Consigned To Death Part 4

I agreed to the plan, went home, got the Bombay Sapphire out of the freezer, and made myself another martini.

Cathy looked up when we entered promptly at noon the next day, but didn't speak. Chief Alverez was standing at a file cabinet near the back, and when he saw us, he closed the drawer.

"How you doing?" he asked me, after greeting Max.

He led us into the same room we'd been in yesterday, and I selected the same chair.

Alverez turned to Max, and said, "We have some new information."

"What's that?" Max asked.

"Fingerprints."

Max and I waited for Alverez to explain. Still speaking to Max, he added, "As we expected, Josie's fingerprints were everywhere. We learned she's pretty darn thorough. We found her prints under furniture, on the back of picture frames, and inside drawers."

"Makes sense," Max commented. "She's a professional appraiser."

"Yeah," Alverez agreed. "But we also found her prints someplace they shouldn't be."

"Oh, yeah?" Max asked. "Where's that?"

"On the knife that was used to kill Nathaniel Grant."

CHAPTER THREE.

Max gripped my shoulder. "Josie," he said, keeping his eyes on Alverez, "don't say a word."

"But I can explain," I protested.

"Say nothing."

He looked determined and grim, and I shivered. I nodded slightly, signaling that I'd do as he asked.

Max squeezed my shoulder again. I couldn't tell whether he was offering support or thanking me for doing as he instructed. He turned back toward Alverez, picked up his pen, and queried, "Fingerprints on the knife?" His voice was calm, his tone pleasant.

I kept my eyes lowered and sat, silent and still.

"Yeah," Alverez said, nodding. "That's right."

"Where?"

"On the handle."

"Distinct? Complete?"

Alverez glanced at his notes. "According to the tech guys, there wasn't enough ridge detail for an ID from most of the prints. But there was one clear index print from Josie's right hand. A sixteen-point match."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means your print is on the knife. For sure."

Max patted my arm to calm me. "It sounds as if the knife had been wiped, but not thoroughly."

"Apparently," Alverez agreed.

"Okay, then. Would you excuse us for a minute? I want to talk to my client privately."

"Sure," Alverez said. His chair made a loud sc.r.a.ping noise as he pushed back. The door closed behind him with the same disconcerting click I'd heard yesterday. Max cleared his throat and flipped to a fresh page on his yellow-lined pad.

"Okay, Josie," Max said, his pen at the ready. "Explain why your fingerprints are on the knife."

I looked down at my lap, unable to think in sentences. Now that I had permission to speak, all that came to mind were words of outraged protest. I wanted to shout and rail and pound the table.

"Now, Josie. We don't have a lot of time."

His admonition helped me focus. "Do I need to whisper?" I asked, remembering Max's instruction that I was to whisper when I wanted to talk to him privately.

"No," he said. "When we're alone like this, you're free to talk naturally."

"Okay." I paused to think. "It was Thursday of last week," I said, "the second time I was there. We'd settled on our next appointment and I was saying good-bye when Mr. Grant asked me to have some tea." I shrugged and flipped a hand. "So I did. We went into the kitchen. I thought it was very sweet of him. I cut the cake." I shuddered. "That must have been the knife that was used to . . . that must have been the knife."

"How was it that you cut the cake?" Max asked, keeping me focused.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Max asked, tapping his pen on the pad, "did you take the knife from him? Did he hand it to you?"

"I took it from the knife block on the counter."

"Why would you do that? I mean, you don't just walk into someone's kitchen and grab a knife."

"No, no," I exclaimed. "It wasn't like that at all. I didn't grab the knife. When we got to the kitchen, Mr. Grant had everything ready."

"In what way?" Max asked.

"Well, he'd set out cups and saucers, teaspoons, some little plates, and a Bundt cake. He'd brewed real tea and the pot was sitting on the table along with a sugar bowl."

"Okay. Then what happened?"

"He started opening drawers and pawing around, looking, he said, for the cake knife. Finally, he said he couldn't find it. He wasn't upset or anything. I remember we spoke about how odd it is that things disappear on their own. I told him about my father. How when I was growing up and something was misplaced-you know what I mean-when the can opener that lived in the top drawer was found, after an exhaustive search, in the bottom drawer, well, my father used to blame it on Oscar, the poltergeist. Mr. Grant laughed and said that made perfect sense and explained a lot of things."

Max nodded. "Then what?"

"Then I said it didn't matter that he couldn't find the cake knife, that any knife would do. But he wanted to use the right knife. He said his wife was a stickler about things like that, using the right fork for the pickles and the right spoon for the jelly. But finally he gave up. He asked me to take a knife from the block on the counter. I took one randomly. We laughed about it because the knife I selected was huge! It had, I don't know, maybe an eight-inch blade." I looked away for a moment, remembering Mr. Grant's jolly laugh.

"Mr. Grant made a joke," I said softly, "saying that he'd paid full price for the Bundt cake, so it had better not be stale and need a knife that big to cut it."

Max shook his head sympathetically. "And after you had tea?"

"After we were done," I said, taking a deep breath, "I helped him put the dishes in the dishwasher and I took a sponge and wiped down the table. Then I washed the knife by hand." I thought back, remembering standing at the oversized sink and enjoying the ocean view. "I watched the waves awhile as I dried the knife, not well, apparently, and put it back in the slot in the block."

I began to tear up again. Using my middle fingers, I pushed the skin under my eyes until the tears stopped. I sniffed and wiped them away with the backs of my wrists. Max patted my shoulder while he made some notes.

"Okay," he said. "I don't want to mislead you, Josie. Chief Alverez obviously considers you a viable suspect."

"But, I swear-"

Max raised a hand to stop me. "Look at it from his point of view. You were there. The knife was there. And your fingerprints are on it. As near as I can tell, his focus now will be to figure out a motive. He's wondering why you might have killed Mr. Grant. You know, how it might benefit you to have him dead. Until he can answer that question, probably he won't charge you with murder."

I felt light-headed. Sitting in a police station listening to a matter-of-fact description of my vulnerability felt surrealistic. Someone was thinking of charging me with murder. I shook my head in disbelief.

"But if he can answer the motive question in a way that satisfies him," Max continued, "well, we need to be prepared in case he does charge you."

"It's inconceivable," I said.

"Expect the best, Josie, but prepare for the worst."

My father used to say that, and hearing Max speak those words momentarily rea.s.sured me, but that comfortable delusion disintegrated into bone-deep sadness immediately followed by waves of overwhelming dread. Panic suddenly threatened to overtake reason. I gripped the table and blinked away tears of frustration and anger. I couldn't risk thinking of my dad. Not in my current situation. Forcing myself to breathe calmly, I pushed thoughts of him aside, and swallowed. When I could speak again, I asked, "So, now what?"

"Now we try to be smarter than Alverez and get the answer first. You tell me. How do you benefit with Mr. Grant dead?"

I shook my head. "I don't. Think about it-with Mr. Grant dead, I've lost a huge deal. A career-making deal."

"Unless the deal was already lost. Unless when you went there yesterday morning, Mr. Grant let you in and told you he'd changed his mind for some reason. And you lost your temper."

I stared, speechless. I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came. What he said made sense, and it terrified me into silence.

"Well?" Max prodded.

"I don't know what to say," I answered, my voice cracking. "It's logical, but it didn't happen."

"Can you prove it?"

"Of course not. How can I prove something didn't happen? We were due to sign the letter of agreement yesterday. I told you what happened when I got there."

"I understand. But it's going to be a problem." He tapped his pen a few times on the table, staring into the middle distance, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Probably Alverez is looking into it right now. If he can find evidence that you lost the account, he's got a motive."

"What should I do?" I asked quietly.

"Tell the truth. Just like you've been doing. Keep repeating that you didn't do it. Alverez is a good man, Josie. He's not looking to railroad you."

I nodded.

"Any questions?"

"No," I answered.

"Let's call Alverez in," Max said. "Remember ... tell the truth. And the shorter your answers, the better. Explain the whole thing, including how you came to take the knife."

I felt dazed and only half listened as Alverez asked if it would be all right to tape my explanation about the knife for the record, and Max agreed. I watched as Alverez plugged in the tape recorder and wiggled the cord, tugging gently, making certain it was secure. It was as if I were watching a movie. It seemed to have nothing to do with me. Alverez pointed to the machine.

"Are you ready?" he asked me.

I looked at Max and he gestured that I could begin. Alverez spoke the date and time, gave our names, and told me to begin. As I spoke, I kept my eyes on Alverez, alert for clues to his thinking. He nodded encouragingly, and smiled a little when I spoke about Oscar, the poltergeist. I felt relieved, convinced that he believed me, and that therefore I was well on my way to clearing my name.

"So let me be sure I understand," Alverez said when I'd finished. "You had a cup of tea and, directed by Mr. Grant, you put the cups, saucers, and plates in the dishwasher. Is that right?"

"Yes," I answered. "That's right."

"Why didn't you put the knife in the dishwasher, too?"

His handsome face gave away nothing. He either flat-out thought I was lying or he was trying to trap me. Fear morphed into anger. "You don't put good knives in the dishwasher," I answered sharply. "You wash them by hand."

"Did Mr. Grant tell you that?" Alverez asked, unmoved by my tone.

"No," I countered. "He didn't need to. Everyone knows that."

Alverez paused to think. I heard the soft whirr of the tape recorder and a heavy thud from outside as a truck lumbered by.

Finally, Max asked, "Is there anything else? Can we go now?" Alverez stopped the recorder. "How about if we plan on meeting again in the morning?" he asked Max.

I touched Max's elbow before he could respond, and whispered, "No. I have to get ready for my regular Sat.u.r.day tag sale and the Wilson auction preview starts tomorrow."

"What hours will you be working?"

"I'll start setting up the tag sale around seven. The auction preview starts at ten and runs until nine in the evening. Both the auction and the tag sale are on Sat.u.r.day."

"That makes for a couple of long days, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I agreed. Calling them long days was an understatement. I'd be running full tilt from dawn until late evening both days.

"Keep your cell phone on and with you at all times. Even when you sleep. Agreed?" he asked, his urgency palpable even in a whisper.

"Okay," I said.

"No excuses? I'm about to promise our availability. Don't make a liar out of me. Okay?"

"I promise. My cell phone will be with me always." I gripped the edge of the table, sort of angry, but mostly intent and ready to respond.

"Tomorrow won't work for us," Max said to Alverez, and explained my situation. "I'll keep my cell phone on, and Josie and I have arranged it so I can reach her on an as-needed basis. I think you have my number, but just in case, here." He reached into his jacket pocket for a business card and slid it across the table.

Alverez picked up the card, but looked at me. I met his eyes, trying to look nonthreatening. I couldn't read him at all. I realized that he might be weighing whether he should arrest me on the spot or let me go, thinking that maybe if he gave me enough rope I'd hang myself. Nonetheless, I was relieved when he turned to Max, and said, "Okay." To me, he asked, "You won't be leaving the area, right?"