room. I flopped
into her oversized armchair, thinking that the earth-toned decor was nice but a little
dull. Maybe I’d get her a yellow wall clock or a colorful mobile for her birthday.
I’d seen one in shades of bright purple and lime at the Fine Arts Center gift shop
last week. Thinking about it made me realize I didn’t know when Charlie’s birthday
was. “Charlie, when’s—”
She interrupted me. “What did the police say?”
I ran through it, taking great gulps of the Pepsi and wishing it were hot cocoa with
plenty of whipped cream on top. “So they finally let me go, but I know that Detective
Lorrimore suspects me,” I finished. “What did Detective Montgomery say?”
“That he can’t tell me anything.” Charlie looked annoyed. Her dark bangs flopped in
her eyes, and she flipped them out of the way impatiently. “He doesn’t think you murdered
Heather-Anne, though.”
“He said that?” The thought pleased me.
“No, but he’s sharp enough to realize that you couldn’t pull off … that is, that you
would never kill anyone.”
“You were going to say I’m not capable of planning a murder, weren’t you?” I don’t
know why the thought riled me, but it did. I could kill someone!
“Not being a murderer is a good thing, Gigi,” Charlie said. “Have you talked to a
lawyer?”
“You think I need one?”
Her silence answered my question.
“The only lawyer I know is my divorce lawyer,” I said morosely. “Considering how that
turned out, I think I’d rather throw a dart at the Yellow Pages than call him.”
Charlie laughed, and the sound surprised a smile out of me. She has a great laugh.
“It won’t matter,” she said, “because we’re going to track down Les and get to the
root of this so that you won’t need a lawyer. First, I’m going to talk to the people
who knew Heather-Anne, or whatever her name was, when she lived here: her roommate,
her co-workers. I need to get more of a feel for the woman. You need to get on the
computer and find out what you can about Lucinda Cheney, which is what she said her
real name was. I don’t know where she lived, but she talked about the South, so start
there.”
I made notes, happy to have a plan of attack. “I’ll think about where else Les might
be, too,” I said, “since he might know something about who would want to kill Heather-Anne.”
The look on Charlie’s face startled me. It took me a moment, but then my eyes widened.
“No. Oh, no, Charlie. He wouldn’t.”
She arched her brows skeptically. “He took up with a tramp, stole money from tons
of people, dumped you, and abandoned his kids.”
“That doesn’t make him a murderer!”
She just said, “Who else would want Heather-Anne dead?”
The first thing that came to me—wives of the men she’d lured away—wasn’t a good answer
given that I was one of those wives. “Serial killer?”
Charlie gave me a look.
“The ex-husband that was after her!” I offered triumphantly. The more I thought about
it, the better I liked that idea, mostly because it didn’t involve me or Les.
“We don’t even know that there really was a husband, ex or not. I wouldn’t exactly
bet my paycheck on Heather-Anne’s truthfulness.”
She didn’t push it, but I could see that Les was her prime suspect. I was too tired
to argue with her about it, and, truth to tell, I’d be happy to have the police looking
at anybody besides me.
14
Charlie arrived at the downtown YMCA before eight o’clock on Monday morning. Her butt
cheek was feeling much better; it didn’t even twinge as her guide led her past elliptical
machines being used by exercisers whose grim faces suggested they were working to
repel a Communist invasion rather than a few fat cells. She scanned the room but didn’t
see Hollis, Heather-Anne’s client from Saturday.
Her guide, a middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail,
into her oversized armchair, thinking that the earth-toned decor was nice but a little
dull. Maybe I’d get her a yellow wall clock or a colorful mobile for her birthday.
I’d seen one in shades of bright purple and lime at the Fine Arts Center gift shop
last week. Thinking about it made me realize I didn’t know when Charlie’s birthday
was. “Charlie, when’s—”
She interrupted me. “What did the police say?”
I ran through it, taking great gulps of the Pepsi and wishing it were hot cocoa with
plenty of whipped cream on top. “So they finally let me go, but I know that Detective
Lorrimore suspects me,” I finished. “What did Detective Montgomery say?”
“That he can’t tell me anything.” Charlie looked annoyed. Her dark bangs flopped in
her eyes, and she flipped them out of the way impatiently. “He doesn’t think you murdered
Heather-Anne, though.”
“He said that?” The thought pleased me.
“No, but he’s sharp enough to realize that you couldn’t pull off … that is, that you
would never kill anyone.”
“You were going to say I’m not capable of planning a murder, weren’t you?” I don’t
know why the thought riled me, but it did. I could kill someone!
“Not being a murderer is a good thing, Gigi,” Charlie said. “Have you talked to a
lawyer?”
“You think I need one?”
Her silence answered my question.
“The only lawyer I know is my divorce lawyer,” I said morosely. “Considering how that
turned out, I think I’d rather throw a dart at the Yellow Pages than call him.”
Charlie laughed, and the sound surprised a smile out of me. She has a great laugh.
“It won’t matter,” she said, “because we’re going to track down Les and get to the
root of this so that you won’t need a lawyer. First, I’m going to talk to the people
who knew Heather-Anne, or whatever her name was, when she lived here: her roommate,
her co-workers. I need to get more of a feel for the woman. You need to get on the
computer and find out what you can about Lucinda Cheney, which is what she said her
real name was. I don’t know where she lived, but she talked about the South, so start
there.”
I made notes, happy to have a plan of attack. “I’ll think about where else Les might
be, too,” I said, “since he might know something about who would want to kill Heather-Anne.”
The look on Charlie’s face startled me. It took me a moment, but then my eyes widened.
“No. Oh, no, Charlie. He wouldn’t.”
She arched her brows skeptically. “He took up with a tramp, stole money from tons
of people, dumped you, and abandoned his kids.”
“That doesn’t make him a murderer!”
She just said, “Who else would want Heather-Anne dead?”
The first thing that came to me—wives of the men she’d lured away—wasn’t a good answer
given that I was one of those wives. “Serial killer?”
Charlie gave me a look.
“The ex-husband that was after her!” I offered triumphantly. The more I thought about
it, the better I liked that idea, mostly because it didn’t involve me or Les.
“We don’t even know that there really was a husband, ex or not. I wouldn’t exactly
bet my paycheck on Heather-Anne’s truthfulness.”
She didn’t push it, but I could see that Les was her prime suspect. I was too tired
to argue with her about it, and, truth to tell, I’d be happy to have the police looking
at anybody besides me.
14
Charlie arrived at the downtown YMCA before eight o’clock on Monday morning. Her butt
cheek was feeling much better; it didn’t even twinge as her guide led her past elliptical
machines being used by exercisers whose grim faces suggested they were working to
repel a Communist invasion rather than a few fat cells. She scanned the room but didn’t
see Hollis, Heather-Anne’s client from Saturday.
Her guide, a middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail,
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