Dr. Meyers nodded. “They were going to meet in Raleigh and elope. So, you see, I had no choice. Certainly as a mother, you can understand.” Her voice was level, her expression calm again as if the logic of it excused her actions.
There was no way I could stand by and let someone hurt Trey, so I could almost understand Dr. Meyers’s being pushed to murder, except for one thing. “But you didn’t just kill Chuck; you set up someone else for your crime.”
“I know. I know. But I’m not going to let Jodi stay in jail. I just need to divert the police long enough until I can leave the country. I plan to go to Indonesia. There’s a clinic down there offering me a position on staff. After I’m settled and sure I can’t be extradited, I’m going to call and confess. Make sure Jodi is freed from prison. Once Amanda gets over Chuck, she’ll join me. We can both start over together.”
Her use of present tense gave me shivers—how could she still think she could get away with this? Did she really think that since we were both mothers, I’d simply understand and excuse her actions? I had to keep her talking. Maybe convince her to turn herself in to the authorities. “What about the nail gun? How did you—”
“That was the easy part,” she said, interrupting me, her mood lighter, as if pleased with the plan she’d laid and sure that I was going to stand by and go along with it. “Smuggling it in was easy. I just carried it in my bag.”
“Does Amanda know you killed her fiancé?”
“No. Of course not.” Now she wiped a bead of sweat from her top lip, her mood vacillating yet again. “Maybe she suspects it. I don’t know. I haven’t been able to reach her since Tuesday.”
“She was here this week. I met her at the funeral.”
“Here? In Dunston?” Her face paled.
“Yes. She was staying at Bertram’s. I saw her again this morning, right before she left town.”
Dr. Meyers gripped the side of the desk to steady herself. “I didn’t know. She . . . must not want to see me.”
I noticed her fortitude wavering, her eyes growing wide with . . . ? What? Regret? I stepped a little closer, reaching toward her. “Why don’t we go together to the police station? You could explain—”
The sound of merry whistling drew both of our gazes toward the office door. Suddenly, Rufus appeared, his arms laden with a couple of brown bags stuffed full of office supplies. “Dr. Meyers? Lila? What are you two doing here?”
“Your door was open and—” I automatically started to explain, then stopped abruptly as the reality of the situation hit me: I came in to question him about a photo to help solve a murder case and found Dr. Meyers stealing one of his files. And confessing to that murder.
“That’s fine. Glad you caught me. I just ran across the street to pick up a few . . .” His voice trailed off as his eyes focused on the torn file in Dr. Meyers’s arms. He stepped forward, until he was just inches away from us, his ruddy complexion growing redder by the second. “Hey. What’s going on here?”
Dr. Meyers suddenly shoved me in the back, the force of the impact sending me sprawling against Rufus. We both landed against the far wall with a thud, office supplies flying everywhere. I looked up but Dr. Meyers was nowhere to be seen. I recovered and started after her, flying down the steps and racing to the front door. Outside, I stopped and scanned the lot, but she wasn’t anywhere. How’d she get away so . . . The back door! I turned, ran back through the office building, and burst through the back door just in time to see Dr. Meyers’s sedan peeling out of the lot.
I pulled out my cell. I knew Sean said he was heading out on a case, so I wouldn’t be able to reach him in person. Instead, I dialed 911. “This is Lila Wilkins,” I told the operator. “I have important information about a murder the police are investigating.”
Chapter 20
After spending almost an hour fielding police questions, and then answering even more questions from Sean after he arrived on the scene, I drove straight to Machiavelli’s to give Trey back his car. I was in a hurry and no one was available to give me a lift, so I ended up walking back to the agency to pick up my Vespa in order to get to the expo. In the meantime, it had started snowing again, so I was wet and cold and just a wee bit cranky when I swung open the door to the Arts Center.
“You’re over an hour late,” Bentley said, catching me as soon as I entered the building.
I started to tell Bentley about Dr. Meyers and why I was late, but she cut me off, pointing to a pale pink dress draped over her arm. “We’ve got a problem,” she said. “Ms. Lambert is out with some sort of stomach virus. Half her crew has it, too.”
Dread crept over me as I eyed the dress. If Bentley had a problem, I was going to have a problem. She was a master of problem delegation. “What type of a problem?”