Beguiled Page 9

  He pulled up in front of the Davidson house. “Well, thanks for answering my questions. It fleshes out the Sebastian break-in for me, anyway.”

  She pulled her bag off the floor, then opened her door. “You’re not going to quote me in your paper or anything, are you?”

  “I might summarize some of the stuff you said, but no, I can leave you out of it if you’d prefer.”

  “Yes, please.” She unfolded herself from the car, then bent down. “See ya around, Logan.”

  He lifted his hand good-bye and watched her head toward a yellow Honda Civic. Daisy. Ridiculous. What kind of person names a car?

  He accelerated toward Meeting Street, joining a line of traffic. He’d never name his. Or if he did, it would be something like . . . Thor, strong and Germanic.

  “Thor.”

  But no. He was not going to name his car.

  Chapter Ten

  “Who in his right mind, when he’s got a 1793 Storioni staring him in the face—1793, for crying out loud!—moves it over so he can get to a Ladislav Prokop? From the thirties.”

  Logan did his best with the spellings, writing as fast as he could. Despite the digital recorder, he often took notes by hand, just in case. A sudden pause made him look up. Jamison Ormsby, by all accounts a virtuoso on the violin, stared red-faced at the Storioni, as if he was angry it hadn’t been stolen, too.

  The music room was filled with instruments, most of them glossy as antique furniture, which he supposed was what they were. One fiddle looked like another to him, but Ormsby, the latest victim of Charleston’s Robin Hood burglar, clearly knew what was valuable and what wasn’t.

  “So a, um, Prokop . . . That’s not worth much?”

  “A couple thousand bucks, maybe. I mean, it’s a nice violin, a very bright, warm tone. But that’s a Storioni right there. A Storioni!”

  Logan tried to look shocked. Meanwhile, Wash moved the drapes back and forth, trying to focus a shaft of sunlight across the empty stand where the missing Prokop had stood. Now that he was shooting extra frames for possible use in Logan’s book, he was getting outrageous with the creative lighting effects.

  “When I first walked through the door,” Ormsby said, “everything was quiet. Too quiet. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then I heard footsteps thundering on the floorboards upstairs. I rushed up the front stairs without thinking. I mean, he could have had a gun, right? But that didn’t occur to me until later. I just about had a heart attack. But at the time, instinct took over.” He pressed his long fingers to his forehead. “As I went upstairs, though, he must have been tearing down the kitchen stairs. He was gone before I could catch up.”

  “You didn’t get a look at him?” Logan asked, thinking of the leg Rylee had described seeing at the Sebastian house.

  Ormsby shook his head.

  “And what about the police?” Logan asked. “Did they seem to take it seriously?”

  In the background, Wash shot him a look.

  “Off the record?” Ormsby peered down at Logan’s notebook.

  “They acted like it was just a nuisance. I knew immediately it was the Robin Hood burglar, but the detective kept saying, ‘Maybe so,’ like it could all be just a coincidence. They said they’d give me a copy of the report for the insurance company, but it’s not the money that matters so much. That Prokop has sentimental value.”

  “Was it a gift?”

  Ormsby hesitated. “It was . . . from an estate sale. I collect them, as you can see.”

  Before he’d left his office, Logan had pulled up all the information on Ormsby he could find, mostly articles dating back to the late seventies when he’d made Charleston his home. There were concert reviews, which Logan skipped over, and a few gossipy notices about his trading in his wife of three decades for a red-headed accompanist, aged twenty-three.

  “Mr. Ormsby, you don’t have any pets, do you?” Logan asked.

  “Animals? No. They play havoc with my allergies.”

  Logan nodded. Good. That meant the man wasn’t a client of Rylee’s.

  “No.” Ormsby shook his head. “I can’t stand having animals in the house. That’s something I don’t miss about my ex-wife. When she left, she took that infernal dog with her.”

  “Dog?” Logan’s pen stilled once more.

  “A German Shepherd. Tiffany.” He pronounced the name with exaggerated loathing. “After thirty years, I can breathe in my own home again.”

  “Did your wife employ a dogwalker?”

  “Yes, there was a girl. A cute little thing, used to skate around the neighborhood. I still see her around every so often. Can’t think of her name, though.”

  The summons came just as the next day’s edition was being put to bed. Logan tapped on the door, then entered to find Lacey Lamar at her desk, on which a huge screen displayed his latest copy, the account of the Ormsby break-in.

  She turned, crossed her tightly skirted legs, and gazed up at him over the top of her tortoiseshell reading glasses.

  “Close the door and plant yourself right there.” She pointed to a nearby chair.

  He pushed the door shut and sat. He would much rather have had a desk between them, but Lacey was a big fan of open-plan seating.

  “The reason I wanted to see you is, I got a call from someone.”

  “Are you naming names?”

  She ignored the question. “Apparently you had a chitchat with Marcel Gibbon—is that right? How is the Cherub?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Now, I can imagine all sorts of reasons why you’d want to sound him out, but I’m guessing it has something to do with this.” She jabbed her thumb at the screen over her shoulder, his words set off against the opal luminescence. “I’m also assuming, because Marcel is Marcel, that he gave you some kind of lead to explore?”

  Now it was Logan’s turn to ignore the question.

  “The reason I ask is, I expect to see the fruit of this information in my newspaper. I don’t want to read about it for the first time in your forthcoming book. Am I making myself clear?”

  “I got nothing from Marcel.”

  She arched a brow in skepticism.

  He could understand her doubt. In the past, Gibbon had been relatively generous with information, as if he had an ulterior motive in passing it along. But not this time.

  “Let me make something painfully clear to you, Logan. I realize you have this dream of publishing a book and leaving journalism behind. Up to now, I’ve been fairly indulgent. But your coverage on the Petrie break-in was thin, and the Sebastian piece, downright pitiful.”

  “I’ve been chasing the Sebastian police report, but the whole department is giving me the runaround.”

  “So you interview the owner.”

  “He won’t return my calls.”

  “And since when has that stopped you?”

  “I’ve interviewed his dogwalker and have what I need now.”

  “It’s a little late, don’t you think?” She whipped off her glasses. “Listen, if I suspect, even for a minute, that you’re sacrificing my story so you’ll have an exclusive in your book, I’ll see to it you leave journalism behind a whole lot sooner than you were planning. You get my drift?”

  He did. “Honestly. Marcel gave me nothing. As for Karl Sebastian, I’ll do better. The Ormsby piece is good, though. You have to admit that.”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “I don’t have to admit anything. And if the next piece isn’t what I want, you’re off the story.”

  The Davidsons’ gate squeaked, and Rylee turned to see Detective Campbell striding across the lawn, his eyes fixed on her. He glanced at George in the bushes, then paused, checking his stride. But the distraction was momentary.

  “Miss Monroe,” he said. “I’d like you to come with me down to the station to make a formal statement.”

  She blinked. “A statement? What do you mean? Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  George lifted the handles of his wheelbarrow and moved to the back o
f the house.

  “Not at all. We’re just trying to connect some dots, and it would be awfully helpful if you’d come in. Won’t take but a minute.”

  Her first impulse was to hedge and say she had a dog to walk, but Toro was the last one of the morning. She wasn’t due at another house until midafternoon. And she had a feeling Campbell already knew this.

  Retrieving her bag from the porch, she passed through the gate the detective held open.

  “Pendergrass Gardening,” he said, pointing to George’s truck. “That belong to the fella you were talking with?”

  “Yes.” She tucked herself into Nate’s Mustang.

  Unlike Logan’s car, the interior was a mess. The upholstery was sticky against the back of her legs, and the entire car smelled like stale food. The seats were splitting at the seams. The floors had no mats. A grease-stained Popeye’s Chicken box lay open on the floor. Balancing in the detective’s cup holder, a giant Jack-inthe-Box soda pearled with condensation.

  He pumped the accelerator several times before turning over the engine. “I guess you and him are pretty good friends, working at the same house and all.”

  “George, you mean?”

  “What was that last name again?”

  “Pendergrass.”

  “Ah.” Picking up his soda, he pulled onto the street, his transmission jerking. “How long you known him?”

  “I don’t know him at all. But he’s worked for the Davidsons almost as long as I have.”

  He sucked from the straw protruding out the center of his cup.

  “That right? He work for any of your other clients?”

  “He just started with the Bosticks, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s been with the Sebastians a long, long time.”

  “Good people, the Sebastians—for lawyers.” He smiled and gave her a wink.

  She turned her face toward the passenger window.

  He made several more attempts at small talk, but she kept her answers clipped. She didn’t like him, and he didn’t like her. She saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

  At the station, they rode the elevator to the third floor, then wove through a maze of cubicles. Subdued voices, spurts of laughter, and cell phone ringtones jumbled together.

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?” He made the offer without even pausing at the stained Formica counter that held a coffeepot.

  She was tempted to accept just to make him turn around, but the sooner she could leave, the better. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  This wasn’t the jailhouse, just the office, but it still felt confining. She took in the generic tile floor, the dropped ceiling, and the windowless walls, then shot a prayer to heaven thanking God for her job outdoors. She’d go crazy in a place like this.

  At his cubicle, Campbell motioned her into a chrome-framed torture device masquerading as a visitor’s chair and sank into his own ergonomically correct seat, complete with knobs on the side for lumbar adjustments. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Monroe.”

  His desk was buried in paper, accented with fast-food wrappers and a half-eaten bagel of uncertain age. He searched in vain for a clear space on his desk, then deposited his Jack-in-the-Box soda atop an uneven stack of files. When he took his hand away, the cup shifted. She braced for the spill, but after sliding a bit, it stabilized.

  Opening a side drawer, he pulled out a recorder and placed it near the edge of his desk. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head.

  “For the tape, please.”

  “No. I don’t mind,” she said, projecting her voice.

  “Great.” He rattled off his name and rank, repeated her info, then leaned back, his chair accommodating the motion. She’d expected some kind of interview room, but apparently they were doing the statement right here. “Now, if you could list the names and addresses of all your clients.”

  “I already told you to get a warrant.”

  He smiled and pulled one from the inside pocket of his sports jacket. Clearly, he’d been prepared to serve it to her at the Davidsons’ had she refused to go with him.

  She scanned the first few lines. She’d never seen a warrant before, but it looked legit. Still, she didn’t want to comply. But it didn’t look like she had a choice. Tucking the warrant into her bag, she started with the Davidsons.

  “Excellent. And how long have you worked for them?”

  His questions continued, all fairly straightforward. All tedious.

  She glanced at her watch. Thirty-five minutes had passed, but it felt like hours. When she finished the list, she started to get up.

  But Campbell wasn’t through.

  “And where were you on August ninth between the hours of four and six p.m.?”

  She blinked. “August ninth? I have no idea.”

  He rummaged around his desk, then handed her a little 3 x 2 flip calendar. August ninth. A Thursday. The day the Bosticks discovered their statue missing.

  “I was walking dogs.”

  “Whose dogs?”

  “All the dogs, Detective. I take them out twice a day. Once in the morning and again in the evenings, except for a few special cases.”

  “And which ones are your special cases?”

  “Well, let’s see. Lion has special needs, and—”

  “You pet sit a lion?” His voice rose an octave.

  “No. Lion is a cat. He belongs to the Petries.” She explained his phobias along with the requirements of other animals that needed extra care. “Speaking of which, I really need to get going. I’m due at the Maceys’ in a little bit.”

  “Just a couple more questions.” He checked his notes. “Where were you yesterday right around two o’clock?”

  She shifted in her chair, the thin metal arm digging into her thigh. “I would have been on my way to see my grandmother.”

  He leaned in. “And where does your grandmother live?”

  “At Bishop Gadsden on James Island.”

  “What time did you arrive?”

  She shrugged. “Two-thirtyish?”

  “And can anyone, other than your grandmother, corroborate that?”

  She stiffened as comprehension dawned. According to Logan’s article this morning, a violin was stolen yesterday from Mr. Ormsby on Legare Street. Not a current client of hers, but a past one. And if she didn’t miss her guess, the violin was stolen somewhere around two o’clock.

  “Are you asking me if I have an alibi, Detective?”

  “I’m just asking if anyone other than your grandmother saw you.”

  She gaped at him. “Am I a suspect?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Gripping the armrests, she took quick, rapid breaths. “You cannot be serious. That would be like . . . like suspecting the gardener, simply because he works south of Broad!”

  “Funny you should mention that.”

  She shot to her feet. “I believe we’re through here, Detective.”

  “It was a simple question, Rylee. Any particular reason you don’t want to answer?”

  She snatched the recorder off the desk and held it close to her mouth. “That’s Miss Monroe to you, Detective.”

  Slamming it back down, she grabbed her bag and stalked out of his cubicle. It wasn’t until she was outside that she realized she didn’t have her car. Groaning, she stormed to the nearest bus stop.

  She was still angry when she and Romeo returned from their walk. As soon as she’d made it back to her car from the police station, she’d grabbed some shorts and sneakers from her gym bag and run her first few dogs instead of walking them.

  Unfortunately, she was walking the little dogs and couldn’t keep up a jog for long without endangering their health. Romeo stumbled to his water bowl and collapsed on the floor while drinking out of it.

  Karl stood at the bar sorting his mail. “What happened to him?”

  Rylee grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the fridge. “We stepped up our pace a little bit.”

  He raised his bro
ws. “Everything all right?”

  Ripping a paper towel off the bracket, she wiped her face and neck. “Fine.”

  Giving her a skeptical look, he circled the bar and stepped into the kitchen. “What’s going on, Rylee?”

  She took a long swallow of water, then fell back against the counter. “I’m sorry, Karl. I didn’t mean to snap. I guess I’m not having the greatest day, that’s all.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  He really was extraordinarily handsome. He wore silver slacks and a pink-striped Bengal dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. The paisley tie loosened. With his tanned skin and white-blond hair, she could stare at him for hours and never get tired of it.

  By comparison, she was sweaty, sticky, and blotchy. She took another drink. It was just as well. No chance of being asked to dinner tonight, that was for sure.

  “I got taken in to the police station.”

  He jerked to attention. “You what?”

  “I wasn’t arrested or anything. The detective came by after my last walk of the morning and asked if I’d come in and give him a statement.”

  He took a swift breath. “Please tell me you told him no.”

  She shook her head. “Should I have?”

  “Of course you should have. What did you tell him?”

  “Everything. I answered all his questions, until he got to the part where he asked about my alibis.”

  “Rylee.” The word was soft. Like a caress.

  “He suspects me, Karl. He thinks I might be the Robin Hood burglar.”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know. That’s what I said, too. But he had a warrant.”

  He took the glass from her hands and set it on the counter behind her. The movement brought him into her personal space and made every nerve in her body tingle.

  “Don’t do that again. Okay?” He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted. “Promise me. If any officer of the law wants to talk to you ever again, promise me you won’t say a word until you’ve spoken to me first. Even if he has a warrant.”

  “I promise,” she whispered.