Chapter Nine
“Detective Marks,” Juliette said as she approached the man hovering in a hall off the main foyer.
He spun around, his expression not so much relaxing as deflating. “Miss Winters. You know, I’m starting to think you’re haunting me.”
“Funny, since you’re the one who’s been ghosting me,” Juliette countered. “Any news?”
Detective Marks sighed. “Like I told you yesterday, and the day before that, and twice the day before that—we’re still investigating.”
“So, you haven’t recovered the manuscript,” Juliette said, with just a hint of disapproval. Enough to stay respectful of a man with a gun on his hip.
“Missing property really isn’t my department, like I told you,” said the detective. “Look, I passed your report on to Criminal Investigations. They’re looking into it.”
“I heard,” Juliette said, glancing over her shoulder at June Piedmont, who had rejoined the flock of Pacific Pines mavens.
“Meanwhile, it’s been two weeks since the manuscript was stolen and they haven’t found so much as a bent staple.
I know to someone like you that manuscript was just a stack of papers with words printed on them, but to us it was worth millions.
Jobs. Livelihoods. It’s not a missing cat or a stolen Jet Ski, we can’t just put up posters hoping for its return.
What about the man I saw with the duffel bag? ”
“Yeah, they’re looking into him, too,” said the detective, bending one corner of his already crumpled envelope. “They’re talking to everyone on the guest list as well as the staff, trying to narrow down who he might have been. I told you, Miss Winters, these kinds of investigations take time.”
Time was the very thing Juliette didn’t have in excess, but the detective was already getting shifty-eyed.
“And what about Warren?” she asked, blocking his path so he couldn’t slip away.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” said Detective Marks wearily.
“What was the official cause of death?” Juliette pressed, never one to be deterred by regulations.
“And don’t say heart attack. I heard that the investigating detective—that’s you—ordered an autopsy.
You don’t order an autopsy for fun, which means you suspect there might be foul play in his death. So, what did the autopsy say?”
Detective Marks sighed to the rafters. “You know, my mother wanted me to be an architect. Said it better suited my introverted nature. I don’t imagine there’s a lot of arguing about autopsies in the architectural world, now is there?”
“I heard from someone else that the microphone might have been the cause of his death,” Juliette said, expanding on the brief mention Clayton had made about the sound system.
“Is that what caused the black marks on his hands? Was he electrocuted? Could someone have rigged the system to deliver a shock when he touched it?”
“All I can say is, if you do a web search on that make and model of wireless microphone, you’ll find it’s a known issue that the thing has shorts. Some minor burns, but likely nothing that would cause a heart attack.”
“But what about the defibrillator?” Juliette pressed. “I mean, come on, Warren has a heart attack and the one device on the whole boat that can actually save his life just happens to have no battery power? And the doctor said it looked like the paddles had been used.”
“That much at least I can tell you. We did a full inspection, checked the logs and everything, and apparently it had been used previously. We’re still hunting down details on when it was used and why the machine wasn’t properly serviced and charged afterward, but for now that looks like a dead end. ”
She could see she wasn’t making headway with the detective discussing the evidence trail, but there was still the matter of those in Warren’s orbit who had been acting strangely the night of the party, not to mention strangely fine at his funeral.
“Did you talk to Chipper Floyd?” Juliette asked.
“I told you I caught them arguing right before Warren’s speech, and heard Chipper threaten Warren’s life.
Meanwhile June Piedmont is acting awfully relieved that Warren’s manuscript will never see the light of day.
And she practically jumped down my throat asking what I knew about the police investigation into Warren’s death.
Plus, there’s Bradley Ellingham, because that introduction speech he gave the night of Warren’s party?
Woof. If anyone stands to gain from Warren’s death—”
“Miss Winters,” said the detective, holding up his hands to stop her.
“I know in our modern age of armchair sleuthing and true crime documentaries that everybody thinks they’re a detective, but I can tell you from a decade of experience that nine times out of ten when an old guy keels over from a heart attack, it’s ’cause he was an old guy who had a heart attack.
You can spin theories all day, but I can’t do my job without good, hard facts.
And the facts here don’t point to any kind of foul play.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to deliver this report to the family and be on my way. Funerals make me uncomfortable.”
Juliette knew a brush-off when she was getting one—she’d certainly handed out her fair share to casual hookups who started getting ideas about staying the night or making dinner plans.
Still, even as Detective Marks headed down the hallway where she’d first spotted him, she couldn’t just let him go.
She let him get far enough ahead that he wouldn’t notice her trailing in his wake.
For a police officer, he was shockingly oblivious to having a tail.
He paused before a heavy wooden door, clearing his throat and making a futile effort to smooth the rumpled front of his shirt before lifting a hand and knocking.
Juliette found a vantage point to watch as the detective fidgeted with the poor yellow envelope in his hand, accidentally tearing one corner and cursing softly under his breath.
The door swung open sharply, Brad Ellingham doing his best to fill the frame with his wide shoulders and a sneer. “You’d really show your face here today of all days, huh?”
“I’ve got the results of the autopsy and I figured you’d want them sooner rather than later,” said Detective Marks.
Did she detect a hint of chagrin in his tone?
Remorse, or—no, something more personal than that.
He was worried—walking delicately around the subject.
He hadn’t been delicate a minute of his time with her, and she happened to know she was a formidable adversary.
So what was he worried Brad Ellingham would do?
“And what did you find, Detective?” Brad continued to sneer at Marks, snatching the envelope out of his hand. “The smoking gun you were expecting? Thought you’d make your career on cracking this one wide open?”
Detective Marks shuffled his feet, averting his gaze to the floor. Honestly, if the man had a tail, he’d have tucked it by now. Juliette would have figured he’d have more spine than that.
“Natural causes, just like you said,” replied Detective Marks.
“There was a burn mark on his palm, probably a short from the wireless microphone. It’s a known issue, and there’s no sign of tampering that we could find.
I’ve already signed off on releasing the body back to you, fast as I could. The ME worked overnight.”
“Not fast enough,” Brad snapped. “We’re burying an empty casket today, and then I’ve gotta pay the guys double to dig it back up, put my dad in there, and rebury it. It’s a disgrace is what it is.”
“Listen, Mr. Ellingham, I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d call the mayor and the police chief and let them know we handled this as quickly as possible.”
Brad blinked a few times, as if considering the option. “Now why would a man like me do a personal favor for a schlub like you? I told you I’d make you regret pursuing this. If I were you, I’d start looking at which overnight security guard positions are hiring.”
Detective Marks sagged lower than before, and even though he’d just given Juliette the cold shoulder, she didn’t enjoy seeing him so thoroughly put down by the likes of Brad Ellingham.
Brad slammed the door before the detective could even work up a decent response—though what do you say to someone hell-bent on ruining your life just for doing your job?
She ducked down a side passage as Detective Marks slumped past. Juliette marched up to the door the detective had just vacated and rapped her fingers against the wood with authority. Brad wrenched it open.
“I told you, Det—Oh.” Brad’s sour expression softened thoughtfully as he looked her up and down. “Well, it’s about time.”
“About time for…?”
“I’m supposed to be giving this speech thing like ten minutes ago, so you’ll have to be quick.
” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the room, the door sounding awfully final as it swung shut behind her.
The room seemed to be some kind of office—Warren’s office, by the looks of it, though Brad had certainly made himself at home.
All of Warren’s fine paintings—curated by Clayton, no doubt—had been pulled from the walls and stacked against each other like common prints at a bargain home goods store, replaced by flimsy diplomas and pop art–style paintings of Brad.
He’d tossed the yellow envelope on his keyboard, the papers spread across the top and tantalizingly out in the open for any enterprising person to take a peek.
“Mr. Ellingham, I’ve been trying to reach you—” Juliette started, eye still on the envelope as Brad circled the desk to where he’d hung up a slate gray suit.