video camera at the jewelry store down the block shows you passing by at seven thirty-eight last evening. “So I ask you again, Ms. Graysin: What happened here?”
Damn. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say. I came down here to help Maurice by prodding Lavinia into a confession, and I ended up as a murder suspect. “Should I call Phineas Drake?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” Lissy said, wincing. “You’re not a suspect.”
“I’m not?” Then what was with the gestapo routine, the visit to Lavinia’s?
“The same camera that showed you arriving caught you leaving forty-five minutes later. Shortly after that, Ms. Fremont called her doctor’s office to cancel an appointment for today. The camera and the doctor’s answering machine have accurate time stamps. It’s pretty clear that it was suicide. She took a few handfuls of the same medicine that triggered Corinne Blakely’s heart failure-the packets are in her bathroom, and only her fingerprints are on them. Judging by the prescription meds in her medicine cabinet, she had much the same heart condition as Blakely, so the result was identicaclass="underline" myocardial infarction and death. At least, that’s what it looks like pending autopsy. Plus, there’s a note. I just want you to tell me how it came about.”
“A note?”
Lissy beckoned to a white-overalled woman who obligingly produced a note in a plastic bag. It was handwritten on cream-colored stationery with a stylized LF at the top. “Life without friends isn’t worth living. The friendship I believed in all these years was a lie. No one should be blamed for Corinne’s death except Corinne herself. And no one should be blamed for mine except me.” There was no signature.