Authors: Dawn Steele
*
Devon is extremely wary as Claire arrives at their table, balancing a tray with two cappuccinos.
“Look, cappuccino art,” she announces as she places the tray
on the table’s surface. The foam on top of both cappuccinos has been designed in shapes of sailing boats.
He wonders how she can be so cavalier about things when her best friend has just been brutally murdered.
She takes her place across from him. He observes her.
“You seem pretty upbeat for someone whose best friend is dead,” he remarks.
“I’m coping. The funeral isn’t after the coroner’s report,” she says, a little flatly. “Besides, she wasn’t my best friend. More like a gym buddy.”
He leans back in his chair.
“So you are disassociating yourself from her now.” He narrows his eyes.
“Not disassociating. I’
m merely numb,” she says, sipping from her cup. She blinks several times, and he can see tears forming in her orbs. “I have cried and cried for hours . . . and I don’t think I can cry anymore.”
He doesn’t reply. He can understand that.
“What about you? Are you upset?” she says.
“I’ve been
in jail for a murder I didn’t commit just because I happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Sure, I’ve been upset.”
“I have never known you to be snarky, Devon.”
“That’s because you don’t know me. You have only seen a side of me that I have chosen to show you.”
He feels bitter and
petulant, and he knows it is unfair to take it out on her – just as he has taken it out on Abby. But there you have it, he is imperfect. So sue him. Wait, someone has already arrested him for it.
She gives him a skewed look.
“You have every right to be upset, Devon. But I don’t think you killed her either, so I’m on your side, OK?
“OK,”
he says, without feeling any better.
They sit there for a while, facing each other. She stirs
the chocolate flakes into her cappuccino. He lets his cool down a little before taking a sip from it.
“So who is your benefactor?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“Who gave you the money to bail yourself out?”
Claire doesn’t know about Abby and he intends to keep it that way.
“No one you know. Just a friend.”
She raises one carefully plucked eyebrow. “A friend?”
“Yes.”
“A very rich friend, obviously.”
He shrugs. Let her think it is another one of
his wealthy patrons.
“Did you read the news about the murder?” she says.
“No. I don’t get newspaper rights in jail.”
She takes her purse and retrieves her phone. “Look, these are the news items. I have bookmarked them.”
She gives him her phone and he reads the display.
ARTIST ARRESTED IN ENTREPRENEUR’S MURDER.
Rachel Krieg, 51, was the owner of a successful business which has its roots in antiques and property. On Sunday _____, she was found brutally murdered in her luxury SoHo apartment.
Elena Steenkamp, a
college student and part-time maid, says, “My schedule to clean Ms. Krieg’s apartment was at 8.30 a.m. every Sunday, because she likes to go out afterwards. I let myself in with my set of keys. At first, I didn’t suspect anything was amiss, but when I walked into the bedroom, I saw her lying on the bed. At first, I thought she was sleeping, but her head was at an unnatural angle. I took a closer look. That was when I saw the blood on her hair and her pillow.”
Elena Steenkamp screamed
and immediately dashed out to the lounge to alert the building security, who called the police. The murder weapon, a broken vase, was later found in the master bathroom along with more traces of blood, suggesting the crime had occurred there.
The doorman,
David Horsch, 43, claims, “The last person to visit Rachel Krieg on Saturday night was a young man who was always visiting her. He always signed his name as ‘Devon Fisher’.”
The police later arrested Devon Fisher
, 21, on the suspicion of murder. Not much is known about him other than he is an obscure artist living on the East Side.
David Horsch says, “
He has been coming around to Ms. Krieg’s place for a little under a year. He is always sniffing around. I never liked the looks of him. I was always afraid he was up to no good. Ms. Krieg was a wonderful, kind lady with a lot of money, and she always did attract the wrong types.”
Police have remanded Devon Fisher and are investigating the crime.’
*
Devon looks up. “At least they didn’t call me a
prostitute.”
The news item only goes to show how much he didn’t know about Rachel Krieg
either.
But she wasn’t a friend. She was just a client.
He didn’t know she was fifty-one years old, for starters. That very fact shocked him. She was so youthful-looking. So robust, larger than life. She easily looked fifteen years younger.
He didn’t know she had a maid who came into clean on Sundays. The apartment was always spotless.
He didn’t know the doorman’s first name was David.
He knew Rachel was into vases now, thanks to Abby, but he didn’t know she was into property as well.
“Horsch doesn’t want to smear Rachel’s name in the press by suggesting she consorts with male hookers,” Claire says.
“Nice of him to finger me.”
“You were the last person on the visitor’s sheet.”
“So what are you suggesting
? That I killed her?”
“I didn’t suggest anything of that sort. I merely said you were the last person on the visitor’s sheet. Horsch entered your name himself.”
“I suppose he didn’t tell the police that the elevator codes were on the fritz that night.”
“I’m not sure what he did or did not tell them, but I’
m certain you told them yourself.”
He remains silent. Yes, he did. He remembers the police interrogation with Patricia Chalmers in attendance. She had cautioned him to let her do most of the talking. So he just stuck to everything he had seen o
r heard that night, sparing that one detail he did not wish to go into. Pat was not happy, but after thinking it through, she decided to honor his wishes.
“I just told them what I knew.”
“I know, Devon.” Her eyes soften. “That’s all you can do.”
After a while, he straightens himself in his chair. “So if I didn’t kill her, who do you think did?”
The look that passes through her face is guarded.
Abby freezes in the doorway at the specter of her father. Intellectually, she knew he would be coming for her, but she didn’t expect it to be so soon.
She tries to slam the door on him, but he instantly stops it with his arm. He is a big man. Brawny and well-built.
“Come on, Abby,” he pleads. “I didn’t come all the way down here for you to do this.”
She pushes against the closing door with all her might.
“I don’t want to see you,” she pants.
“We have to talk.” He is stronger than she is, and he heaves his shoulder against the door.
She is rapidly losing her
battle.
“Don’t come in or I’ll scream,” she warns.
“I just want to talk, Abby. I don’t expect you to come home. Please?”
The door moves against her, gaining another inch.
Abby throws back her head and screams.
“Abby!
” Her father’s voice is pained.
But no neighbor
pops their door open. Maybe at this time of day, everyone has gone out to work already, and the kids and old folks are too frightened.
Abby’s arms and shoulder weaken, and she has no choice but to let her father in
. His big, burly frame crosses the threshold and steps into the apartment. He blocks the outlet with his body. He is hardly winded.
“I’m not going to hurt you, baby,” her father says gently.
He has her exact coloring – dark, stormy eyes, dark hair. Only she is slight and he is huge, towering well over six feet four. They even look alike. You can see it in the shapes of their noses, their jaws. He is a man in his fifties – still strong and hearty and youthful-looking.
“He had no right to call you,” Abby lashes.
“Helmut did the right thing. He knew I was very concerned about you.”
“It’s my money! It’s my right what I want to do with it.”
“This is not about the money, Abby. This is about you and me. You left so suddenly . . . I had no time to explain – ”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Please, baby.”
She turns abruptly
away. “I have nothing to say to you.”
He locks the door behind him. Now she is trapped.
Please come back, Devon, she pleads.
“It could be anyone,” Claire declares.
“She had a lot of people who would like to see her dead.”
A
strange sensation crawls down Devon’s spine. He had issues with Rachel, but those were professional issues. He didn’t think anyone else would like to see her dead over any issues she had with them.
Issues can be solved, surely.
“Do you suspect anyone?” he asks.
“Suspect anyone? I suspect
everyone
!” she says vehemently.
The customers at the other tables turn to look.
“Keep your voice down,” Devon says.
“Why should I? My friend is dead, and I am rightfully upset.”
Devon shakes his head and leans forward. “OK, so you suspect everyone. Can you pinpoint who exactly is on the top of your suspicion list?”
Claire’s nostrils flare.
“Did she ever mention her brother, Richard, to you?”
“No.” Devon remembers distinctly that Abby has mentioned working with a creepy male boss. “Does he run her store?”
“The one that sells vases? Zipangu? Yes, he does. Well, Richard hates her.”
“Why so?”
“She was the one who inherited all the money. She was an heiress to a large fortune, did you know?”
Devon shakes his head. But he has already come to terms with the fact that he doesn’t know Rachel Krieg at all.
And come to think of it, he doesn’t really know Claire either. Or Abby, for the matter. He just knows their bodies intimately. Their minds are a mystery to him that they chose not to reveal, as if he is a child who must be protected.
Claire continues, “Rachel’s father left most of the money to her because she was the smart, successful one, and not to Richard.
Her father knew she would invest the money and make it grow, because it was in her genes, and not Richard’s for some strange quirk of fate. Richard was the wastrel. The never-do-well younger child of the family. Richard could never keep a job, and so it was up to Rachel to look after him.”
Devon takes all this in.
He says, “Does Rachel have a life insurance policy?”
“I think so.”
“Who is the beneficiary, do you know?”
“I don’t know. We are not that close as to go into life insurance beneficiaries.”
Point taken.
“Who else?” Devon says.
“She had a boyfriend for a while. Someone who was extremely obsessed with her. She is a beautiful woman after all, and he wanted to marry her, but she refused.”
“Why?”
“All she told me was that he wasn’t right for her. His obsession was a red flag that all wasn’t right in his mind.”
“How deep did this obsession go?”
“Deep enough for her to move away from Pittsburg, where she hails, to make a career and life in New York.”
“Did he follow her?”
“Not that I know of, but like I said, she doesn’t tell me everything. Rachel is an extremely closeted woman. She isn’t much into trifling chit-chat, as she calls it.”
Devon can attest to that.
“Do you remember her friend, the gentleman we had the four-way with?” he says.
Claire raises her forehead. “What about him?”
“Do you know his name?”
She wrinkles her nose.
“Come to think of it, he only went by an alias. It is by no means his real name.”
“What was his alias?”
“Mandingo, I think.”
How strange it is to be having this conversation, he thinks. We both had sex with the man, and we don’t know his real name.
“Do you think he could be a possible suspect?” Devon says.
“Everyone is a possible suspect, Devon. You, me, the milkman, everyone.”