Dead Ringer (16 page)

“You were going to say that this wasn't my fault, but then you had second thoughts, right?” Somehow I kept the annoyance out of my voice.

“It wasn't your fault that somebody broke into your apartment, but it's possible your actions triggered this.” He gestured at the sloppy red letters on the wall.

“What actions?” This time I couldn't suppress my annoyance. “I haven't done anything!”

“You've talked to ­people, asked questions.”

“I didn't realize that was a crime. And besides, I hardly asked any questions at all.”

“I didn't say it was a crime, but it might only take one question to scare someone into thinking that you know too much, or that you're at least trying to find out more than they'd like.”

I let out a growl of frustration, but I knew JT was right. Obviously I had someone worried. I took in a calming breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. So what have I done recently that could have scared Jeremy's murderer? Because I'm sure that's what this is all about.”

“Who have you talked to about Jeremy since the murder?”

I thought back over the past week. “Hans and I talked about it briefly over dinner.” I cringed at the memory. I'd enjoyed that evening with him so much. Now I felt like a fool for that. I moved on quickly, trying to remember whom else I'd spoken to on the subject. “I asked Mikayla what she knew of Hans's whereabouts in the minutes before I found Jeremy's body. But I know she didn't have anything to do with all of this.”

“How do you know?”

I glared at JT. “She's my friend. I
know
her. She doesn't have any more to do with this than you do.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I'm just trying to cover all our bases here.”

I relaxed and tried to get back on track. “Anyway, asking her about Hans wouldn't have concerned her unless the two of them were in cahoots, which is totally ridiculous.”

“But could Clausen have found out that you asked about him?”

I considered that. “Doubtful. Besides, even though it's possible that Hans was still at the church after the funeral, would he really have tried to burn me to a crisp?”

“If he killed Jeremy, why not you?”

I frowned. That made sense, but I didn't want to admit it.

“You just don't want to believe him capable,” JT said. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“No! Of course not.” I saw the skepticism in JT's eyes and realized that it mirrored my own. I wanted to shake myself. How could I have any residual feelings for Hans? He was a lying, cheating bastard.

But I'd been so into him.

I tipped my head back to stare at the ceiling. “Maybe I'm a bit sad about losing out on what could have been. If he'd been the guy I thought he was. But you're right. If he killed Jeremy, he probably wouldn't have any problem killing me too.”

“Okay, so he's on the list. Who else did you talk to?”

“Ray. Clover. Jeremy's girlfriend, Shelley—­make that his fiancée,” I amended. “His landlady.” I gave my left earlobe a single tug. “And there's still a possibility that Reverend McAllister—­or someone else, for that matter—­overheard me talking with Susannah about McAllister's drunken, inappropriate remarks.”

“All right. So we know McAllister might have had a motive to kill Jeremy if he was blackmailing him about the video.”

“Right,” I said. “And there's something shifty about Ray. Plus, there's a possible connection between him and Jeremy involving drugs.”

“Is there?”

“Oh, right. I haven't told you about that yet.” I explained about what I'd overheard at the police station the day before. “As for Clover, Jeremy hurt her when he put an end to things between them, and she seemed awfully scared when I talked to her.”

“And you mentioned the other day that her boyfriend might have found out about her and Jeremy,” JT reminded me.

“Yes, that's a possibility.” I got to my feet and put my uninjured hand to my hip, glaring at the defaced wall. “This is so frustrating! The killer could be any one of a long list of suspects. The only ­people I talked to about Jeremy who I don't suspect are Mikayla and Mrs. Landolfi.” I closed my eyes for a moment, attempting to quell my growing frustration. When I opened them again, I looked at JT with a sense of helplessness. “How will this ever end if I can't figure out who's responsible?”

“You don't have to figure it out,” JT said firmly. “The police will.”

I wished I could be as confident as he was.

 

Chapter 16

JT
AND
I waited out in the stairwell while the police dusted for fingerprints and searched for other possible clues inside my apartment. I engaged in another spot of eavesdropping when Officer Chong and his partner knocked on my neighbors' doors, but I didn't learn anything of interest. Nobody was home at two of the units on my floor, and those residents who were at home hadn't heard any sort of disturbance over the past twenty hours. Whoever had broken into my apartment had done so quietly, even if the destruction they'd left behind practically screamed of their vehement anger.

Harry stopped by for several minutes, standing in the doorway to my unit to get a glimpse of the destruction within. Without touching anything, he examined the jimmied lock on my door and assured me that he'd have a locksmith sent over that day to fix me up with a new lock.

I thanked him and he went on his way after I'd assured him that his presence was no longer needed. At least he seemed concerned and sympathetic rather than annoyed. Hopefully that meant he didn't blame me for what had occurred.

After Harry left, the waiting continued. I got up and paced back and forth across the top of the stairway until JT got annoyed and ordered me to sit back down. I did so with a heavy sigh. I was restless, jittery. It was as if I'd had too many cups of coffee that morning, even though I'd only had the one latte. My mixed emotions were getting to me, my nerves jangling like triangles played out of sync by a dozen different musicians.

Fortunately, Detective Bachman arrived a short time later. He spoke to the other police officers, but then came over to ask me some questions. At least that provided me with a distraction from the activities in my apartment.

“We meet again, Ms. Bishop,” Bachman said as JT and I stood up to face him.

I frowned at him. “It's not as if I enjoy spending a good chunk of my time with the police, you know.”

JT shot me a look of warning, but I couldn't help it if my words came out sharply. The detective's tone had implied that all this was somehow my fault. To say that rubbed me the wrong way would have been an enormous understatement. Maybe the distraction of his arrival wasn't such a good thing after all.

Bachman cleared his throat. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed with me or taken aback by my response to his greeting. I didn't much care either way.

“Are you any closer to catching Jeremy's killer?” I asked. “Because I'd rather not get stabbed in my sleep while waiting for you guys to figure out whodunit.”

“Midori,” JT said, trying to warn me off again.

Bachman and I both ignored him.

The detective's gray eyes regarded me with a hint of cool condescension. “I assure you that we're conducting a thorough investigation, Ms. Bishop. Perhaps you could assist us by telling me why you think this incident is related to Ralston's murder.”

“Don't you think it's connected? I mean, you're here, aren't you?”

JT rested a hand on my shoulder.

I let out a deep breath, exhaling some of my frustration with it. I rubbed my forehead with my left hand and gathered myself together. Once I had my emotions under control, I related to Detective Bachman everything that JT and I talked about a short while earlier. I told him about everyone I'd spoken to about Jeremy, and all of my suspicions.

After I finished, I felt drained, as if all of my energy had dripped out of me, through all the floors below me, right down to the basement. I was tempted to lean against JT for support but I didn't want Bachman to view me as weak. He probably already had me pegged as overly emotional, and that was bad enough.

“If this incident is indeed connected to the murder, you've clearly got someone feeling threatened,” Bachman said.

“If?”
I echoed, incredulous. “What else would it be connected to? I'm not in the habit of instilling violent impulses in random ­people.”

The skepticism in Bachman's eyes threatened to rile me up again.

“I suggest you take extra caution until we can figure out who's behind this,” the detective went on.

“She can continue to stay at my place,” JT said.

Bachman nodded his approval.

“What about Susannah?” I asked. “She could be in danger too.”

“We'll suggest to her parents that they exercise caution,” Bachman said.

That relieved some of my anxiety, but not by much. “When can I clean up my apartment?”

I wanted to get rid of all signs of violence as soon as possible.

“The officers should be done in a few minutes.” Bachman nodded at JT and me, and proceeded toward the elevator.

“What a mess,” I said as Bachman stepped onto the elevator.

“Your apartment, or the general situation?” JT asked.

“Both.”

Officer Chong stepped out of my unit and raised a hand to get my attention. “Ma'am, we're done here. Feel free to clean up now if you'd like.”

“Thank you.”

JT and I waited as the investigators filed out of my apartment. When the way was clear, I entered my apartment and stood in the middle of the living room, staring around me at all the destruction and disorder. So much had been displaced and damaged. I didn't even know where to start the cleanup.

Perhaps JT sensed that the situation had me overwhelmed, because he took charge, deciding on a plan of action. “All the cushions are toast,” he said, nodding at the shredded couch and armchair. “Why don't we stack them all by the door? Once we get all the big stuff out of the way we can start with sweeping and vacuuming.”

I forced myself into action, gathering up the remains of the cushions and tossing them all in the entranceway. I collected some plastic garbage bags from a cupboard in the kitchen and filled one up with the larger pieces of stuffing scattered across the floor.

While I did that, JT carefully shifted pieces of broken glass from the smashed lamps and picture frames into another garbage bag. Next, I vacuumed up all the smaller debris, and while I did that JT used a damp cloth to wipe away the ketchup and fingerprint dust.

As bad as the mess was, I was relieved that the intruder hadn't continued with his or her destruction in my bedroom. Somehow, that would have made the violation of my privacy and security even worse. It also would have made for an even longer cleanup. As it was, nearly two hours passed before JT and I had everything tidied and free of debris.

During that time, Harry's locksmith made an appearance and took care of my apartment door. I wasn't sure that a new lock would be enough to make me feel safe in my apartment again. After all, the old one hadn't kept the intruder out. But my door needed a new lock in any event, and I was glad to have the installation taken care of.

After the locksmith left, I stashed the vacuum cleaner away in the closet and sank down onto the arm of my cushionless couch. “I guess I'm going to need a new couch and chair.” I surveyed my living space. “And lamps. And picture frames.”

“If you want to keep the couch, you could always get it reupholstered and get new cushions made to match,” JT said.

I shrugged. “It was secondhand anyway. Maybe I can use this as an excuse to splurge on a new one.”

JT's attention shifted to the garbage bags and destroyed cushions piled by the door. “Why don't we take this junk down to the Dumpster?”

“Good idea.” I got up to help him. “Thanks, JT. This would have been way more difficult without you. How about I buy you lunch when we're done?”

He grinned. “I won't say no to that.”

My stomach gave a loud growl. “Then I say let's get moving, because after the morning I've had, I could sure use a good meal.”

JT hefted up the garbage bags and I gathered up the remains of the cushions. After locking up my apartment and pocketing my new key, we set off, leaving my altered living space behind us.

A
FTER WE DISPOSED
of our load of trash in the Dumpster behind my apartment building, JT and I walked the two blocks to our favorite sushi restaurant. We took our time over the meal, and finished it off with some Matcha ice cream. Yet, even with the good food and good company, I couldn't forget the invasion and destruction of my home. I was unsettled, vacillating back and forth between anger and anxiety. I tried my best to hide my mood, not wanting to put a damper on the meal, but I wasn't sure if I was successful.

After eating, JT and I made a quick stop at my apartment to collect some perishable food items, and then we returned to his place. He headed out into the backyard with Finnegan, and I wandered into my studio after stashing the food in the fridge. Whoever was behind all of the recent crimes, I didn't want to let them get to me. I wanted to calm down, to put my mind and my nerves at ease. The best way for me to do that was always to play some music.

I snapped open the clasps on my violin case and picked up my bow in my left hand. I tightened it and then shifted it to my right hand. My burn protested, but not too badly. I lifted my violin out of its case and rested it against my left shoulder. I closed my eyes and played the opening notes of the first movement of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

I only made it a few bars into the piece before I stopped. My burn now protested more fiercely. I could have played through the pain, but I wasn't sure if it was a good idea. Besides, the unpleasant sensation wasn't exactly helping me to relax.

I placed my violin back in its case and loosened my bow before putting it away as well. I drifted out into the hall and into the living room. JT's baby grand piano sat near the bay window, natural light pouring in through the panes of glass, making the room bright and welcoming. I plunked myself down on the piano bench and stared at the keys. Maybe playing the piano wouldn't hurt as much as playing the violin.

I placed my hands over the keyboard and my foot on the pedal. I played the opening bars of the first and best known movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, one of my all-­time favorite pieces. Again my burn put up a fuss, and I broke off soon after starting. I dropped my hands into my lap.

I hadn't done a very good job of improving my mood. In fact, I felt worse than ever. I'd always relied on music to soothe me and cheer me up whenever I felt out of sorts, and having my burn interfere with that left me with a sense of frustration and loss. I knew the injury was minor and temporary, but at the moment it only added to my sense of being off-­kilter.

I didn't know what to do with myself. I could listen to music, but I wanted to
do
something, to
create
the music. I used my left hand to play a few random chords. When the hardwood floors creaked behind me, I stopped and looked over my shoulder.

JT stood in the doorway to the living room, watching me. “You look like you could use some cheering up.”

I glanced down at my right hand. “Stupid burn. It hurts to use it.” I sounded as morose as I felt.

He crossed the room to join me. I scootched over so he could sit next to me on the piano bench.

He nudged me with his shoulder. “I think you need a little ragtime.” He put his hands to the keys and played the introduction to Scott Joplin's “The Entertainer.”

When he reached the end of the introduction, he dropped his left hand off the keys and nudged me with his shoulder again.

A hint of a grin tugged at my mouth. I lifted my left hand and we played together, JT handling the melody and me the bass. It didn't take long for me to get into the lively two-­step. With each note, my spirits rose and my smile grew bigger. All thoughts of murder, arson, and breaking and entering retreated to the back of my mind, and I lived only in the present, in the music.

Until JT's phone rang.

I broke off playing first. Once I stopped, he did too. He fished his phone out of the pocket of his jeans.

I caught sight of the display. “Shauna?”

The name showed on the screen along with a picture of a pretty, smiling brunette. I knew most of JT's friends and a lot of his colleagues. I'd never heard him mention a Shauna.

“I met her a ­couple weeks ago,” JT explained as his phone stopped ringing.

“You could have answered it,” I said. “Call her back, if you want. I don't mind.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course.” I forced a grin and nudged him with my shoulder as he'd done to me. “Thanks for cheering me up.”

I slid off the bench and whistled for Finnegan. He came running from the back of the house.

“Come on, Finn. Let's go upstairs for a bit.”

He raced up the stairs ahead of me, and I followed at a more sedate pace. JT's voice floated up toward me through the stairwell as he greeted the mysterious Shauna over the phone. I could tell from the sound of his voice that he was happy to talk to her. As his best friend, I should have been pleased for him, and in a way I was. His last girlfriend had cheated on him and hurt him badly. I wanted him to move on and leave her well in the past. But my lightened mood had slipped away in a flash, like a slithering snake darting away into a dark hidey-­hole.

It seemed as though everyone's love life was on a better track than mine. Mikayla and Dave Cyders had sparks flying between them, and I sensed that might be the case with JT and Shauna too. My relationship with Hans, on the other hand, had received a liberal dousing of cold, harsh reality.

I didn't know why I couldn't find Mr. Right. It wasn't as if I was in a rush to get married or anything, but I did want to meet the One, and preferably before I hit middle age. But I had to wonder if that would happen.

Was I doing something wrong? Was I looking in the wrong places?

I sank down onto the edge of the bed in the guest room, my shoulders slumped. Finnegan sat at my feet and looked up at me. He whined and thumped his tail against the floor. He probably sensed my melancholy thoughts.

I scratched his ears to reassure him. “I'm okay, boy. I'm feeling a little down, that's all.”