Chapter 5
Waiting for the police and then having them drive her to the police station instead of back to her hotel had certainly put a damper on her day. How had an evening that had started out so well gone to the proverbial hell in a handbasket? She could just hear Jessica and Fiona fussing at her for using a cliché. But in Lori’s mind, it only made sense to use it.
The interrogation room in which they’d placed her was the opposite of hell. In fact, a little hellfire might warm the place up. It was cold—the feeling of cold not being helped by the metal table, the metal chair with the vinyl seat, or the sterile gray paint. She would have much preferred to be sitting in a large leather wingback chair in front of a nice cheery fire. A cup of hot cocoa with mini marshmallows wouldn’t go amiss either.
She didn’t have a cup of hot cocoa. What she had was a cup of coffee which she was fairly sure had been made much earlier in the day. No cream or sugar had been offered; neither had she been offered tea, cocoa, or Diet Coke. Then again, she wouldn’t have turned down a shot of tequila.
Staring at the cup of cold coffee in front of her, Lori couldn’t help but be startled when the door to the room swung open, and a short, paunchy, balding man stepped into the room.
“Ms. Sykes, is it?” he said in a snarly kind of voice.
“Yes. I’m Lori Sykes.”
“I’m Detective George Middleton.”
He stopped at the other side of the table, looked down as if posturing, and then tossed a thin file folder down in front of him as he took a seat. Opening the suspiciously light folder, the detective fumbled through some loose papers before closing it and looking up at her.
“Ms. Sykes, you currently reside in Chicago?”
She nodded. “I do. I believe the police report they took at the dock should say that.”
“It does. I just need to ask you some preliminary questions. Can you tell me what brought you to Bleak Ridge?”
“Yes, as I said in the report, I’m here for the writers’ conference this weekend.”
“Are you an author?”
He was starting to get on her nerves. She was tired; she’d just seen a man murdered, and this guy was asking her questions to which she was certain he already knew the answers.
“Yes. Detective Middleton, I’m cold and a bit unsettled at seeing a man murdered. If we could just skip the things I told them at the crime scene, and confirmed once again when I signed the report, I would really appreciate it. I’d like to get back to my room at the hotel, get something to eat, maybe take a hot shower, and then go to bed.”
“As you said, a man—a famous author—lost his life tonight. It would appear he was murdered, and I am conducting this investigation.”
“Appeared to be murdered? What are the other possible scenarios? He committed suicide by strangling himself with the typewriter ribbon? Or maybe he tripped over it and became hopelessly entangled in it, and it was an accident—the guy I saw speed away on the boat notwithstanding.”
“Do you think you’d do a better job of figuring out what happened?”
“Well, I doubt I could do a worse one. I am a witness, not a suspect.”
“I will determine which you are, Ms. Sykes. After all, we only have your word about what you saw, and you seem to know an awful lot about the particulars of Mr. Coburn…”
“Cobain. Antony Cobain.”
“I knew that,” Middleton snapped. “I just misspoke. Can you tell me how you seem to know so much for a perfectly innocent bystander?”
Lori couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “I write mysteries for a living. I observe things closely. When I turned Mr. Cobain over…”
“So, you admit you touched the body.”
“Of course I did. I didn’t know for sure if he was dead so I thought I might need to provide CPR. When I rolled him over, I saw what appeared to be a vintage typewriter ribbon pulled tightly around his neck.”
“How do you know it’s a typewriter ribbon?”
“I’m a writer. Many of us are in love with old typewriters. I have several, all of which have spool-to-spool ribbons like the one wrapped around his neck. It looked like one of those to me. When I realized Mr. Cobain was dead, I hailed some passersby, and they called the cops.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“Because,” she said, pulling out her mobile phone and sliding it across the table, “I’m an idiot and forgot to bring my charger and didn’t think to buy one earlier in the day, so the thing is dead as a doornail.”
“I’ll ask you not to take that attitude with me.”
“What attitude?” She could hear her tone of voice; he might have a point. “I’m sorry you feel I have an attitude. What I have is a headache that’s getting worse by the minute. Either I’m the most stupid murderer in the history of murderers in small, coastal villages in Maine, or I am a witness who tried to help and is now being interrogated, if not harassed, by a local cop who can’t be bothered to read the report I gave and then had to read and sign.”
“I’m just confirming a few facts.”
“And I’m done.” Lori stood up, snatching her phone back. “As you haven’t read me my Miranda Rights, I’m assuming that I’m not under arrest, in which case I am free to go.” Lori looked down at the detective. He seemed to be searching for words. “Just as I thought. Detective Middleton, I’m going back to the hotel. If you need anything further, please feel free to contact me at the hotel and make an appointment to see me.”
When he still said nothing, Lori spun on her heel and left the interrogation room.
“You’re involved in this case, Ms. Sykes. You are not to leave the jurisdiction without getting permission,” he called after her.
She turned at the door that led outside. “Actually, detective, unless you arrest me or are able to obtain a warrant for my arrest, I’m under no legal obligation to remain here or do anything else for you. You have my home address and my phone number. I will be here for the next several days attending the conference. After that, I will be headed home to Chicago. And with that, detective, I bid you a very good night.”
Lori marched back to the hotel, refusing the offer from the officer who’d taken her statement to give her a lift. The hotel was just a few short blocks away, and she was pissed. How dare that bumbling idiot try to intimidate her! She entered the hotel and was met by the concierge.
“Ms. Sykes? I just got off the phone with the police.”
Oh swell; that’s all I need.“I did nothing wrong,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Of course not. Who said you did?” The woman sounded genuinely appalled at the notion that Lori had acted in an incorrect manner. “My brother is the one who took your statement. He said Middleton was a jerk to you. He wanted to make sure you got back to the hotel safely.”
“I’m so sorry I snapped at you. As you might guess, it’s been one hell of a night.” The big grandfather clock chimed. She glanced at the time. “Shit. Room service is closed, isn’t it?”
“Normally, yes, but I happen to know the kitchen still has staff. What would you like?”
“If I could get a cheeseburger, onion rings, and fries, I’ll name a character after you.”
The concierge laughed. “No need. I know what a toad Middleton can be. Anything else?”
“Any chance I can buy a phone charger somewhere?”
“No need to buy one. The hotel keeps several on hand. I’ll have one brought up to you with your food. Anything else?”
“The Ark of the Lost Covenant?” Lori quipped. “The location of the tombs of Antony and Cleopatra? I mean, at this point, I’m of the belief you can get me anything I want.”
The woman laughed. “We do aim to please. You head on upstairs. I’ll have the food and charger up to you as soon as possible.”
“Seriously, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Lori rode up in the elevator and let herself into her room. By the time she took off her makeup and grabbed a quick shower, her food and charger were being delivered. She tipped the waiter heavily even though he had assured her there was no bill, and arranged to have flowers delivered to the concierge in the morning.
Plugging in her phone, she sat down and began to eat her dinner. The burger was amazing, the rings out of this world, and the ranch dipping sauce hadn’t been poured from a bottle. Once she was finished and had set her tray outside her door, Lori sat down at the desk, picking up her phone to call Jessica. She thought about calling Christie, as she’d been a cop. While trying to decide, she saw a business card on the carpet beside her. Picking it up, she saw it was Ryker McKay’s.
Maybe what she needed was to shed a little light not only on what had happened but on how Detective Middleton had treated her. She was going to meet Ryker for breakfast, but by then news of Cobain’s death might already be public knowledge. If she made every single part of her involvement painfully detailed and public, as well as that idiot detective’s ham-handed treatment of her, perhaps Middleton’s boss would put the jerk on a leash. After all, Cobain wasn’t the only successful author.
She dialed Ryker’s number—his card listed the office and his cell phone.
A sexy, sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”