here?”
“No,” she replied evenly. “No one. I was sleeping alone, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Yes, thank you.” Savannah scribbled in the notebook, not trusting anything to memory. “And how about yesterday evening around sundown? Say about eight-thirty?”
She quirked one eyebrow. “Do I need an alibi for then, too?”
“It’s just a routine question.”
“I was here, sitting in this chair, reading as I always do in the evenings. And before you ask, no one was with me. I read alone, too.”
“How about Leah? Can she vouch for you?”
Beverly shook her head. “No. She and her husband—he’s my gardener and handyman—only work for me from eighty-thirty a.m. to four-thirty in the afternoon. They live in the apartment above the old carriage house. I value my privacy too much to have help living with me twenty-four hours a day.”
“How about the phone? Did you take any calls yesterday evening here at home?”
“No. I always turn off the phone after dinner and let the answering machine take messages for me. It’s a policy I’ve had to adopt in order to preserve my sanity.”
“I understand. That’s unfortunate, because...” Her voice trailed away as Savannah watched the woman carefully. She was puzzled by her seeming nonchalance. Beverly was the prime suspect in a murder investigation; surely she knew that. She must also comprehend the importance of having an alibi under these circumstances.
“I’m sorry I have no alibi, Detective,” she said, as though reading Savannah’s mind. “Believe me, I would love to say I was giving a speech at City Hall before two or three hundred people at the moment my husband was being killed, but I wasn’t. If I had known I’d need an alibi, I would have arranged to have a good one for you, but...” She shrugged her broad shoulders.
“Mrs. Winston,” Savannah said, assuming a cooler, more detached tone, “are you aware of a home videotape taken of you and Norman Hillquist coming out of the Blue Moon Motel?”
“Yes,” she said, her face freezing over, her voice tight. “I’ve heard of it. I haven’t seen it.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“Jonathan told me ... in great detail. He was quite pleased with his results. Better than he had hoped for, I think.”
“Do you recognize this?” Savannah reached into her tote and pulled out the large, Ziplocked plastic bag that contained the videotape in its black rectangular box.
“I can’t be sure,” she replied, eyeing it carefully, “but it looks like the kind of cases I buy on sale at the local department store. I tape some of the programs aired on public television when I’m away in the evening. I file them in boxes like that.”
“Have you noticed if any of your boxes are missing?”
“No, but I wouldn’t. I don’t keep that close a track of them. What’s the significance of that one box? I’m sure there are hundreds of them sold every day.”
“This one,” Savannah said slowly, “is special because it contains the video footage of you and Chief Hillquist at the Blue Moon.”
Savannah could swear that the cool and incredibly calm Beverly Winston turned a shade more pale.
“And,” she continued, “it has only one person’s fingerprints on it. Yours.”
Yes, definitely , Savannah decided. Maybe even two shades .
CHAPTER SEVEN
W hen Savannah entered Captain Bloss’s office, as ordered, at three that afternoon, she was only mildly surprised to see Chief Hillquist sitting there, too. Usually he stood when she walked into a room—a quaint but rather endearing custom that she didn’t expect but appreciated.
Today he just sat there, elbows propped on the arms of the more comfortable of the three chairs in the office, his fingers interlaced and his forefingers steepled against his lips. She waited only briefly for his customary smile and nod before realizing she would probably never see it again, at least not directed at her. Whatever rapport they had shared
“No,” she replied evenly. “No one. I was sleeping alone, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Yes, thank you.” Savannah scribbled in the notebook, not trusting anything to memory. “And how about yesterday evening around sundown? Say about eight-thirty?”
She quirked one eyebrow. “Do I need an alibi for then, too?”
“It’s just a routine question.”
“I was here, sitting in this chair, reading as I always do in the evenings. And before you ask, no one was with me. I read alone, too.”
“How about Leah? Can she vouch for you?”
Beverly shook her head. “No. She and her husband—he’s my gardener and handyman—only work for me from eighty-thirty a.m. to four-thirty in the afternoon. They live in the apartment above the old carriage house. I value my privacy too much to have help living with me twenty-four hours a day.”
“How about the phone? Did you take any calls yesterday evening here at home?”
“No. I always turn off the phone after dinner and let the answering machine take messages for me. It’s a policy I’ve had to adopt in order to preserve my sanity.”
“I understand. That’s unfortunate, because...” Her voice trailed away as Savannah watched the woman carefully. She was puzzled by her seeming nonchalance. Beverly was the prime suspect in a murder investigation; surely she knew that. She must also comprehend the importance of having an alibi under these circumstances.
“I’m sorry I have no alibi, Detective,” she said, as though reading Savannah’s mind. “Believe me, I would love to say I was giving a speech at City Hall before two or three hundred people at the moment my husband was being killed, but I wasn’t. If I had known I’d need an alibi, I would have arranged to have a good one for you, but...” She shrugged her broad shoulders.
“Mrs. Winston,” Savannah said, assuming a cooler, more detached tone, “are you aware of a home videotape taken of you and Norman Hillquist coming out of the Blue Moon Motel?”
“Yes,” she said, her face freezing over, her voice tight. “I’ve heard of it. I haven’t seen it.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“Jonathan told me ... in great detail. He was quite pleased with his results. Better than he had hoped for, I think.”
“Do you recognize this?” Savannah reached into her tote and pulled out the large, Ziplocked plastic bag that contained the videotape in its black rectangular box.
“I can’t be sure,” she replied, eyeing it carefully, “but it looks like the kind of cases I buy on sale at the local department store. I tape some of the programs aired on public television when I’m away in the evening. I file them in boxes like that.”
“Have you noticed if any of your boxes are missing?”
“No, but I wouldn’t. I don’t keep that close a track of them. What’s the significance of that one box? I’m sure there are hundreds of them sold every day.”
“This one,” Savannah said slowly, “is special because it contains the video footage of you and Chief Hillquist at the Blue Moon.”
Savannah could swear that the cool and incredibly calm Beverly Winston turned a shade more pale.
“And,” she continued, “it has only one person’s fingerprints on it. Yours.”
Yes, definitely , Savannah decided. Maybe even two shades .
CHAPTER SEVEN
W hen Savannah entered Captain Bloss’s office, as ordered, at three that afternoon, she was only mildly surprised to see Chief Hillquist sitting there, too. Usually he stood when she walked into a room—a quaint but rather endearing custom that she didn’t expect but appreciated.
Today he just sat there, elbows propped on the arms of the more comfortable of the three chairs in the office, his fingers interlaced and his forefingers steepled against his lips. She waited only briefly for his customary smile and nod before realizing she would probably never see it again, at least not directed at her. Whatever rapport they had shared
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