Back at the office not a lot was happening. Sally bustled about in an effort to clear her desk. Nearly one o'clock already. She handed me two pink message slips and her outgoing mail. The messages were for Ron. Sally's jacket hung over her arm, car keys in hand.
Rusty heard our voices and trotted down the stairs to greet me. I scratched his ears while listening to Sally's last-minute explanations.
Upstairs, Ron sat at his desk with the phone jammed against his ear, pinned in place by his shoulder. I noticed a sheen on his head where there isn't much hair. He jotted notes with his right hand while reaching for his coffee cup with the left. He spends so much time this way that he probably doesn't even realize how many things he's doing at once. I dropped the two pink slips in front of him. He raised his eyebrows at me, the only available means of waving he could manage.
Across the hall, my own desk was beginning to resemble a tornado path. Today's mail lay on top of the burgeoning pile. Sally had probably set it there with reasonable care but the whole thing was so unbalanced that it had slid, coming within a quarter inch of falling to the floor. I tossed my purse and jacket on the sofa and pulled out the trash can. I have to confess that I'm not very tolerant of junk mail and three-fourths of the stack went into the can unopened.
Of the remainder, I sorted it into stacks: bills, correspondence and incoming money. I listened to the sound of Ron's voice across the hall, although I couldn't make out the words, while I applied the incoming checks to their respective accounts and filled out a deposit slip. This felt like routine—Ron on the phone, me working on the books.
I posted the receivables to the computer, then ran a past-due report. The usual. A couple of the law firms we work for are notoriously slow in paying. I'd have to send statements. It only took a few minutes to update the records and print the statements.
By three o'clock I'd paid the bills, stuffed the customer statements into envelopes, and run a preliminary trial balance of the general ledger accounts. I made a copy of this for Ron in case he wanted it. He normally just glances at it and leaves it up to me to be sure it's correct. Rusty planted himself on the rug between me and the door, making sure he wouldn't be left behind again. I worked without paying much attention to him until he perked his ears toward the doorway.
Ron stood there stretching. He rubbed at his neck and shoulder where the phone had rested, probably without even realizing he did it. I handed him the trial balance pages.
"I'll probably work on this tomorrow," I told him, "so if you see any problems with the numbers, speak up soon."
"Okay." He glanced at the pages quickly. "It'll make interesting reading while I'm on surveillance tonight."
"Surveillance, huh? Your very favorite part of the job."
"Yeah. Right."
"What? Another errant husband?"
"Nah, this is insurance fraud. Guy who's suing for auto accident injuries. Claims he's totally incapacitated. Company thinks he's faking it. Get this—they think he may try to go bowling tonight."
I gave him a look.
"Yeah, the guy's crazy about bowling. His league's forming up again and they think he might not be able to resist."
"So you get to hang around the bowling alley, or what?"
"Yup. Hell, the guy's learned to spot my car in his neighborhood, so he's real careful what he does around home. So, Joey and I are gonna put on our old bowling shirts and hang around. I might get lucky. If the guy shows up I've got this little no-flash camera and I'll try to get pictures of him in the act. That oughta pretty well cinch the case."
"You and Joey, huh." He knows I can't stand his buddy, Joey. He lives in Ron's decidedly tacky apartment complex and somehow latched onto my brother as his best buddy. Two divorced guys, commiserating about the exes and their kids.
"Well, have fun," I said drily. "Oh, before you go, have you heard any more from Kent Taylor on the Detweiller case?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. Ballistics confirmed it. The same gun killed both of them. Now they sure would like to find your friend, Stacy." He turned back toward his own office, waving one hand in my direction. A minute later I heard his voice on the phone again.
Stacy. I'd like to know where she was, too.
I finished a couple of other printouts and backed up my data on disk. Ron left and the office got quiet now with him gone. I felt better about getting my own work under control. The past week had seemed disorganized to me. Tomorrow I could take care of the correspondence stack and get started balancing the month-end books.
Rusty and I made the rounds, locking the front door and checking the windows. I unplugged the coffee maker and rinsed out the filter basket and pot. When I shut off the water, I heard Rusty's low growl. I looked down to see the hair rising on his neck. He was staring at the back door.
Behind the sheer white curtain in the upper glass panel I saw a shadow. The glass coffee decanter was the only weapon handy. I clutched it by the handle.
The shadow moved closer, toward the doorknob. Rusty barked and it jumped back. Then a tentative knocking sounded. I tiptoed toward the door. Pushing the sheer drape aside, I saw who it was.
"Stacy!" I jerked the door opened. "Where have you been?"
Rusty relaxed and came toward her, his tail waving slowly back and forth. He sniffed at her pants leg.
"Come in," I said, pulling at her. "You almost got clobbered by a coffeepot," I told her, realizing how ridiculous I probably looked clutching the decanter like a club.
She stumbled slightly over the doorsill.
"Stace?"
Her face didn't look right. Her makeup was faded. The clothing which had been so stylish Saturday morning was limp and wrinkled now. She seemed dazed.
"Stace, tell me what's wrong," I pressed. I led her to the kitchen table and pulled a chair out for her. She fell into it, her shoulders drooping, her expression blank.
I opened another chair out to face her and took both her hands in mine. "Stace. Listen, you need to tell me what's happened."
She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "I've been hiding out," she said.
"From the police? Oh, Stace, that's a mistake. You need to tell them what happened."
"The police?" She focused on me, confused by what I'd said. "No, Charlie. From Brad. I had to get away from Brad."
"Wait a second. Maybe we better start over. Tell me what happened with Brad. No, tell me everything that happened since I saw you Saturday morning."
She leaned forward, more alert than she'd been. "Saturday morning. I left your house thinking about what you'd said, about how I'd built walls around myself. I decided to find someplace to stay alone that night, to think about it. I found this little bed and breakfast place. It was really peaceful."
"Did you tell Brad where you were?"
"I called, but remember, he was out of town. So I left a message on the answering machine that I just needed to be by myself for awhile. I didn't want to tell him where I was. He would have found the place."
"Go on."
"I guess he came home Sunday morning. I wasn't there and he didn't believe the part about my wanting to be alone. He's very jealous." Her voice got thick at this point. She took a minute to get under control again.
"When I got home that afternoon, he was in a rage. He . . . well he was very angry." She just couldn't let go with the details. "I got so scared. I grabbed my purse again and took off. I went back to the place I'd stayed Saturday night. I spent last night there again. Today, I've been wandering around trying to figure out what to do next."
"You mean you weren't aware that the police are looking for you?"
"Police! Why? Charlie, what's happened? Did Brad . . .?"
"It's nothing to do with Brad, Stacy. Jean Detweiller, Gary's wife, was murdered Sunday night."
"Murdered?" She said it like she was trying to remember the definition of the word.
"They want to ask you some more questions," I explained.
"I didn't even know her. How would I know w
ho killed her?"
"Stace, they think you might have done it."
"Me! That's crazy, that's . . ."
"I know, I know." I had to grasp her arm to keep her seated. "But you have to remember, they still think you might have had something to do with Gary's death."
"Charlie . . ." Her voice trailed off. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.
"They've run ballistics tests, Stace. Both the Detweillers were killed with the same gun."
"Well, I don't know anything about any gun," she protested. "I don't know about any of this. This whole thing is a nightmare, Charlie." Tears flowed like streams now. "My whole life is a nightmare."
I located a box of tissues and handed them to her.
"Stace, this place you stayed the last two nights. Surely the people can testify that you were there. Last night, did you stay there all night? You didn't go anyplace else, did you?"
She was already on her third tissue. She pulled another from the box and blew her nose.
"No, I stayed right there. The people were so nice. We visited a little while after dinner, then they went to bed. I stayed in my room and read a book. It was so peaceful, so quiet."
I wondered whether the people who ran the place would testify that she'd been there all night. If they went to bed early, how would they know she hadn't left around midnight and come back? I didn't say this to Stacy.
She'd calmed down quite a bit now. Tissues lay in damp little wads all over the table.
"What now?" she finally asked.
"Well, I think we better call Kent Taylor and let him know where you are."
A panicked look crossed her face, but I assured her that they'd find her anyway.
"They've already been to your house looking for you, so Brad knows. I think they were even going to put out an APB on you. You'd probably be stopped by a patrol car before you got across town. It's better if we call them first."
"I suppose so," she finally agreed.
"You just tell them what you told me. At least the part about the bed and breakfast. Give them the name of the place and where it is. They'll probably want to talk to the people who run it. You can tell as much or as little about Brad as you want to."
She nodded.
"Look, I can call Taylor if you want me to. You want to wash your face and freshen up a little?" We walked upstairs together. I pointed her toward the bathroom and kept an eye on the door while I made the call.
Kent Taylor actually sounded happy to hear from me, once I'd told him who was at this moment in our bathroom. He said he'd be right over.
He showed up with a uniformed officer and a search warrant for Stacy's car and personal possessions. The other officer searched the car while Taylor questioned Stacy. I listened to her story again and it gelled with the first version. I felt fairly sure she was telling the truth. She left out the part about Brad's jealous rage and about the reason she'd wanted to get away in the first place.
It was eight o'clock before they all finally left my office. Rusty and I stopped at a fast food place where we both indulged in cheeseburgers and fries.
At home, I came across the bunch of papers I'd stolen from Gary Detweiller's nightstand. They were wadded and disorganized, and I just didn't have the stamina right now to go through them. I put them on the desk in my home office, held down with a glass paperweight. I showered and fell into bed almost immediately. I was bone-tired but my sleep was unsettled. I had indigestion all night from the greasy burger. I blamed the food, although the stressful day probably hadn't helped a bit.
Chapter 18