Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-one
“Explain to me why you and Melanie Joan Hall decided to drive to Ms. Donnelly’s house,” said the detective.
I was in the State Police barracks in Westbrook, which was about an hour away from Union.
The detective’s name was Gleason, and he’d been questioning me for a while.
He looked like a younger Larry David, but he had a rich baritone voice and he wasn’t at all funny, which made for a sort of cognitive dissonance.
I wasn’t enjoying our interaction. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked to a police officer when I was the one answering the questions, and I much preferred it the other way around.
I’d yet to see Melanie Joan, who’d come to Westbrook separately from Tony, Spike, and me.
She’d driven in with her chauffeur, Charles.
From what I’d been able to gather from Gleason, both Charles and Melanie Joan were persons of interest in the murder of Leila, who had been found shot to death yesterday, in her own home, with her own gun, not long after I’d spoken to her on the phone.
“We wanted to talk to Book Babe,” I told Detective Gleason.
“And who is that?”
It was the third time he’d asked me this. I was starting to get annoyed. “The screen name of a reviewer on a website called ReadAnon,” I said. “Book Babe had trashed Melanie Joan’s memoir, and Melanie Joan wanted to apologize, in person, for retaliating with a nasty comment.”
“I saw a screenshot of that comment. It was more than nasty.”
I sighed heavily. “Anyway, as I’ve already explained, we didn’t know that Book Babe and Leila Donnelly were the same person until she answered the door.”
“How did you get the address?”
“Source of mine.”
“Name of the source?”
“Prefer not to say.”
“Fair enough.” Gleason cleared his throat. “Can you tell me about Ms. Hall’s state of mind when you left the interview?”
“Quiet.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Not until you explain to me why you think Melanie Joan had anything to do with Leila Donnelly’s death.”
Gleason folded his hands on the table and watched me intently. “Prefer not to say,” he said.
I let out an exasperated groan. “Listen, Detective, I can tell you with certainty that Leila Donnelly was alive when we went to her house, and alive when we left. She was alive when I spoke to her at approximately three p.m. and made plans to meet with her in Boston. Beyond that, there is nothing I know.”
“That’s consistent with our timeline,” he said. “And when we went through Ms. Donnelly’s phone, we could see the call you placed to her. It was two-fifty-six.”
“See? I’m being honest.”
“Apparently,” he said.
“So…I guess we’re through, then.”
“Sure,” he said. “But there’s just one more thing.”
“Who are you, Columbo?”
His brows knotted, as though he didn’t get the reference.
“Old TV show? Peter Falk?”
He lifted his briefcase from the floor and set it on the table.
“Columbo always used to say, ‘Just one more—’ ”
“I know the show.” He removed two pairs of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and handed one of the pairs to me. “Do you mind?” he said.
“Not at all,” I said.
He went to work putting on his gloves. I did the same.
He opened the briefcase and removed an item—something in an evidence bag.
He put it down on the table. There was a hardcover book inside.
Gloves safely on, he slipped it from the bag.
“We found this next to the body,” he said.
“It’s a copy of My Last First Love by Leila Donnelly. ”
“That’s not really surprising, is it? The crime scene was her house. I imagine she owned a lot of copies of her own books.”
“Actually, no,” he said.
“Hmph. Well, what do you know?”
“I’d like you to take a look at it,” he said.
“Tell me if you notice anything familiar.” He stood up and gave the book to me, asking me to be very careful while handling it.
I wanted to tell him that this was a waste of time—that I’d never even seen a Leila Donnelly book, let alone looked through one.
What exactly was I supposed to find familiar?
But I didn’t. The faster I could get through this interview, the sooner I could leave, talk to Melanie Joan, and find out what was going on. Carefully, I took the book and opened it.
I turned to a random page. My mouth went dry.
I started flipping through it, Melanie Joan’s voice in my mind.
I highlighted all the misogynistic parts in yellow, the terrible clichés in green, and the parts where she’s ripped off other writers—including me—in pink.
I turned more pages. I could feel Gleason watching me closely.
I said nothing, hoping my expression stayed the same, that my cheeks didn’t flush, that nothing on the surface of my skin betrayed what was going on beneath it.
The book looked like an Easter egg.
“Ever see Melanie Joan Hall with this particular book?”
“No.” I was telling the truth. I’d never seen her with it.
“You sure?” he said.
“I’m sure,” I said.
“You know that Leila Donnelly didn’t have surveillance cameras at her house,” he said. “Her only protection was the gun she was ultimately killed with.”
“I didn’t see cameras there,” I said. “But I didn’t look for them. We wanted to talk to her, and we did. We left. End of story.”
He nodded. “What would you say if I told you that a witness called local police yesterday, at around three-forty-five p.m.?” he said.
“Said they were jogging by and heard screams coming from Ms. Donnelly’s house.
On their return route, the jogger saw a limo in the driveway that had not been there before, and a woman fitting Ms. Hall’s description getting inside. ”
I stared at him. My head felt light.
“What would you say, Ms. Randall?”
“I’d say…” I cleared my throat. “That’s a pretty steep road to jog on.”
He said nothing. His gaze drilled into me.
“This is the first time I’m hearing this information,” I said.
“That’s fairly obvious,” he said. “Anything else you want to say about this book?”
“No.”
He nodded and slipped it back into the briefcase. He removed his gloves. I did the same. If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that I needed to get out of there quickly. “You have any more questions for me?”
“None at the moment.” He gave me a business card.
I looked at it. His first name was George.
Usually, when cops introduced themselves to me, they gave me their first and last names.
Not humorless Larry David, though. He’d been Detective Gleason from the start.
“If you remember anything that might be of help, I’d appreciate a call,” he said.
“All right.”
“Do you have a card as well?”
I grabbed my purse and fished out a business card, willing my hands not to tremble. “I hope you’re looking at other people,” I said. “Melanie Joan Hall is not a murderer. I can assure you of that.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. I couldn’t have imagined a more disheartening response.