Taking the Fall (14 page)

“You’ll never guess what was found inside it.” He jerked the zipper open, hard, with one hand, then pulled out a notepad I’d never seen before. But wait—I
had
seen that kind of paper. It was the same purple-lined paper that threatening note had been written on. He tossed it onto the foot of the bed. Then he pulled out a spray can streaked with dried-on green drips. It matched the paint that had appeared on our studio windows. The paint that had led me to Stacey Goode’s house, to following her to Doyle’s—to lying here in this stupid hospital bed.

21

“You can expect Filing a False Police Report for that so-called ‘threat’ to be added to the Breaking and Entering charges,” Doyle said.

My whole body knotted in tension. It couldn’t seem to decide between jumping up and adding Assaulting a Police Officer to my growing rap sheet, or collapsing from the Twilight Zone-esque discombobulation my life had turned into.

Blythe picked that moment to return from the restroom. “I got you a Co—” she stopped short with a cold bottle of Coke in her hand. “What are you doing, questioning her in this condition? The doctor hasn’t cleared it.” Blythe boldly brushed past Doyle and pressed the call button with a vengeance.

Doyle roared back. “I think it’s about time your sister took a little trip down to the station.”

“Officer Riggins released her to the custody of the hospital. She’ll be coming by the station when the doctor determines she’s ready,” Blythe said firmly.

That was my sister, stating the horrible in the best way possible for me. We both knew I wasn’t just going to be dropping by the station for a visit, or even questioning. I was going to be booked. Why hadn’t I shown Riggins those pictures earlier? Maybe they would’ve pursued the lead into Stacey’s house and found the paint can and the paper there before she could pin it on me. Before she whacked me in the head and took my phone!

The nurse who’d been keeping an eye on me responded to the blaring call button. She hesitated in the doorway, taking in the tense scene.

“Nurse,” Blythe said, “please remind this officer that he can’t question this patient right now.”

The nurse smiled nervously. “Sorry, Officer. Doctor’s orders.”

Doyle gave the poor nurse a look that made her whither. But then he left—with my bag.

I couldn’t help it. A tear slipped down my cheek. It hurt just to think, and I could not figure out what was going on. Not to mention, I wasn’t so sure either me or my sister was even physically safe with Doyle around. Doyle could be the murderer, for all I knew.

Blythe sank down onto the bed beside me. She pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped my tears. “Bren. Oh, Bren, what happened? What did he say?”

“He has my bag. How does he have my bag? How did that stuff get in it?”

“What stuff?”

I relayed the awful, crazy story to my sister. Then I dissolved into tears. Blythe shushed me, popped the can of Coke open, and helped me sit up to sip it. Soon the doctor came in, gave us an envelope full of very expensive pictures of my brain, and delivered the happy news that I indeed had a concussion, and should be closely watched for the next forty-eight hours.

As soon as the doctor left, Riggins appeared in the doorway, wearing a cautious smile. The dimples made a subtle appearance. Oh, how I regretted indulging in those tears. My whole face felt puffy. I’m sure I looked like an absolute mess.

“It looks like you’ve been discharged,” he said. I thought you’d like to know that Officer Doyle has recused himself from the case, since a break-in in his house is involved.”

Blythe said, “Wow, I can’t believe he did that.”

“Well, after the Chief was briefed on the latest … developments, he was
strongly advised
to do so.” Riggins emphasized the words
strongly advised
such that I got the impression Doyle had no choice about the matter.

“So I guess you’re here to take me in,” I said.

Riggins took a few steps into the room. But instead of cuffing me, he said, “No, not today. For now, you’re free to go.”

“What?” I said.

“You’re released to your sister’s custody until tomorrow. We can process you then.”

“Really?” Blythe was so happy, she actually bounced a little.

He shrugged. “Even though Brenna is being released from the hospital, she needs to be closely watched. We aren’t equipped to care for her like that at the station, and she’s not a big flight risk. There are a few advantages to being a small town cop. We have some flexibility here and there. I already got the Chief’s approval. We’ll be keeping an eye on both of you, of course.”

“Of course!” Blythe said. She jumped up to shake his hand. “Thank you, Officer.”

He shook her hand, told me to take care, and turned to leave.

“Will!” I said.

“Yes?”

“Thanks
 
…
 
and … my phone. If it’s not on the ground near Doyle’s house, or where they found me, then I think Stacey Goode has it. I think she’s the one who hit me.”

Blythe nodded. “And her fingerprints! They’ll be all over Doyle’s office. You’ll see. Please, make sure you check that place for her prints.”

Riggins’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure we
will
find her prints there.”

I was about to smile, but something in the look on Riggins’s face stopped me.

“She’s Doyle’s girlfriend,” he explained. “Her prints would be all over his house.”

22

“I can’t believe it!” I said as soon as Riggins was gone. “Stacey Goode set me up, and she’s Doyle’s girlfriend!”

Blythe gently pushed me back against the pillow. “But how did she do it? I didn’t see her carrying a bag when she broke into Officer Doyle’s house.”

“I didn’t either. And why would she even break in to plant the bag at Doyle’s house, if she was his girlfriend?”

“Maybe he hadn’t given her a key,” Blythe mused.

“Or maybe she just wanted to make it look like a break-in.”

“But how would she have gotten into our apartment to get my bag, and when? Maybe that’s what she was doing this morning, after she took her son to daycare or the sitter or whatever.” I answered my second question myself. “Maybe we could ask Riggins to send someone over to our place to check for signs of a break-in!”

“Maybe …” Blythe said in a strangely vague tone. “Come on, Brenna. Let’s go home. You need to rest. Try to think about something else for a while.”

Riggins was standing outside the back door of the studio when we arrived. Another officer—and the Chief—were getting into a police car. Riggins held out a key and said to Blythe, “Here you go. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“What cooperation?” I said. Then it hit me. “You went through our stuff?” Was that what he was doing while I was at the hospital?

“We had a warrant this time, Brenna. We left everything as close as we could to the way we found it. Assuming we don’t find anything incriminating, we should have your laptop back to you in a few weeks.”

“Weeks!” We didn’t have cable TV set up yet, and frankly, I didn’t know when we would be able to. The rates out here were outrageous. Now we weren’t going to be able to do any internet streaming either. And I had no phone! No communication with the outside world, except for Blythe’s phone. I felt so trapped. And Riggins was going to look through all my files? Or would they have some techie guy do that?

A grimace flickered over Riggins’s face. He hadn’t had a hard time making eye contact with me when he was kneeling in my vomit, but now he seemed to be trying to pretend I didn’t exist. What on earth had he found?

“He’s just embarrassed that he had to go through your things. Because he likes you.”

Blythe dabbed around my fingernails with a soaked Q-tip, “fixing” mistakes that were utterly invisible to me. The smell of nail polish remover was starting to go to my head. Maybe that was part of my sister’s devious plan to keep me malleable. She was was painting all my finger and toenails, “to help you relax and get your mind off things,” which forced me to sit still for longer than I had in years, not counting the times I was belted into a plane, train, or automobile seat. My fingernails and toenails were now a bright baby blue. Blythe had rummaged through her boxes—yes, boxes, plural—of nail polish for what seemed like hours in order to find something that wasn’t pink, coral, fuchsia, or berry.
 

The doorbell rang, and I jerked my hand out of Blythe’s grip and jumped up and hobbled a few steps, walking on my heels. Foam mani and pedicure separator thingies held all of my digits apart.

“They’re here!” I cried. “They’ve come for me, and I’m covered with wet nail polish! Tell them I need to dry!” Those had to be the wimpiest, girliest words that had ever come out of my mouth. I guess I didn’t realize until then just how desperate I was not to go to jail.

Blythe steadied the rocking coffee table I’d upset, stuck the nail polish brush back in the bottle, and patted my shoulder. “Relax, Bren. Riggins said you had until tomorrow.”

“Maybe they found other ‘evidence’ Stacey planted. Maybe he got overruled. Maybe—”

Blythe pushed me firmly. “Sit down! You just sit down, and I will get the door.”

I sat. Blythe took a deep breath and strode over to the door. “Who is it?” she asked politely.

“Hi,” a gravelly but feminine voice said. “It’s me, Lourdes.”

I just about melted into the couch with relief.

Blythe opened the door and Lourdes said, “I brought blueberry muffins. With crumb topping.”

I don’t think I’ve ever said no to crumb topping. I plucked the foam finger separator thingies out and tossed them onto the coffee table. “Come in!” I called. “Just set those down over here.” The muffins were nestled in a cute little basket lined with blue checkered paper napkins. They were still warm. “Homemade!” I declared. “Thank you so much!”

Lourdes smiled shyly. “You’re so welcome. I also thought I should give this to you.” Lourdes held out a key with a bright pink plastic cover on the round part.

“What’s this?” Blythe said, taking it.

“A key to the studio—and your apartment. Miss Ruth must’ve forgotten to ask for it back before she left. I’m not sure if you changed the locks when you moved in, but anyway, here you go.”

The locks! No, we hadn’t changed the locks. Why hadn’t we thought of that? “Um, do you know if anyone else has a key?”

“Not that I know of. Miss Ruth had me water her plants and look after her cat whenever she went out of town. She might have given someone else a backup, but if she did, she never told me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.” My wheels were turning too fast for me to come up with any more coherent or polite response.

Someone had entered our apartment and taken my judo bag without leaving any signs of forced entry. The only logical explanation, other than the farfetched one I’d come up with earlier—an expert lock-picker à la Houdini—was that the intruder had a key. What if Stacey hadn’t planted my bag after all? What if she’d been up to something else, and Lourdes was the real culprit? She certainly had a motive to kill Ellison. Maybe he’d recently rekindled their relationship, and she’d killed him in a fit of violent jealousy over his interest in Blythe. Could the sweet-natured Lourdes really so cold-heartedly cause someone else to go down for a murder she’d committed? It hit me in the gut—how did I know Lourdes was a sweet lady at all? Maybe she was earning our favor for a reason. Maybe she was back because she found out somehow we’d been snooping and she didn’t want us to get too close to the truth. Maybe—

“Well!” I snatched the basket of muffins out of Blythe’s reach just as she was about to take one. “This will make a wonderful treat after our dinner tonight. You know, Blythe, we really don’t want to spoil our dinner. Thanks for bringing these over—and the key, Lourdes. We’ll have to see you later. I’m really not feeling well right now.”

“Oh, okay. See you two later, then.”

“I’m sorry, Lourdes,” I heard Blythe whisper. “She hit her head, and she has a concussion. She’s not herself.”

“Oh, no! What happened?”

“I’ll explain later. It might get her upset. It’s one of the symptoms of concussion, you know?”

“I understand. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Blythe shut the door and slid the bolt into place. Then she turned on me with her
What the heck, Brenna?
Look.

“The muffins!” I cried. “What if they’re poison? She had a key, Blythe! She could’ve come in here and—”

“Why did she return the key? Why did she tell us she’d ever had one?”

Hmm. Good question. “It doesn’t matter if we know, once we’re dead from her poisoned muffins,” I shot back.

“She’d have no guarantee we’d eat them. Why would she take that risk?”

Good point. But it didn’t make me feel any better. Sometimes criminals made stupid mistakes. That’s how most of them got caught, right? “We should’ve made her eat one. That’s what we should’ve done.”

“Too bad you didn’t think of that before you chased her out.”

“I know why she returned the key! People probably knew she took care of the place for Miss Ruth sometimes. Eventually, someone would’ve remembered. This way, the key would be sitting right here in the apartment. The police would have no way of knowing she hadn’t given it back when we first arrived, because we’d be dead and—” Blythe wasn’t listening. She was reaching for a muffin. “Do
not
eat that muffin!”

Blythe glared at me. Then she ripped the pretty paper off the muffin and stuffed as much as she could fit into her mouth. She was aiming for the whole thing, but only managed about half. They were big muffins and Blythe has a dainty little mouth. It was a shocking sight, let me tell you. I gasped as she tried to speak around a mouth still full of muffin.
 

“
There. Is. No. Poison. In. These. Muffins!
” Chunks of potentially poisonous crumb topping flew at me as she spoke. “Get a grip, Brenna.”

I held my hand up to protect myself from any further muffin fire. “Okay, I have a grip. I promise. You proved your point. Just spit out the muffin.”

Save yourself while you still have a chance!
I wanted to scream.