Текст книги "The Lies That Bind"

Автор книги: Kate Carlisle

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Chapter 7

“Jeez, what’s with this place?” Mitchell wondered aloud. “You got bodies falling everywhere.”

“Call nine-one-one,” I said as I knelt to check her pulse. I couldn’t blame him for asking the question. Every other night I was finding another body in the hall. It couldn’t be good for business.

“Is she dead?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I mumbled, pushing myself up.

“Well, duh,” he said, thumping his forehead. “I guess the bullet hole should’ve been my first clue.” He pulled out his cell and made the call.

I brushed and straightened my wool dress, then leaned against the wall, staring off into nowhere. I listened to Mitchell speak clearly and dispassionately to the dispatcher. I was glad he’d followed me out of the classroom. Despite being a wiseacre, or maybe because of it, he was a good man to have in a crisis.

After a few seconds he covered the phone and asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, my back pressed against the wall.

“Don’t pass out.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not kidding. You look like you’re going to faint. You can just walk away and go sit in the classroom.”

“No,” I insisted, then admitted, “Okay, I get a little woozy around blood.”

“Take deep breaths. Blood freaks out a lot of people.”

I was disgusted at my own weakness, but in my defense, it wasn’t just the sight of blood that was making me light-headed. It was the fact that Layla’s eyes were still open. It felt as though she were staring right at me. It made me wonder how the police could work around dead bodies when the victims’ eyes were still open, staring at them as they did their jobs.

If I were to ask my cosmically attuned mother what it meant when someone died with their eyes open, she would have some explanation about the soul choosing to leave the body through the eyes. The eyes were considered one of the higher senses, so maybe when the soul left this way, it meant the person would reach Surya Loka, or the divine solar, the eternal light, sooner. There, the soul would be purified; then it took only another step or two to reach Chandraloka, or, literally, moon heaven.

Or maybe not. At least, not in Layla’s case. Something told me heaven wouldn’t be her ultimate destination.

But that wasn’t nice of me, was it? As penance, I forced myself to turn and look at her again. Objectively speaking, in death Layla was even more beautiful than she’d been when alive. The muscles of her face were relaxed, now that she had no reason to spout vile threats or mercilessly ridicule anyone. I looked a little closer. The woman was literally wrinkle-free. She must’ve had some work done recently.

I took a breath to steady my whirling stomach. The last thing her eyes must’ve seen was her killer aiming a gun at her. I trembled at the thought. I’d stared down more than one killer with a gun. I would hate to think that would be the last thing I’d ever see.

Then I noticed the book splayed under her arm. She must’ve dropped it when she fell. Or maybe the shooter dropped it. I reached down to take it, then stopped.

What was wrong with me? This was a crime scene. Still, my natural tendency was to rescue books, especially when they were in danger of being consumed by a puddle of blood. But there was no blood threatening to destroy the book.

I shivered again and turned to face the wall. Think happy thoughts.

“What happened?” someone called out.

“Stay back,” Mitchell warned.

I turned and saw Gina standing with Whitney and my other students at the end of the hall.

“We’re waiting for the police,” I explained.

“Again?” Alice asked in disbelief.

Cynthia joined the group just then. I could see her shoving her phone into her pants pocket; then she craned her neck over the crowd and asked, “What’s going on? Who is that?”

But Alice figured it out first. “Oh, my God, is that Layla? Oh, no. Brooklyn, is she breathing?”

“She looks dead,” Whitney said flatly, and put her arm around Alice.

“She is,” Mitchell murmured.

“Layla’s dead?” somebody asked.

“If only,” Cynthia muttered, then looked around and realized nobody was kidding. “Wait. Really?”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said.

“Oh, my God.” In a heartbeat, Cynthia switched hats. “Brooklyn, I’m a board member. I should supervise this activity.”

Supervise this activity? What was she, a playground guard? And I noticed she still hadn’t shown an ounce of sympathy for the dead woman. Not that I blamed her, really, but things were getting weird.

I gave Mitchell a pleading look. “They can’t come down the hall. It’s a crime scene.”

“I’ll keep them back.” He started walking toward the group, then stopped and turned. “Don’t touch anything.”

“I know that,” I muttered, watching him jog away. Maybe he didn’t realize I was an old hand at murder scenes and knew all the rules. I even followed them, usually.

I leaned over to study the book on the floor by Layla and felt chills skitter down my spine. It was my Oliver Twist, the one I’d refurbished for her. The one I’d regretted giving her the first night of classes. The one she’d blatantly lied about. The one for which she’d given me so much grief.

I rubbed my hands together to warm up, but it wasn’t working. I was freezing.

“Brooklyn, are you okay?” Alice called out from down the hall. I could tell she was crying, but despite her own sense of loss, she was worried about me.

I gave her a grateful smile. “Not really, but thanks.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I’ll stay here until the police come.” I don’t know why, but I felt an obligation of sorts. As the first person on the scene, I would protect the area until I could pass the duty on to the police.

“I feel so useless,” Alice said, sniffling as she looked around. “Is there something we can do? Brooklyn, do you need a blanket or some water?”

“We could go outside and wait for the police,” Gina said.

“It’s too cold,” Whitney whined.

“It’s better than standing around.” Gina grabbed her friend and they ran off.

Dale, one of my quietest students, appeared at the end of the hall. “Is somebody hurt?”

I looked up as Kylie said, “Where have you been?”

“I was working on my pages. What happened?”

“The center director’s dead,” Kylie whispered.

I was glad she hadn’t said Layla’s name. I kidded myself that it sounded less personal, more clinical, to keep it semi-anonymous.

The students’ conversation stopped as Naomi pushed through the crowd and headed down the hall toward me. I met her halfway and tried to stop her.

“Oh, not again,” she said in dismay. “I leave the place for twenty minutes and somebody gets attacked again? It’s not Minka, is it?”

“No, it’s not Minka.” She tried to brush past me and I grabbed her. “Naomi, stay back.”

“Then who—” She screamed then, loud enough to pierce my eardrum. I guess she figured it out.

I pulled her close in a forced hug. She struggled to get away.

“Let me go. I need to—”

“No, you can’t go near her.”

“Let go of me, damn it. She’s my aunt, my family. I don’t—”

I shook her. “This is a crime scene. We’ve called the police.”

“Why? She’s not—”

“Naomi,” I said bleakly.

“No!”

“I’m sorry.” I wrapped my arms around her.

“No, no,” she moaned. “It’s not true.”

“I’m sorry. Layla’s dead.”

She sagged against me. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

Hell, Layla Fontaine, artistic director, mover and shaker and bitch royale, wasn’t just dead. She’d been murdered. Coldly, brutally, and audaciously. Someone had walked into BABA as bold as could be and shot her in the chest while at least twenty people worked in rooms nearby. Everyone in the building had to have heard the gunshot, so it wasn’t like the killer was trying to be stealthy. No, he—or she—had used a gun, drawing almost instant attention to his deed.

Was her killer really so arrogant? Or just pissed off? Or desperate? Or insane? Did he really think he’d get away with it? Looking around and not finding any obvious killer types waving guns in the air, I saw clearly that, so far, someone was indeed getting away with it.

Had Layla and the assailant argued about the Oliver Twist? Was it a buyer who discovered Layla’s lie about it being a first edition? Had he thrown the book at her, then shot her in cold blood when she laughed in his face?

My imagination had taken flight and I had to reel it back in. But as long as Layla had to die, that would be the motive I would want the killer to have.

I continued to hold Naomi in my arms as she cried and moaned. I understood what she was going through. Besides being her employer, Layla was her aunt. It wasn’t easy to find a loved one lying dead in a pool of blood.

I’d been there, done that. It sucked.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Minka yelled from the door of her classroom. Her voice carried all the way across the building. And down the street and over the bridge and into Richmond County. Her clunky boots stomped across the gallery.

“Oh, God, don’t let that cow come over here,” Naomi whispered.

“I won’t.” Even in this grim circumstance, it made me smile to know I wasn’t alone in my low opinion of Minka.

Over Naomi’s shoulder, I watched Mitchell stop Minka from advancing down the hall. She stared daggers at me and I met her squinty gaze levelly. She started to say something; then her mouth slammed shut. And for that brief moment, I could see what she was thinking. She was thinking she’d gotten off easy with the gash across her head instead of a bullet hole in her chest. She was alive, not dead and lying in a pool of blood.

The sudden vulnerability I saw in her eyes made me look away. I never ever, ever wanted to think of Minka as weak or helpless. It would take all the fun out of hating her.

“Stay back, please,” Mitchell said, stretching his arm across the hall entrance to block her.

“Who the fuck are you?” she said, with a contemptuous curl of her lip.

Ah, there was the Minka we all loved to hate.

Mitchell simply waited her out, not taking his eyes off her for a second. After a long standoff, Minka huffed. “Fine, whatever. Jerk wad.”

As she flounced back down the hall, I looked at Mitchell and sighed. “Sorry about that, but thanks.”

“No problem. She’s a peach. What else can I do to help?”

“Can you take Naomi to the lounge? She needs to sit down.”

“No,” Naomi protested. “I’m not leaving her.”

“You’ve had a bad shock, Naomi,” I said. “You need to sit down or you’ll pass out. I promise I’ll watch her until the police arrive.”

“But she’d want me to stay with her.”

“You’re probably right.” Layla had always loved bossing Naomi around. Still, she was a dead weight in my arms so I gave her an affectionate squeeze and said, “You’re so thoughtful to consider what Layla would want, but I’m more concerned about you right now.”

She sniffled, then began to sob. I traded glances with Mitchell, who immediately stepped forward and took hold of Naomi.

“You can come with me,” he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulders. Before he led her away, he turned and said to me, “Police should be here any minute. I got Ned to stand guard at the other entrance to this hall.”

“What other entrance?”

He pointed to Layla’s office. “That office has a separate entrance leading to another hall that curves around to the back of the building. I had to run to the men’s room the first night and got lost coming back. I followed the hall around and ended up in there.”

I hadn’t noticed a second doorway the other night when I brought Layla the book. Probably because I was so distracted by her sleazy scheme to pass the Oliver Twist off as a first edition.

I thought of Ned on the other side of the door. I didn’t want to say it aloud, but even though I trusted Mitchell’s instincts, I wondered if we could trust Ned.

Mitchell led Naomi away, and within seconds Tom Hardesty lumbered up, out of breath. “I was outside. It’s cold. What’s going on? Mitchell said you might need some help.”

“He did? Well, maybe you could—”

“Wait. Who is that?” Tom peered around me to stare at the body. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He shook his head. “No, it’s not. No. No. No.” His voice grew louder and more high-pitched and I scanned the hall looking for help.

Finally, I had to shout over him, “Tom, shut up.”

“But she’s . . . oh, God. She’s dead.”

“Yeah, we all got that,” I said loudly. “Where were you when the memo went out?” I probably shouldn’t have talked that way to a board member but he was such a twit. Seriously, Mitchell had sent this guy to help me and now he was having a panic attack? I’d lost any last drop of sympathy I might have had for him.

He didn’t seem to notice my acerbic response, just shook his head and whispered, “I was outside making a phone call.”

“Guess you missed all the excitement.”

“She can’t be dead,” Tom whimpered, and tried to move closer.

I sidestepped to block him.

“Noooooo,” Tom moaned.

I’d reached the end of my rope. “Tom, shut the hell up.”

Without warning, he fell to his knees and tried to reach for Layla’s hand.

“No!” I slapped his hand away just in time. “Crime scene. Get out of here.”

He collapsed on the floor and curled up like a baby in a womb.

Stunned by his behavior, I yelled down the hall, “Where’s Cynthia? I need her, now.”

“I’ll look for her,” Alice cried, eager to be of service.

I stared at Tom. “Get a grip, man.”

He began to weep as Cynthia stalked down the hall. “So this is where he disappeared to.”

“Yeah,” I said.

She dropped to her haunches and smacked Tom’s head. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“It’s Layla,” he sobbed. “She’s . . . oh, my God, she’s . . .”

“She’s dead,” Cynthia shot back. “And good riddance.”

Whoa.

Tom didn’t seem to notice his wife’s antipathy as he rocked in agony.

“Jesus H,” Cynthia muttered. She exhaled heavily, then took a deep breath and seemed to gather every last ounce of patience in her body. She patted his back and said in a soothing tone, “Come on, honey. The police will be here any minute. They can’t find you like this.”

That moved him to stand up. He wobbled once but she grabbed and steadied him.

He blinked, then gulped and said, “Thanks, honey.”

She smacked his arm. “We’ll talk about this later. Come on, let’s go.” Then she gripped his shirt to lead him away.

I had a feeling Tom would get an earful when he arrived home. Maybe that was a good thing. God knows, it seemed their relationship thrived on discipline. As they moved down the hall, I noticed that some of my other students had witnessed the entire scene.

Kylie grimaced. “This is all too surreal.”

“Two attacks in one week is more than surreal,” I said.

Whitney and Gina returned to the group, and Whitney rubbed her arms. “It’s really freezing out there.”

“Hey, I wonder if the local news will show up,” Gina said.

“We should call them,” Whitney whispered, and Gina nodded with excitement.

I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed, to be accosted by nosy reporters. All they had to do was link me to Abraham’s murder and the Scotland murders and I’d be known forever more as Bloody Brooklyn—or some equally annoying nickname.

Brooklyn’s Bloody Bodies “R” Us. Very catchy.

“Where are the cops?” I wondered aloud.

As if on cue, a siren screamed in the distance, growing louder and finally stopping right outside the front door.

“About damn time,” I muttered, more than ready for a good stiff drink.

Chapter 8

As the sirens faded outside the building, I had a sudden realization. What was I doing here? Why was I the one protecting a crime scene as if it were my job? As if I were some officer of the court? I wasn’t. I was just some poor schnook who’d seen too many dead bodies lately and knew the score. I realized the area needed to be as undisturbed as possible so that evidence could be saved and justice served. This time, I’d even left a fabulous old book on the floor, untouched. I wish I’d taken it, though. After all, it wasn’t like the book had killed her, right?

I’d done my duty, but now I was starting to freak out over my recent proclivity for finding bodies. I couldn’t blame my head for screaming, Get away from the dead body! People are starting to talk!

I heeded the message and signaled Mitchell over. “I need to return to the classroom.”

He was taken aback. “You’re starting up the class?”

“No, no. No more class tonight. I just need to get away from here. Can you watch her for me?”

Mitchell glanced over at “her,” and said, “Sure. Go. I’ll let the cops know where you are.”

“Thanks, I think.”

He chuckled as I scurried off, back to my empty classroom. I toed my shoes off and curled up in one of the cushioned high chairs stationed around the worktable. Now that it was quiet, I took a moment to wonder, again, what was up with my karma. Why me? Why dead bodies? Was the universe sending me a message? Whatever it was, I couldn’t read it.

Layla was dead and I felt nothing. I mean, I was alarmed that a killer might be getting away with murder. But otherwise, I felt nothing except complete relief that I’d never have to deal with her crap again.

Maybe I would break into tears later, or struggle all night to get the picture of her dead body out of my head. But for now, I felt nothing. And that probably wouldn’t help my karma situation much.

Since I planned to drive to Sonoma this weekend, maybe I would ask my mother for suggestions. She was dabbling in Wicca lately and could run a happy positivity spell on me. If not, I could always undergo some ojas replenishment. Or, what the heck, I might even get my chakras lubed. I was desperate.

And not that it was all about me, but did Layla have to die on a night when I was wearing my cutest outfit for my big night out with the hot British guy?

Yes, I was whining, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble earlier, calling up my best friend and fashion maven, Robin, and opening myself up to possible mockery by asking for her advice. So I deserved to whine for a minute in the privacy of my own brain.

Sure enough, Robin had enjoyed a few laughs at my expense. Then she’d gotten down to business, insisting that I wear the one dress I owned with my sexiest pair of black heels. She knew I owned them because she’d forced me to buy them a few weeks back for an art opening I’d attended that featured some of her newest sculptures.

I’d done exactly as she suggested. Why ask for expert advice if you’re not going to take it? I’d even managed to fix my straight blond hair the way she’d instructed, using a touch of gel on my bangs for a chunky, punky look. Those were her words.

And it all seemed to work, if my students were any gauge. I was looking good. I was uncomfortable and my feet were killing me, but I looked good. And I felt good. Until Layla had to go and die.

So here I sat, feeling sorry for myself and guilty for it, plus worrying about my karma and my feet and Derek Stone and the future of BABA. Because even though I disapproved of some of Layla’s methods, I couldn’t see Naomi or Karalee or Alice running this place with the same skill and panache.

“Meow.”

“Hey, Baba,” I said, and leaned down to pick up the cat. He was large and unwieldy, but he seemed to need a comforting touch. I held him in my lap, stroking his soft fur, and wondered what he thought of this odd place he called home. Had he seen anything? Heard anything? Had he looked into the eyes of a killer tonight? If so, he would take his secrets to the grave.

“Meow.”

“Yeah, I know, you’ll never tell.”

The door opened slowly and Alice poked her head in. “Oh, you’re in here. I was worried. Are you okay? Do you mind if I come in?”

I smiled at her, glad to be distracted from my selfish woes. “Come in and sit down. I’m just hiding in here with the cat. We’re feeling sorry for ourselves.”

“Pretty kitty.”Alice leaned over and scratched Baba’s ears for a minute. The cat allowed it for a few seconds, then ran off. Alice straightened and pushed her long hair back off her shoulders. “Are you feeling sorry about Layla? Because I feel awful. And I’m so worried. I hate to even think these thoughts while Layla is . . . well. But I just don’t know how we’re going to go forward. Layla was everything to BABA.”

She paced the floor, wringing her hands as she spoke a mile a minute.

“Naomi is a mess,” she said, almost to herself. “The managers are both in a dither, and there’s Ned. He’s an odd Thomas, isn’t he? Well, I just hope nobody expects me to pick up the slack. I’m one step removed from a basket case at the best of times.”

“Alice,” I interrupted, amused despite the fact that I had the same concerns, “things will work out. Nobody expects you to grab the helm. Everyone here needs time to grieve and regroup.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “You know what, Brooklyn? I think I should grab the helm. Now is not the time to shrink back, but to move forward. Now is the time to hit the ground running, to ask ourselves, What would Layla do?”

She began to march back and forth, a little soldier now, shaking her fist with firm resolve. “I can’t give in to the fear. We have a festival to get off the ground. And next month, the print arts program will be launching a new book. There’s already publicity out on that and we’ve got a huge party at the end of the month. No, Layla would want us to proceed full steam ahead. There’s no time for lollygagging, no time indeed.”

Maybe she was channeling Layla, but whatever she was doing, I was glad to see she wasn’t crying or rubbing her stomach anymore. Maybe her taking charge was a good thing, just the diversion she needed to take her mind off her friend’s sudden death.

On impulse, I said, “Alice, I’m having a girls’ night at my place tomorrow night. There’s just a few of us, dinner, drinks, some laughs. Would you like to come?”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Is that a yes?” I said after a moment.

“You . . . you’re inviting me over to your house? To meet your friends?”

“Yeah. You want to come?”

She sniffled. “I would be so honored. Thank you.”

“We’re just talking pizza and cheap wine here.”

“It sounds wonderful,” she whispered. “I’ve hardly met anyone since I moved here and I don’t get out much, so you’ve got to excuse me if I’m overcome with emotion.”

I laughed. “Okay, good. I’ll write down the directions.”

The door swung open and Inspector Nathan Jaglom walked in. I smiled, happy to see the homicide detective who had investigated the murder of Abraham Karastovsky less than two months before. Was it perverse to feel as if I were greeting an old friend?

“Inspector Jaglom, hello,” I said, hopping down from the chair and walking over to shake his hand. “Do you remember me?”

“Ms. Wainwright,” Jaglom said with a broad grin. “Of course, how could I forget you? Are you involved in this?”

“Only peripherally, I promise you.” I waved my hands a little too frantically. “I was teaching a class when we heard the gunshot. I’ve got more than ten witnesses that will back me up.”

“Good.” He looked relieved, but not half as relieved as I was.

“Everyone in my class is a witness for each other, as well,” I hastened to add. “We were all working when the gunshot was fired.”

“Okay, that’s good. We’ll need a few minutes with each person, ask a few questions, check their IDs and contact info. Then you should all be free to go home.”

“Okay, sounds fair.” I noticed Alice then. “Inspector, this is one of my students, who’s also the center’s assistant director. Alice Fairchild.”

He nodded. “Ms. Fairchild.”

“How do you do?” she said, her voice barely registering. She gave me a questioning look.

“I met Inspector Jaglom recently,” I explained, “when he worked on a case where a friend of mine was killed.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She touched my shoulder in sympathy, then whispered, “I’m just going to wait in the gallery.”

After she left the room, Jaglom browsed the front counter. Holding up one of my journals, he said, “Is this the kind of stuff you’re teaching?”

“Yes. It’s a bookbinding class.”

“Looks good,” he said, then smiled kindly. “So, how are you getting along these days?”

“I’m doing pretty well, thanks.” I knew he was asking how I was dealing with Abraham’s death. “Really, fine.”

“Good.” He turned as the door opened and Detective Inspector Janice Lee entered. “Hey, Lee.”

“Sorry I’m late,”Lee said,then saw me.“Brooklyn Wainwright. Why am I not surprised?”

“She’s got witnesses this time,” Jaglom said, and chuckled. I was so happy to provide amusement for local law enforcement.

“Listen,” Lee said. “We’ve got two classrooms available for interviews. You want to take this room or the other one?”

He looked around, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Minka LaBoeuf is teaching in the other classroom,” I said helpfully.

“I’ll take this room,” Lee said immediately.

Jaglom grimaced. “Great. See you later, Ms. Wainwright.”

“You bet,” I said, and waved in sympathy. They’d both had unpleasant run-ins with Minka during the investigation of Abraham’s murder.

Lee took off her trench coat and draped it over one of the tall chairs. I couldn’t help but notice she’d put on a few pounds. It looked good on her. And while it was none of my business, she could afford to gain another ten or twenty.

“What’s up, Brooklyn?” she said, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms across her chest. She was Asian-American, tall and pretty, with a throaty voice some might consider sexy, but which I knew came from smoking too much. She had fabulous hair, thick, black, and shiny. And she intimidated the hell out of me.

“Not much,” I lied, kneading my temple where another headache was brewing. “Although to tell you the truth, I’m a little tired of running into dead bodies everywhere I go. How are you doing, Inspector?”

“I’m a bitch on wheels since I gave up smoking,” she said. “Otherwise, life is like a dream. I know what you mean about the bodies, though. I seem to have the same problem. Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“I guess,” I said, chuckling. “Hey, congratulations on the smoking thing.” I guess that explained the weight gain.

“Yeah, whatever. Turns out, my mother was right. Guys don’t like to kiss an ashtray.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, but who needs guys?” She shoved away from the counter and walked to the worktable, where she tested one of my student’s glued pages for dryness. “This your class?”

“Yes, bookbinding.” I glanced around the empty room. “My students are all hanging out in the gallery, soaking up the excitement.”

“Excitement,” she repeated, as she fiddled with the wing nuts on the press, flicking them back and forth a few times. “I hear there’s been a lot of it around here lately.”

“You could say that.”

“Yeah, I could.” She smirked, then seemed to remember she was there to do a job. “So, tell me about the victim.”

I paused, unsure where to start, then figured I’d start at the top. “She was despicable.”

“Hey, don’t sugarcoat it. Tell me how you really feel.”

“I kind of hated her.”

She leaned back and crossed her ankles. “Guess it’s a good thing you have a rock-solid alibi.”

I blew out a breath. “It sure is.”

She splayed her hands out. “So, tell all. Why was she so awful?”

I held up my hand and counted on my fingers. “She cheated, she lied, she came on to all the men, and she ruled this place through fear and intimidation.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work.”

“I had an argument with her two nights ago.” I explained about the Oliver Twist, emphasizing the fact that I had left the book with Layla’s body. “I’m ashamed to admit I went along with Layla’s lie because I was afraid she’d ruin my reputation, maybe blackball me in the community and keep me from working here.”

Lee nodded. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Like I wanted to kill her.”

“Over a book?”

I shook my head. “It was the principle of the thing.”

Lee cocked her head. “Boy, give the woman an alibi and she goes to town. You’re sounding more and more like a suspect, you know.”

“But I’m not,” I said, smiling grimly.

She leaned her arms on the back of the high chair. “I heard some rumors about a situation in Edinburgh.”

“I didn’t do it.”

She laughed. “They should’ve called me.”

“So you could give me a character reference?”

“Of course,” she said, then slapped her hands together. “Well, I should get back to kicking ass and taking names.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s what I live for,” she said. “But first, tell me about the other people here. Did everyone hate this woman enough to kill her?”

I hedged. “Well, some were more enamored of her than others.”

She eyed me sideways. “You giving me a little clue here?”

My lips twitched back and forth. “I hate to be a snitch.”

“This isn’t Scarface, Brooklyn. I need to find a killer. Throw me a bone.”

I gave her a two-minute summation of everything that might relate to Layla’s murder, including Tom and Cynthia’s oddball behavior, Ned’s general demeanor, Naomi’s passive-aggressive ways, Minka’s attack, and the Asian man who stormed out of Layla’s office that first night.

“Sounds like a lot of strong emotions running rampant.”

“You could say that.”

“Are you thinking this angry Asian might’ve snuck back in here and knocked out Minka instead of Layla?”

“It’s possible.”

“Can you describe him?” she asked, writing in her notepad as fast as she could.

I gave it my best shot, then added, “I wish he was the only one she’d pissed off.”

“That would make my job easier. But unfortunately, this seems to be a suspect-rich environment.”

“I hate to think someone I know could’ve done this. Maybe there’s a random psychopathic killer loose in the neighborhood.”

“You know, there just aren’t as many psychopathic killers running around as people think.”

I took it philosophically. “Another myth busted.”

She shrugged. “That’s my job.”

After I led her out to the gallery and pointed out the various players, Inspector Lee corralled most of my students back into the classroom. She isolated Cynthia and Tom, as well as the four staff members, Naomi, Ned, Marky, and Karalee, in separate offices, each with a cop taking preliminary information from them.

My students and I were dealt with quickly and told to go home. I walked back out to the gallery just as the front door opened. From across the wide space, I saw two men walk in with Gunther between them. Seconds later, Derek strolled into the foyer.

Without thinking, I gave a little cry and ran toward him. Derek saw me coming and opened his arms.