Detective Moore’s face flinched a little, his jaw tightening when Luis poked a hole in his outlandish theory. “He didn’t have a Senior Alert necklace in his room at the inn. And that doesn’t mean Miss Cartwright here didn’t have her eye on the store before she got all that cash. Maybe she knew she was gonna get it?”
Luis cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him on the cold table. “Gentleman? You do realize you’re just stalling for time? Miss Cartwright isn’t a viable suspect. I think we all know as much. She has no motive. Her record is clean as a whistle. She’s only just returned to town a month ago, and has never been seen in or around Tina Martoni’s place of business until two days ago—the day of the murder.”
Had it only been two days? It felt like two million years.
As Luis continued, he set a package of papers in his briefcase and snapped it shut. “I don’t know what you think you can charge her with at this point, but whatever it is, I’m sure I can crush the charge in a matter of moments. Now, I have a dinner date with my mother for, of all things, cabbage rolls and some riveting Game Show Network television. Miss Cartwright has to go home and hire a cleaning crew to dig herself out of your department’s careless disregard for her personal belongings. I believe we’re done.”
He rose, smoothing his silk blue tie over his firm stomach before buttoning his suit jacket and looking at both detectives with that unblinking stare. “Good day to you both. Please feel free to contact my client via me when you have evidence worthy of my seven-hundred-dollar-an-hour fee. I’ll show up again for nothing less than proof bigger than an anonymous phone call and a necklace so blatantly planted at my client’s house.”
Holding out his hand, Luis pulled me up from my chair and held the door to the interview room open for me.
As childish as this sounds, I wanted to turn around and stick my tongue out at them, or at the very least give them a more NC-17-rated middle finger, but I was exhausted.
Really what I wanted to do was just go home, curl up in the amazing bed Win had given me and close my eyes, forgetting today ever happened.
Out in the reception area of the station, I saw Sandwich, hobbling around on crutches. Without thinking, I approached him with the intent to apologize.
My hands outstretched, I murmured, “Oh, Sand…er, Lyn. I’m so sorry. This happened because of me, didn’t it?” I pointed to his foot, wrapped in an ACE bandage.
But Sandwich held up a wide hand to stop me, his always pleasant face tight and withdrawn. “You stay right where you are, Stevie. I’m already in enough trouble because of you and I can’t say anything more. So I’ll thank ya kindly to keep your distance.”
I don’t know if it was Sandwich losing faith in me, or the fact that the two detectives were standing outside the interview room, arms crossed over their chests, watching me as though I were a puppy killer, but I was done in.
Just over all of it.
Luis saved me from making a scene by crying in front of everyone when he put his hand at my elbow and led me out of the station to his car, where he helped me in and drove me home as I fought tears.
I was no closer to catching this killer, Madam Zoltar’s spirit was in total turmoil and now one of the few people in town who actually didn’t hate me wanted nothing to do with me.
And I couldn’t even drown my sorrows in Tito’s tacos because he hated me, too.
Boo-hiss.
Chapter 15
“Steeeevie! Come now. Don’t be sad.”
“Me, sad? Don’t be silly, Win,” I said, my voice muffled from beneath the pillow. “What’s there to be sad about? That I’ve been framed for murder? That we might never find out who killed Madam Zoltar? Or that a killer is running free and getting away with said murder? Don’t talk crazy. We should have a party. Maybe some balloons and a cake, too.”
“Want me to tell you how I died?” Win singsonged the question in my ear.
I didn’t even budge. No way was I taking that bait. “Not interested.”
“Not true.”
I pushed the pillow off my face and sighed. “Maybe it isn’t. Or maybe I’ve decided I’d rather you want to tell me versus share your story as a bribe. But know this, Crispin Alistair Winterbottom, when you tell me, it’ll mean we’ve crossed a milestone—it’ll mean you finally trust me.”
Win blustered. “I do trust you now. I gave you millions of dollars in spy money and my beloved house. How much more trust is there?”
I rolled to my side and looked out the windows inside my little nook of a bed. “Those are all superficial things, Win. Things you couldn’t use yourself now even if you wanted to. You could have given them to anyone. They have nothing to do with friendship.”
I can’t say why I was picking a fight with Win, other than I was angry all over. Maybe bruised was a better word. It wasn’t like me to give in to feeling sorry for myself, but tonight, without my powers, with the possibility of jail time looming in my future, bruised was the best word I could find to sum up how I was feeling. Maybe I needed Win to trust me because no one else did.