"You left out some information when I talked to you yesterday."
"I did?"
"I don't like hearing client information that my client should have told me from someone who is not my client."
"What do you mean?"
"Frederick Parsons. Stopped by for a little chat with you on Monday."
That startled me. "Oh. I thought it was irrelevant."
"It's not irrelevant unless I tell you it is. What did he say?"
"He called you?" Maybe I was naïve, but it struck me as out of line for the father of a murder victim to call the attorney of a person of interest.
"Yes. What did he say?"
"How did he know you were my attorney? Didn't he tell you what he said to me?"
"I want to hear it from you."
I related our conversation, verbatim, and mentioned the really big guy in the dark glasses – just in case he wasn't irrelevant. Mr. Green grimaced, shook his head, and muttered something about not realizing Joey was out of prison. Then he resumed pacing.
Great. I was being watched by a felon – or ex-felon. Maybe an escaped felon.
"I want to know how Frederick Parsons knew to call you," I said. When Green didn't answer, I persisted. "I didn't tell him the name of my attorney."
"Someone told him. I expect someone who heard it from you." Mr. Green's comment was off-hand, as if unimportant. "Now," he said, throwing on the brakes, "what about the phone call I dodged today? What was Parsons going to tell me that you should have?"
"Oh, uh, well, I kinda ran into Joey today out at Valerie's."
Mr. Green ran a hand across his comb-over and blew out a lungful of air.
"What were you doing out at Valerie Parsons's place?"
"Looking for clues."
He tugged an earlobe. "Did you find any?"
"Well, that's the funny thing. It's more what I didn't find. It looked like she wasn't expecting any horses at all at her place." Mr. Green gave me a long, silent look, adjusted his shirt cuffs with a quick jerk and set his feet into motion again. True, I was new at this, but why was he acting like my observation was unimportant? "Well, don't you think that's odd? I was thinking Valerie meant to have Nachtfeder picked up instead of Blackie – that Blackie's theft was a mistake made by someone she hired. But now I don't know what to think. And, by the way, Joey is spending a lot of time parked outside my house."
"No. Is he really?"
I'm positive that was sarcastic.
The door swung open and Detective Thurman strode in, threw himself into the chair across from me, and slapped a file folder on the table. He pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it toward me. I reached for it, but Mr. Green snatched it up first. I scowled at him, but he didn't give any indication he noticed. He read it as he paced, then stopped abruptly to address Thurman.
"A word with my client, please."
The detective heaved himself out of his chair. "Two minutes," he said and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Mr. Green handed me the paper. I opened it, read it twice, and fought the urge to throw up.
"What is this, a joke?" Furry radiated to my fingertips.
"You don't recognize the bill of sale?"
"No, absolutely not."
"Is that your signature?" He paused long enough to point to the bottom of the page.
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." My answer was shrill. I pulled my wallet out of my purse and handed him my driver's license. He compared the two signatures and handed the license back to me.
"There isn't even an attempt at forgery," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"I don't understand this," I said to his back. Dammit. I wanted to tie him to a chair.
"Neither do I. Shall we see if Detective Thurman can enlighten us?" He went to the door and opened it.
Detective Thurman wasted no time in returning. He, at least, sat down. Mr. Green pushed the paper back to him and made a flicking motion with his hand from my purse to Thurman. After a moment's confusion I understood it as a command for me to display my driver's license. Thurman compared the two signatures and flipped my license back to me.
"Is this your horse described here?" He tapped the paper.
"If it is, it's a poor description." I crossed my arms. "Wrong color. He's not black. The name's wrong, too."
"It's not," he read off the paper, "'The Black Bishop'?"
"No. His registered name is, 'The Black Queen's Bishop.'" I cringed and glanced at Mr. Green, realizing I'd probably said too much. Sweat prickled in my arm pits.
"Funny name for a horse, but aren't they all?"
I didn't comment.
"Is this Valerie Parsons's signature?" He showed me the paper again.
"I wouldn't know. I've never seen her handwriting, much less her signature. You must realize if this were a legitimate bill of sale my horse's breed, registration number, sire, dam, detailed description of height, markings, and other information would be included."
Detective Thurman scratched his nose, thinking. I glanced at my attorney. He stopped pacing and instead fidgeted with the change in his pants pocket.
I hated this silence.
"What's this all about? Where did you get this?" I tapped the table top near the folder harder than I'd intended.
"It was dropped off at our office this morning."
"By whom?" I leaned forward and our eyes locked. After a moment Thurman cocked his head.
"Is it important?"
"It might be." I tipped my head, imitating him. "Someone sure seems determined to drag me into this murder investigation."
"Why would someone want to do that?"
I sat back, staring at him in disbelief. "Gee, you're the detective. I would think you could figure that one out with one hand tied behind your back."
"What's your theory?" He acted like he hadn't heard the insult.
"Theory?" I squeaked. "Isn't it obvious? Someone is trying to frame me. If that fake bill of sale isn't enough, just look at this." I turned to Mr. Green and held my hand out. He picked up my hint, produced the folded sheet of newspaper, and slid it across the table to the detective.
"What's this?"
"My client found it taped to her front door this afternoon."
Thurman unfolded it, looked at both sides and frowned briefly. "'Stoping ions ask quest'? 'Stoping' is spelled wrong."
"Read it top to bottom, two words in each column," I said.
His eyes flicked back to the page then settle back on me. "So, someone wants you to stop asking questions. Why is that?"
"I don't know. I haven't even started asking questions."
"Is that right?"
"Yes. What are you going to do about this?" I pointed at the message.
Thurman appeared to mull over my question. "Throw it out?"
"It's evidence. In fact, it sounds like a threat."
He scrutinized it again, at such length I knew he was mocking me. "You think so?"
"Yes, I do." My voice trembled with frustration. I was surrounded by idiots. "I have some questions I would like the answers to."
"Ask away." Thurman leaned back and calmly folded his hands on his stomach. This particular chair didn't creak like the one in his office.
Mr. Green sat down and stared at me, steadily jiggling one leg.
I wanted to rub away the headache these two were giving me, but I didn't want to appear weak. Bad enough I had to clear my throat twice before any words would come out. "Are you looking into any 'persons of interest' other than me?"
"Like who?"
"Like whoever forged this bill of sale. Like any of the people who knew Valerie and might send me this?" I tapped the newspaper. "And do you always have to answer me with a question?"
Thurman raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't budge. I sat up a little straighter and set my jaw. He was deliberately trying to make me nervous.
"'Yes' to your first question, 'no' to your second." One edge of his mouth rose.
"So, of those people, who would benefit from her death?"
"Benefit how?"
I gave him a hard look. "Financially, I have to assume, since she was wealthy."
Mr. Green coughed, but I ignored him. He stopped jiggling his leg.