Giving the gun to Heather had been a big mistake. For some stupid reason I hadn’t thought she’d actually use it. Maybe because I was so nervous when I handled it. Actually, I’d never even loaded the thing. When I passed it on to her all the bullets were still in their little foam beds. I didn’t think about what she’d actually do with it, I just wanted to help her in any way that I could. If I’d imagined Viktor’s death at all it had been Heather shooting him as he came toward her, the bullets hitting him in the chest, stopping him as he lunged at her. I couldn’t have imagined the reality—his lifeless body in the car, that dark, bloody hole in the back of his skull.
Of course the police traced the gun to the owner. There are serial numbers and George Duncan had bought it legally. I had a brief hope that perhaps he’d died—it had been almost a decade ago and he had been elderly—but they found him in an assisted-living facility in Naples, Florida, and while he was riddled with health problems and confined to a wheelchair, he was still mentally all there.
The day after the news about the gun, the police showed up at my door. At least thanks to Sarah I’d known they would be coming and had time to prepare. I waited for two peals of the bell before I opened the door, standing there dressed for work, trying to project busy professional. Both of the detectives were on my doorstep this time, the skinny and the fat one, Jack Sprat and his husband. I’ve never been much of an actor, but I tried to look surprised.
Detective Kasper said, “Julie Phelps? We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Is something wrong? What happened?” I said, faking concern.
“Ma’am, we’d rather not discuss this on your doorstep.”
“Come inside.” I stepped back, but the fat little detective, Lou Tedesco, shook his head.
“We’d like you to come down to the station to talk,” he said.
That I hadn’t been expecting. It wasn’t even eleven in the morning, so the kids were at school, but I tried that excuse anyway. “I need to be home for my children.”
“It shouldn’t take that long.” Tedesco had an odd smile and the taller, skinnier one tried to mimic it—all teeth, no eye crinkling, a phony friendliness. “You should be back well before school lets out.”
What choice did I have? I tried to hide the panic I was feeling, my hands shaking as I grabbed a coat and my purse and followed them out the door. What if Brian called, looking for me? Worse, what if they arrested me? I experienced a horrible déjà vu feeling as I got in the back of their car, although at least it wasn’t a squad car and I wasn’t under arrest.
The skinny detective drove toward the center of town, while the fat detective fiddled with the radio station. I tried to slink down in the backseat so no one would see me. We passed the Sewickley Spa and I saw the mother of one of Owen’s close friends turning in the door. Another woman I knew was just coming out of the Penguin Bookshop as we drove by. There were more familiar faces along the street. We parked at the old brick Sewickley Municipal Building on Thorn Street, and as I walked between the two detectives up the path and into the building I saw a client of mine heading into the library. She stopped, shading her eyes, clearly trying to see if it was really me. I looked away.
The conversation, this is what they called it, took place in an innocuous-looking room that might have been any meeting room for a small business. I sat at one side of an oval table with the two detectives across from me, although Kasper kept getting up, first to fetch coffee, then to lower the window shades because sunlight was in his eyes, and then to adjust his chair. He seemed unable to sit still; perhaps that’s why he was so thin.
“So I’m sure you heard on the news that we found the gun used in the killing of Dr. Lysenko,” Tedesco began, his voice friendly, like a neighbor exchanging gossip. He sat back in his chair, resting his small hands on his round stomach as if he’d just finished a large and delicious meal.
“No, I hadn’t heard. That’s great.” I tried to match my expression and tone to his, staring him straight in the eye and smiling.
“We traced the owner of the gun, Mrs. Phelps. It belonged to a George Duncan. Do you know who that is?”
“Duncan?” I said, pretending to think about it. “It sounds familiar, but I don’t think so.”
“That’s interesting, because you were his real estate agent some years back.”
“Really?” I said, faking surprise. “I sell so many homes I just can’t remember everybody. George Duncan?”
Kasper gave a sharp nod, while Tedesco just stared at me.
“Duncan, Duncan … wait, I do remember him! George and Lois Duncan—they moved to Florida.”
Tedesco’s expression didn’t change. “That’s right,” he said affably, although his eyes were watchful. “He certainly remembers you. He told us something very interesting—he said that his gun had been stolen.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said with a slight chuckle. “I was afraid you were going to tell me that George Duncan had shot Viktor Lysenko.”
Tedesco’s face soured and he sat up, the affability dropping away. “The gun disappeared from his home in Sewickley while a Realtor was showing his house.”
I tried to make my stare as blank as possible. Tedesco looked annoyed. “That doesn’t ring any bells? You were the real-estate agent, Mrs. Phelps.”
“It sounds sort of familiar—I think I remember him calling to say something had gone missing and, now that I’m thinking about it, I do remember giving him the list of names of people who’d been through his house.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, but it’s too many years ago—I don’t keep a record of those names if that’s what you’re hoping I can help you with.”
He looked frustrated. “What I want you to help us with, Mrs. Phelps—”
“Please, call me Julie.”
“What I want, Julie, is for you to help us understand your connection to the gun that killed Viktor Lysenko. It’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Not really.” I shrugged. “Sewickley has a small population—I’m sure everybody’s connected in some six-degrees-of-separation way.”
“Not everybody is connected to this crime, Mrs. Phelps.”
“Connected?” I let my eyes widen. “Let me get this straight—I knew Viktor Lysenko and I knew the man who owned the gun that shot him, so I must be the one who shot him?” I made a scoffing noise, but inside I was trembling. I crossed my arms, trying to hide it.
“Did you?” Tedesco asked.
“Of course not,” I said, pretending to be outraged. “Viktor was a friend of mine.”
“Was he more than that?”
That question floored me. I didn’t have to act confused—I truly was. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kasper smirked. “You were having an affair with Dr. Lysenko, right?”
The thought was so ridiculous that I burst out laughing, but neither detective reacted. They were clearly waiting for my reply. “That’s crazy,” I said. “He was my friend’s husband—I wouldn’t do that to her.”
They didn’t look convinced. Detective Kasper sat forward, resting his pointy elbows on the table. “Let’s look at the facts, Julie—we got a stolen gun, we got a guy shot to death, and we got a woman connected to both.” He ticked them off on his bony fingers while Tedesco opened a manila folder that had been sitting on the table when we entered the room.
I’d glanced at it, but had forgotten about it until now, as his stubby fingers struggled to undo the butterfly latch. When he pulled out photos, I froze.
For one horrible moment I thought that this was it—the blackmailer had turned us in and the police had the shots. Tedesco was watching me. I saw him register my shock, and then he turned the photos faceup and spread them out on the table.
They were bright and glossy, not the grainy nighttime shots at all. Photos of me and Brian with Heather and Viktor at one of the fund-raisers for the hospital. There was also a single shot of me and Viktor, his arm loosely around my waist, our glasses raised. We’d been pretty tipsy.
My smile was genuine. “These are from last year’s hospital fund-raiser.”
“You’re clearly good friends with Viktor.”
“We gave a lot of money to that event. My husband was the one who took this photo.”
The look on Tedesco’s face was like someone delivering what they thought was a winning hand only to realize that they’d been outplayed. He scooped the photos up and shoved them back in the manila envelope like a child taking away his game because he lost.