Haunting Harold Page 10

  Greg looked embarrassed. “Not exactly.”

  “Murdered?”

  “No!” He sounded angry. And then he looked around, surreptitiously, to make sure no one had noticed. “No,” he continued, more quietly. “She killed herself, OK? No one else did.”

  It was my turn to stare. Greg continued, “The police talked to Harold, but he wasn’t there. He had an alibi. He didn’t do it. She did it herself.”

  “Why?”

  Greg opened his mouth to answer, but just then, Trevor appeared next to the table with the dinner plates. I shoved the Caprese out of the way and accepted the plate of Chicken Piccata. “Thank you.”

  Trevor bowed politely. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Greg waved him away. “Did you need anything?” he asked belatedly, as Trevor scurried away.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine, thank you. Aside from the fact that I’m shocked.”

  “We were all shocked, too,” Greg said. “But childbirth can do that to some women…”

  “Childbirth?” Not only was she dead, but there was a child?

  Or wait… maybe that was why she’d killed herself. I lowered my voice. “Did the baby die?”

  “Oh, no,” Greg said, surprised. “Alive and well. Living with Carly’s mother.”

  With…? “Didn’t Harold want him? Or her?”

  “I’m sure Harold would have done the right thing,” Greg said, “but Carly’s mother insisted on taking the girl. And I guess it was easier for Harold.”

  “Easier, how?”

  “She was just a baby,” Greg said. “Only a few months old when Carly died. Harold didn’t know what to do with her. His other kids were teenagers by then. And Lorraine didn’t want to take on the responsibility for another baby. Especially one that wasn’t hers.”

  Hard to blame her for that, when the baby’s mother had brought about the end of Lorraine’s marriage. And it was frankly appalling that someone, it seemed, had even considered it as a possibility.

  “Eat your food,” Greg said, nodding to my plate, “before it gets cold.”

  Good idea. I might not enjoy Fidelio’s a whole lot, but the food is first-rate. I stabbed a piece of chicken and lifted it to my mouth, just as my phone rang.

  It doesn’t ring a whole lot, and usually only when something’s going on. I smiled apologetically at Greg while I fished it out of my purse under the table and peered at the display.

  And arched my brows.

  “Something wrong?” Greg inquired.

  “I don’t think so.” I didn’t have many hostages to fortune left. Although I suppose it was possible that Rachel’s date had decided to strangle her. Or that Zachary had been in a traffic accident, or my house was on fire. Again. It wasn’t likely, though.

  I pushed the button and put the phone to my ear. “Detective?”

  “Mrs. Kelly,” Mendoza said smoothly.

  There was a beat. He didn’t say anything else. I didn’t, either. Across the table, Greg was keeping his eyes politely averted from my private coversation.

  “What’s going on?” I said eventually.

  “Not much,” Mendoza answered. “I spoke to Zachary and confirmed your story about yesterday.”

  Uh-huh. And he was calling to tell me that because…?

  “OK,” I said cautiously.

  “Anything new where you are?”

  I made sure I didn’t look at Greg. It’s a dead giveaway that you’re talking about someone. “No.”

  “Has he said anything about his brother?”

  “Nothing…” Nothing helpful to figuring out who had murdered Harold. Or at least nothing immediately helpful.

  “Tell me about it later,” Mendoza instructed. “I don’t want to interrupt your date.”

  Oh, really? In that case, why had he called in the middle of it?

  Nonetheless, I managed a semi-polite, “Thank you.”

  He chuckled, so maybe I didn’t sound polite enough. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner, Mrs. Kelly. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “From what I know about your past, Detective,” I told him tartly, “that leaves the field wide open.”

  He didn’t laugh at that. “Just keep in mind he’s still on the suspect list. And contact me when you get home, so I know you’re safe.”

  “He’s—” Not going to murder me, for God’s sake.

  But saying that would tip Greg that we were talking about him, so I bit the words back and took a breath. In and out through the nose. “I’ll do that, Detective,” I said when I could speak calmly again. “Don’t wait up.”

  I disconnected before Mendoza could respond. And waited a second to make sure he wouldn’t call back before I dropped the phone back into my purse and smiled at Greg. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” I said, and took a sip of wine in an effort to cool down. It didn’t work. “He called to tell me he’d spoken to one of my associates.”

  “What about?”

  “Zachary was following Harold around yesterday,” I said, “while I was talking to the PI Harold had hired.”

  “Why would Harold hire a PI? Did he think Heidi was cheating?”

  “I have no idea what Harold thought,” I said, “but the PI was because Tara Cullinan was following him.”

  There was a pause. “You’re going to have to explain this to me,” Greg said.

  Of course. “While I was following Harold around, I noticed that two other people were following him around, too. One was a woman in a yellow car, who I assume is Tara Cullinan. The car is registered in her name. The other was a man, who turned out to be the private investigator Harold hired.”

  “That’s quite a procession following Harold around,” Greg said. “It’s amazing he was able to get shot without anyone seeing anything.”

  Well, yes. I’d been close by, but not quite close enough. And I hadn’t seen Mitch’s truck anywhere. But Tara might know what happened. She’d been there, closer to the action than me. If she hadn’t shot Harold herself, she might know who did.

  Not that I thought it would be a good idea to mention that to Greg.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” he said.

  I gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

  He smiled back. “Happens to me all the time. It can be difficult, explaining to people that when I sit and stare out the window, I’m actually working.”

  “That’s right.” I seized on the opportunity to change the subject. “Tell me what it’s like being a writer.”

  Greg, like most men, was happy to talk about himself. We spent the rest of the meal talking about his books and his travel and his house in Wyoming, and didn’t touch on the subject of Harold or his murder again.

  Chapter 9

  ”I had a good time,” he told me when he dropped me off at the end of the evening.

  I smiled up at him. He was tall. It was nice to be able to look up at a man, instead of straight across at him. Especially in heels. “Me, too.”

  He glanced beyond me at the front door. “I won’t suggest a nightcap. Your husband died recently, and I just got out of a relationship myself, a few months back. But I’d like to see you again.”

  “I’d like that, too,” I said. It was even true. Sure, had it been Mendoza wanting to come in, I would have flung the door—and a lot of other things—wide open. But that was never going to happen, and Greg was a nice man, not to mention a much more appropriate age for me. As long as he hadn’t murdered his brother—and at this point I didn’t think he had—I could do a lot worse.

  He hesitated for a second before he bent. When the kiss came, it landed on my cheek instead of my mouth. But it was still nice.

  “I’ll call you.” He squeezed my hand.

  “Please do.” I stood there while he walked back to his car and got in. He waved as he headed down the driveway. I waited until he was halfway down before I unlocked the door and let myself in.


  * * *

  The first thing I did, was rescue Edwina from the prison of the kitchen, where she had food, water, and a soft pillow to sleep on. She took off for the front door, and I followed, and let her out. She sniffed the front step and parking area for a minute, darting back and forth, before taking her compact little body into the grass.

  Back inside, we made a beeline for the bedroom, where I changed out of my date clothes and into yoga pants and a T-shirt. Then I poured a glass of wine and sat at the kitchen island and opened the phone. Safely home, I texted Mendoza. Alive and well.

  He didn’t text back. He didn’t call, either. Part of me was a little irritated by that—he’d interrupted my date, and now that I was free, he couldn’t be bothered to call?—but I pushed it aside. And called Rachel instead.

  She must still be out on her own date, though, because she didn’t answer. But it occurred to me that Heidi was sitting home alone, by herself, on the first night since she married Harold, and so I called her instead.

  Just to check in, of course. I had no ulterior motive whatsoever.

  At least not until she answered the phone. “Hi, Gina.”

  “Hi,” I said, and prepared to say more, but she got in first.

  “This isn’t a great time for me to talk. The police are here again.”

  The police? “Did something else happen?”

  “No,” Heidi said. “Detective Mendoza said he had a couple more questions.”

  I imagined her smiling at him across the table. Or across the bed, or wherever they were. And imagined him smiling back, flashing those dimples. And perhaps—depending where they were—flashing other things, as well.

  “Oh, really?” I’m happy to say my voice was perfectly even. “Then I won’t keep you. I just wanted to check and make sure you were OK.”

  “Fine,” Heidi said breezily.

  Yes, I’d be fine, too, if I had Mendoza there at… I squinted at the clock on the bedside table—ten-thirty at night.

  No wonder he hadn’t responded to my text.

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” I told her. “Enjoy your evening.”

  I hung up on her assurances that she would, even as I hoped that Mendoza wasn’t so bamboozled by Heidi’s beauty and fake boobs that he overlooked how horribly inappropriate her behavior was for a woman whose husband had been shot, practically in front of her, just twelve hours ago.

  * * *

  He called twenty minutes later. “That wasn’t what it sounded like.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I said mildly. “It’s none of my business how you spend your downtime.”

  I heard a sound that might have been Mendoza grinding his pretty white teeth. On the other hand, it could just have been the gears on that not-so-great unmarked police car he was driving. “That wasn’t downtime,” he informed me. “I’m still working. But you’re right, it’s none of your business. Especially considering…”

  “Especially considering what?” I asked, when he didn’t finish the statement.

  “Nothing. So you’re home.”

  “Safe and sound. Having a glass of wine with Edwina before bed. You’re working late.”

  “It’s an active case,” Mendoza said, his voice a little less confrontational now. “The first forty-eight hours are crucial. After that, every day makes it harder and harder to get a resolution.”

  “It took you more than forty-eight hours to solve David’s murder.”

  “That was a special case,” Mendoza said.

  “How so? It was pretty open and shut from where I was sitting. Anyone else would have arrested me and called it done.”

  “We’re mostly not that stupid,” Mendoza said dryly. “Tell me what Greg Newsome had to say.”

  “About what?”

  “The case,” Mendoza said. “Whatever pretty little words he whispered in your ear you can keep to yourself.”

  I wanted to ask about any pretty little words he might have whispered in Heidi’s ear just now, but as we had both iterated and reiterated, it was none of my business.

  “He said he had no idea who might want Harold dead. He said they’re not close. Either Heidi hadn’t told him what I do, or he was pretending otherwise, because he seemed surprised when I told him I’m a PI.”

  Mendoza grunted. I grinned.

  “He doesn’t know who Tara Cullinan is, but he said Harold’s second wife was Carly Cullinan. She died about twelve years ago. This was after Harold divorced Lorraine, his first wife, and before he married Heidi.”

  Mendoza grunted again. I took it as an invitation to continue.

  “She apparently had a baby, and then developed post-partum depression and killed herself. Or so Greg said. The baby was a girl, and Carly’s mother raised her. Greg said Harold wouldn’t know what to do with a baby, and that his former wife didn’t step up and offer to take the baby. I have no idea why they would expect her to, since Harold dumped her for Carly, but there you are.”

  Mendoza muttered something. I didn’t ask him to repeat it. “Greg was out of the country when it happened. But he intimated that Janice Cullinan—that’s Carly’s mother, and I assume Tara’s—blamed Harold, and that’s why she took the baby. I expect you can look that up and see whether there’s anything to it. Or maybe you even remember it.”

  I hesitated. “No, wait. It was twelve or thirteen years ago. You were still in high school then.”

  “I wasn’t,” Mendoza said. “I was finishing college.”

  Not a whole lot better, if you asked me. Twelve years ago, I’d been married to David for six years, and was pushing thirty. Or at least twenty-eight.

  “Anyway,” I said, “it crossed my mind to wonder whether maybe the baby wasn’t actually Harold’s child. That maybe Carly had an affair with someone else, and that’s why Harold was so amenable to letting the baby go. Although they were only married a couple of years, so unless Carly married Harold for his money, and she went into the marriage with a boyfriend already in the background, there was hardly enough time for her to work all that out.”

  “It doesn’t have to take long,” Mendoza said. “I’m pretty sure Ms. Demetros slept with Mr. Costanza before, during, and after her relationship with your husband.”

  True. And thanks so much for the reminder.

  “And,” Mendoza added, “for what it’s worth, none of Harold’s family said anything about Cressida not being Harold’s daughter.”

  Cressida? “You already knew about her?”

  “How do you think I’ve spent today?”

  He didn’t wait for me to answer, just continued. “I’ve spoken to Harold’s mother, Harold’s children, and Harold’s ex-wife, in addition to the current wife and the brother. I’ve also spoken to the partner in the business. No one breathed a word about Cressida not being legitimate.”

  “I thought Cressie was the dog,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The neighbor in Knoxville said Tara sold the house and took Cressie and left. I was standing there with Edwina, and I thought Cressie was the dog.”

  He smothered a sound that was probably a laugh. “Sorry. Cressida is Harold’s daughter. Or so everyone says. I suppose I can insist on a paternity test when I find her, but he’s been paying child support for twelve years.”

  Then she was probably his. Or as near as made no difference. “Sorry,” I said.

  Mendoza’s voice was still amused. “Don’t worry about it. At least you told me and not them.”

  Indeed. “Did none of them know how to get in touch with her?”

  “They have her cell phone number,” Mendoza said. “But the girl’s twelve. I can’t communicate with her without her guardian’s permission. I don’t have it, and I’m not taking any chances, so I’m not contacting her right now. On Monday, I’ll check with Metro schools and see if I can get an address or contact info that way.”

  “Won’t one of the relatives use the number and tell her about her father?”

  “
I’m sure they already have,” Mendoza said, “but so far I haven’t heard from her.”

  “Tara isn’t calling me back, either. And I don’t know why I’m thinking she would. If she shot Harold, she’s certainly not going to call and suggest a friendly get-together…”

  “Not unless she wants to shoot you, too,” Mendoza said. “There’s no gun registered in her name. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have one.”

  No, it didn’t. “Does anyone else in the family have a gun?”

  “Only your new boyfriend,” Mendoza said. “It was purchased in Wyoming—”

  “He has a house there.” And he wasn’t my boyfriend.

  “—but he might have brought it with him.”

  “For what it’s worth,” I said, “I didn’t get the impression that he wanted his brother dead.”

  “On the other hand,” Mendoza said, “he made a date with you two hours after his brother was gunned down. That doesn’t argue a high level of grief.”

  True. I hadn’t thought about that, but now that I did, he had a point.

  “Any other guns in the family?”

  “Harold had one. But it was reported stolen a few months back—July—during a burglary. The gun, all the pills in the medicine cabinet, some of Mrs. Newsome’s less valuable jewelry that wasn’t locked in the safe, and a painting that hung in the dining room.”

  “What kind of painting?” There hadn’t been a painting there this morning. Of course, if it had been stolen in July, there wouldn’t be.

  “Nothing very valuable,” Mendoza said, and changed it to, “Not by museum standards. It was insured for twenty thousand, so it wasn’t a movie poster, but it wasn’t a Picasso, either.”

  “Valuable enough to pick up if someone was breaking in anyway.”

  Mendoza agreed. “Two months before, there was a burglary next door, in the English cottage. That time, they either knew about, or happened to pick up, a Singer Sargeant worth more than fifty thousand. They may have been hoping to get lucky again.”

  Maybe no. “No guns in that one?”

  “No,” Mendoza said. “Money, jewelry, and pills, but no gun.”