Chapter 23
Someone was thumping on the door—loudly. Muffy was jumping up and down and skittering from the living room back into the bedroom, barking and snuffling. Jennifer groaned and rolled over in bed to stare through puffy, half-closed eyes at the clock on her bedside table. It read eight-fifty A.M. Way too early for someone to come visiting on a Saturday morning.
The building must be on fire was her first thought. She pulled the comforter up over her head and burrowed down. She'd dig out of the ashes later.
The thumping continued, only louder this time.
"Go away," she mumbled.
"Police. Open up."
Jennifer's eyes popped open, and she dug her way out of the covers. What were the police doing at her door? And why wasn't Sam here? She could send him to get rid of them.
Last night she'd come home from Atlanta dragging in close to two A.M. to find him gone, relieved that he was at least well enough to get himself up. They'd have plenty of time to discuss matters later. She might even find out what he'd been trying to say to her last night before he passed out.
She'd have to reconsider those mickeys she'd been slipping so casually in her books. They didn't always work.
"We know you're in there. Open the door."
The pounding continued. They must want someone down the hall, but it was becoming more and more obvious that the men in blue wouldn't leave until she opened the door.
She stumbled to the closet, grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater, pulled them on, and headed to the door.
Another thought occurred to her. What if Sam had awakened, realized she'd drugged him, and gone to the police station to file a complaint against her. It was a few measly sleeping pills, for heaven's sake, obviously not enough to do any real damage. She'd insist she was just trying to help him relax from all the stress of his work.
Jennifer paused at the door, took a deep breath, and released the lock. The door burst open. One plainclothes man and two uniformed officers, one male, one female, pushed their way in.
The detective, a big, burly, sandy-haired guy in a cheap gray suit, flashed his badge. She took it and inspected it. It belonged to Frank Sweeney of the Atlanta Police Department.
"You Jennifer Marsh?" Sweeney demanded.
"Yes," she said hesitantly. So much for the felon down the hall.
"Do you know a Penelope A. Richmond of Atlanta?"
A lump the size of a tennis ball formed around Jennifer's windpipe. Had Penney been watching through her peephole while she stood outside her door? Had she used some kind of alien, X-ray vision to pierce the cloth of her tote bag and see the gun she'd been carrying, and was Penney now somehow accusing her of stalking? No wonder she had eight novels on her closet shelf. The man had asked her one question and she already had enough material for three chapters.
"Do you know her?" the policeman repeated.
She cleared her throat and sucked in air. "Not personally. I know of her."
"Penelope Richmond received a number of threatening letters over the past two weeks, one of which was written on personalized stationery bearing your name and address and carrying what appears to be your signature. Several of the others are in the same handwriting. Do you know anything about that?"
So that was what this was about. Inwardly, Jennifer sighed her relief. At least she wasn't losing her mind. That creature Penney Richmond had reported her to the police for sending threats. Couldn't ol' Penney take a little joke?
"Oh, that." Jennifer shrugged. Maxie would be cool—ever so cool. "Samples from a book I wanted her to consider handling. You see, I'm a mystery writer and the letters are from a novel with this really screwed up villain named Marcus who—"
"Oh, yeah? Sounded like you thought this Richmond woman was some kind of Ebola virus."
Sweeney wasn't far off.
"Want to tell me where you were last night?" Sweeney asked.
Oh, sure. Why not? I was standing outside Penney Richmond's apartment trying to get up the nerve to con her into opening the door, so I could see what's it's like to plan a murder.
Jennifer smiled sweetly. If she'd learned only one thing from researching crime novels, it was not to answer any questions from a policeman, innocent or not, especially if she had no idea why he was asking them.
Muffy was still scampering around the room, rushing from one policeman to the next, rolling in front of them, begging to be petted. The traitor.
"Are you arresting me?" Jennifer asked. "You haven't read me my rights."
Muffy suddenly darted past Jennifer into the bedroom and came back shaking something black and hairy in her mouth.
"What's this?" Sweeney asked, bending and coaxing Muffy over to rub her back and extract the wig. He stood up, holding it in his hand. "What was that description we got from Ernest Tuttle?"
"You mean the doorman?" one of the uniforms asked.
"Yeah. Read me the one with the wig."
"He said she was young, in her twenties, pregnant, with large glasses, and a long, black, curly wig. Went by the name of Sophie McClannahan."
Jennifer could feel the blood drain from her face. Whatever the police were there for, it was more than the threats. It had something to do with her being at O'Hara's Tara. But what?
"Said she was always wearing some god-awful brown floral dress and shapeless sweater. He thought she might be undergoing some kind of medical treatments that made her hair fall out because the three times he saw her, she was wearing the wig."
"Mind if we take a look in the bedroom?" Sweeney asked.
"You got a search warrant?" Jennifer silently prayed that Muffy wouldn't drag out the Sophie dress she'd left in a heap on the floor near the wig last night.
"Not yet."
"Get it," she said defiantly.
"So you want to play it that way, do you?" Sweeney said. "Fine with me. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have—"
"What's the charge?" Jennifer asked.
"For starters, it's making threats, and I do have a warrant for your arrest. We'll see how long it takes us to work up to first degree murder. Cuff her," Sweeney ordered the uniform.
Jennifer's knees buckled. Fortunately, the policeman was holding her wrists. "Who died?" she squeaked out, already sure of the answer.
"Have you been following this conversation?" he asked.
"Not well," she admitted.
"You have the right to speak with an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you so desire…"
In her mind, Jennifer tried to sort out what had happened. Penney Richmond must have somehow got herself killed. But the police were here, at her apartment, arresting her, and Sam was who-knows-where. She had no alibi, she had no defense, and it was becoming painfully obvious, she had no future. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong with her plan.