Still mad, but puzzled, Kate stepped into the dark foyer. "Sophia!"
Again, no answer.
She stomped into the first room on the left, the formal living room. Her blood hit max pressure at the sight of Sophia, distinctive as ever in red lounge wear and glittering gold jewelry, stretched languidly along the couch, the missing African death mask covering her face and neck.
"If this is some kind of threat, I—" Her words died in her throat when she took a better look.
More than expensive rings and bracelets accessorized the scarlet outfit. An antique gold dagger stood tall in the middle of Sophia's chest.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Note to self – Don't panic!
*
"So, again, you just happened to be in the same house where the occupant comes up dead." Lieutenant Johnson stared at Kate across Sophia's polished, inlaid gilt and ivory French desk. She wondered whether Valerie had "tweaked" the room but thought not. This office spoke of the same taste and elegance—and money—Sophia's alligator bag implied. Here was a space the late woman had created for herself and quite possibly by herself. Well, at least Kate assumed the desk was for Sophia's use. The exuberant ormolu style didn't appear at all masculine, and anyway, wasn't the elderly Mr. White off in some health facility somewhere, and— "Mrs. McKenzie!"
Kate jumped in the chair, startled. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. This has really been a stressful time for me…but…You want my statement, and I want to help, but I…don't have clue about…murder…" She sank back into the chair, feeling a sudden chill.
Meg had been the one who'd finally dialed 9-1-1. Kate had wanted to make the call herself, but she couldn't. The impact of Sophia lying there stayed burned in her memory, and the lethargy of such a profound shock left her body incapable of movement.
However, after the call had been placed, it seemed mere seconds before lights and sirens filled the air, twirling red strobes playing peek-a-boo in the softly curtained front window. Lieutenant Johnson had burst through the door, and tossed out orders like a trail boss, quickly dividing the women much as a cowboy would cut a herd of cattle, penning each in separate rooms to interview individually. Kate had been sequestered in the kitchen, with Constable Banks standing guard over her as he had in the interrogation room after Amelia's murder. It was more than an hour before Johnson called for her. He had obviously interviewed Meg and Valerie first, making her worry further about whatever spin the interior designer put on the day's events.
She closed her eyes and saw everything again in sharp, Technicolor 3D, the red outfit with a darker red stain around the heart, not noticeable until the image of the knife registered. The knife. Had she touched it? She didn't think so. No, she hadn't moved. Yes, she was sure about that. She remembered dimly hearing footsteps race across the tiled foyer and into the room from behind, but she hadn't thought about moving, didn't think about the possibility of the killer coming back to hurt her, too. Then Valerie had screamed, "What have you done?"
The pressure built again inside, and she fought for control. Somehow, she had to tell the lieutenant something to make him believe she hadn't done this terrible thing, but words stuck in her throat. Sophia was dead! She'd ordered Kate over there, had sent the horribly nasty text message. They'd all seen the words, scrolled through the text to read the entire thing, and Valerie had taken such delight in Kate's immediate anger. She felt heat surge at the thought, countering her chills. She raised a hand to her throbbing temple.
"I understand your anxiety, Ms. McKenzie, but please understand mine." Johnson twisted the golden-brown leather chair around to grab a tissue from the box atop the bulbish-shaped chest even Kate recognized as a being French Rococo. He handed the tissue to her. "Everything you've told me is corroborated by your, for lack of a better term, partners. But we have procedures and—"
A knock interrupted his perfectly honed speech.
"What?" Johnson barked.
"Sir?" A crime scene technician poked his head inside the room, one latex-gloved hand maintaining a stronghold on an evidence bag hanging beside his visible leg. "We're done, sir. Everyone's loading up to leave."
"Got anything, Edwards?" Johnson asked.
The younger CSI guy gave a restless shrug. "Not sure yet, sir. Some fingerprints, but not a lot. Looks like the cleaning people are good at their jobs." As Johnson opened his mouth to speak, Edwards added, "One set around the edges of the mask, but no prints on the knife. We have to hope the mask prints are enough for a match. Knife handle was wiped clean. Definitely wiped clean. There were smears, like it'd all been done in a hurry, and the body was repositioned post-death. Probably not a long time following, but the victim was definitely posed on the couch after the attack that killed her."
"Very good. Let me know as soon as you have any results I can use," Johnson said as Edwards withdrew.
"Why reposition the body?" Kate asked, almost whispering. "And the prints on the mask are likely mine from the other day." Breathing didn't help; her lungs weren't working right anymore. The organs took in air but forgot to send it up to her brain, so she felt light-headed. "Who's playing these horrible, horrible games?"
"Who indeed?" Johnson closed the large leather portfolio he'd been using to take notes and clasped his hands on top. "If you didn't kill her—"
"I didn't." Kate leapt to her feet. "Valerie's phone—the text message said to come here! You know that's what it said. She showed it to you when you arrived. I watched her show you."
He calmly extended a hand, a heavy gold watch lying across the wrist. "Let me have your phone, Mrs. McKenzie."
Perplexed, Kate searched the area around her feet until she saw her purse at one end of the desk. She removed the cell and handed it to the lieutenant.
After only a moment's observation he handed back the phone. "Okay."
"What?" Suddenly his purpose dawned on her. "You wanted to see if I sent the message. Didn't you?"
"That is a part of my investigation," Johnson replied.
"I didn't do this. Any of it. But someone is determined to make you think I have." Kate cried into the tissue. A few seconds later she felt several more pressed into her hands.
Johnson said, "I'm going to have to ask you to stop working at the Nethercutt mansion. I'm resealing the estate as a crime scene. I will do the same with this house. That's standard procedure to allow the technicians to go back over any new evidence discovered. I'm sorry, but—"
"Don't. I understand." Kate waved her right hand, while she used her left to pinch her nose with the tissues. She felt sorry for him. He was grasping at straws like everyone else, hoping something had been overlooked in previous searches. "There's no way I want to go back to the Nethercutt mansion."
Johnson nodded. "It looks like everything is in order as far as this part of the investigation goes, but as before, Ms. McKenzie, please do not leave this jurisdiction."
"I have no plans for travel," Kate said, forcing a smile as she suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. "Can I go?"
"Yes. I'll have someone drive you if you want."
She shook her head. "I brought Meg and Valerie. We need to take Valerie back to get her car before Meg and I can go on home. I'll let Meg drive. We'll be fine."
"Let me have one of the uniforms take Ms. James back for you," Johnson offered.
Kate felt the anger rise again in her face. "I meant what I said, Lieutenant." She shoved her purse under an arm. "I don't intend to go inside the Nethercutt house ever again."
"I don't doubt you, Mrs. McKenzie." Johnson spoke gently as he rose and circled the desk. "But I am concerned about you. I want you to go straight home to your family. Let someone else take Ms. James to her car."
She tried to swallow the huge lump in her throat. This man who'd seemed overtly threatening had become kindness personified. She wanted to trust him, believe he believed her, feel reassured this solicitous act was strictly from compassion over her welfare. But she couldn't. Her trust was gone, destroyed with the belief she would never feel safe. "That text message. Those horrible words…"
"Yes?" he prompted when she didn't say anything else.
She hung her purse on her shoulder and gave her nose one last vicious swipe. "Sophia didn't send that message, did she? Her killer did. Right?"
Johnson shrugged. "I won't know until the body is autopsied for time of death and we can obtain her cellular information. Even then the time frames may be too close to be sure."
This was all too much. He didn't have to tell her—Kate knew. And she worried the information offered only a double-edged sword at best. He was either trying to reassure and still keep her on her guard by revealing what he legally could tell, or working a sting to make her let down her guard. Regardless, she knew her unseen nemesis was at it once more and determined to get her imprisoned for something she hadn't done. If this villain couldn't get her accused of Amelia's murder, the next try was for theft. If not for theft, why not pull out all the stops and commit a second murder? Her anger renewed, she slammed the tissue into the gold-toned wastebasket beside the bookcase. "Never mind. I know. And if you didn't feel you have to be super-officious you'd admit it, too."
She didn't give him a chance to respond, but as she grabbed the doorknob he called, "Please be very careful, Ms. McKenzie."
*
Escape. Again. Kate let the grateful joy course through her at surviving and leaving another murder site. Guilt colored everything, of course, especially since she'd never liked Sophia. But after the day's rerun of interrogation hours and fearing she would be locked up for a crime she hadn't committed, it was difficult to tamp down the happiness. Especially when she and Meg noticed Valerie climbing into a patrol car for the trip back for her Miata.
Life was joyous, that is, until Meg walked around the van and noticed black paint and a huge dent decorating the right rear fender.
"What more can happen to you?" Meg voiced Kate's thoughts, as they stared at the damage. "You not only have to play another round of verbal dodge ball with the cops, but your van gets bullied, too. You don't think this black paint is from one of the squad cars do you? Come on, let's go report this to one of the officers."
Kate shook her head. "Why bother? It's obviously a hit and run." She scanned the surrounding police cruisers. "None of these cars did it, and if one of the officers had seen it happen he would have pursued the runaway driver or at least taken the license number and told me. The back of the van seems secure." She gave the back door handle a sharp tug and the lock held. "Mainly cosmetic damage."
A glance through the rear window showed that the impact had tipped over the box of items from Amelia's desk. As tired as she was, she wanted to get the desk's paperwork to the lawyer's office to minimize her responsibility. Who knew what else might happen if she hung onto those papers? Not to mention the number the box played on her curiosity. It had taken tremendous restraint to keep from checking things out as she packed. Kate had no idea what kind of importance any of the paperwork held, but as a professional she had no right to peek.
She checked her watch. Quarter past five. "It's late, but if you don't mind I'd like to go ahead and stop off at the attorney's tonight, to pass along this personal paperwork of Amelia's. I just hope someone is still in the office."
"You're talking lawyers. Someone is always working late. But haven't you had enough fun for the day?" Meg's smile was weak, but her eyes still shone. "It's no problem for me, but your hubby might be wondering where we are and why he's the one keeping our kids occupied."
Kate shook her head. "I called him while I was waiting to be interrogated. After I calmed him down and made him promise not to run down here, I persuaded him to call Jane to help with dinner and the kids. He's probably getting ready to head to the radio station."
"What did he say about Sophia's murder?" Meg asked.
That was the funny thing.
Kate thought about her husband's reaction when she said his employer was murdered, and how she heard no trace of concern in his voice. She came up with a number of theories why, but wasn't sure she liked any of them. Instead, Keith saved all his oral histrionics for the fact she was in trouble again.
That's exactly what he said: You're in trouble again
. She mulled this over to herself, but aloud simply said, "He took it well. I guess his contract doesn't allow for murder to make an impact on his job."
*
By the time they'd arrived at Charles Webster Walker's office, he and his two partners had left for the day. Yet, the place remained a hive of activity, with several paralegals, a secretary, and two associates. The associates, a dark-haired young man and an older woman who already had gray hair tracing through her short cut, took charge as Kate approached and explained their purpose in coming.
"Omigod!" said the young, female paralegal at the news of Sophia's murder.
"You found her?" The secretary clutched her throat.
"How did she die?" asked the male associate, his eyes gleaming as he added, "Was her death grisly?"
Kate shivered. "I'm not sure what the police want me to reveal, but the newspaper will likely cover the investigation in the morning edition."
The associate scoffed, "That rag never gets anything right. Sure you can't tell us more?"
"I'm sorry. I came to bring a box of papers—"
"From Sophia?" the man asked. His female counterpart turned and walked out of the room.
"No, Amelia Nethercutt's," Kate explained. "I've been inventorying her house for the will—"
"Oh, gosh," cried the secretary. "The reading of that will is set for tomorrow morning. We'll have to call things off under the circumstances."
"Why don't you get started making phone calls," the man said. Turning to Kate, he asked, "Do you need help carrying the box?"