Chapter Twenty-Seven
Charlie insisted on driving her to the station because of the cotton candy vodka, even though the only thing she was drunk on was the feel of his fingers gripping her bare skin.
The whole interior of his car smelled of him, and it was like she could taste him in the air—or maybe that was the lingering flavor of his mouth on hers.
She felt hyper-attuned to his every movement—the flex of his fingers against the shifter, the way his eyes constantly scanned the road, the slight lean of his body as he curved to make a turn.
By the time he sighed and she felt her own chest deflating in response, she felt like she was going crazy.
She snapped her attention out the window, refusing to acknowledge his existence.
They didn’t talk on the drive, and Juliette supposed that was just as well.
Her insides were a confusing mix of fear, sexual desire, and pad thai.
What could the detective have found that would concern her?
Did Charlie regret the kiss? Had they tested the substance under Brad’s fingernails that quickly and somehow linked it to her?
Was Charlie looking at her? Had Brad’s blood formed an incriminating splatter pattern on her clothes?
Could Charlie at least give her some indication of what he thought of the kiss, and if they would ever kiss again? Preferably soon, possibly right now?
“This is it,” Charlie said, startling her with the close proximity of his voice.
He sounded calm and steady, thoroughly unfazed by the twisty, turning events of the evening so far.
She couldn’t decide if she was impressed or irritated as he pulled into a parking spot at a building that looked halfway to a prison already.
The sight of so many black-and-whites made Juliette’s neck itch.
“You don’t have to stay,” Juliette said, admirably casual when all she really wanted to do was hop the first plane to somewhere warm and tropical with lax extradition policies.
“I’m not leaving you like this,” Charlie said, sounding almost offended that she would suggest him to be anything less than the shiniest of white knights.
“I’m a big girl, Charlie, I can take care of myself,” Juliette said dryly, even though a knot loosened in her chest at the thought of facing whatever was about to come her way with Charlie at her side.
Not at her side, not like that. It was one kiss.
They weren’t, like, a thing. Juliette didn’t do things.
Emotionally she’d been on her own since her parents sold their first Parenting a Prodigy book when she was six and started acting less like parents and more like scientists testing their research in the lab.
What would they think of their little prodigy now, sitting outside a police station wanted for murder in a pair of borrowed sweats reeking of gimmick-flavored vodka?
She could practically hear the pitch for their next book: Raising Your Emotionally Incompetent Adult Child: Coping with the Disappointment of Your Failed Prodigy.
She could write the marketing copy for them.
“I’d like to be here for you,” Charlie said gently. “If that’s all right?”
It was more than all right, which wasn’t all right at all. And so she forced herself to adopt a breezy tone as she hopped out of the car, mostly to hide the relief on her face. “Fine, whatever. You can come.”
The station was practically dead in the wee hours, the fluorescent lighting lending a ghoulish glare to the man working the front desk. He looked like an extra in a zombie movie, mid-transformation.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking like they’d inconvenienced him in his own home.
“I’m here to see Detective Marks,” Juliette said.
The man looked her up and down. “This about the MLM leggings murder? Or the country club murder?”
“Obviously the country club murder,” Juliette said, offended by the implication that she’d be lured into a multi-level marketing scheme. Especially one built around leggings.
The man shrugged and called back for the detective. Juliette was glad for the distraction of putting this desk jockey in his place, because the moment Detective Marks appeared, her nerves jangled once again.
“Ms. Winters, thanks for coming down at this hour.”
Juliette crossed her arms, ready to do battle. “What did you find, and am I under arrest now?”
“You keep asking if you’re under arrest,” Detective Marks said. “You got some guilt you’re looking to get off your chest?”
“Detective,” Charlie said in a conciliatory voice, inserting himself between the two of them.
“It’s been an upsetting, traumatizing day.
You’ll forgive us for being a little on edge.
I’m sure everyone here just wants to make sure we find who actually killed Brad Ellingham. Isn’t that right, Juliette?”
She was more interested in what the specific penalties for assaulting a police officer in his own precinct were, but Charlie had a point. She loosened her arms and put on her best attempt at a cooperative expression. “Happy to help. What do you need?”
Detective Marks gave Charlie an appraising look. “You ever considered police work? That was some impressive redirection.”
That’s what playing nicely got Juliette. She gave the detective a glare. “He’s already gainfully employed, and it’s late, Detective Marks.”
“Fair enough. We recovered your missing duffel bag.”
Juliette blinked in shock. “Really? What about the whiskey bottle?”
Detective Marks gave a brief hint of a nod. “That too. Already bagged and tagged for the lab, won’t have results for a few days. But we got the next best thing—the Derrick fellow you said found the duffel bag. He confessed to stealing the money shockingly fast.”
“Sounds like Duffel Bag,” Juliette muttered. “What are we—”
“This is an absolute outrage!” came June Piedmont’s voice at full let me speak to your manager levels.
She stood at the front desk, glaring down the zombie extra.
“Dragging us from our beds in the middle of the night, insisting we speak with your detective. The commissioner is a close personal friend of ours, and he would be appalled to hear of the treatment we’ve received. ”
“Junie, let’s just get this over with,” said Robert Piedmont, far more subdued. He looked every inch the beleaguered husband of a hardcore social climber.
“And let them treat us this way?” June said, shocked. “You’ve lost your mind, Robert. My husband is in no position to suffer your cruel interrogations at this hour, the detective will have to reschedule—”
“Mrs. Piedmont,” said Detective Marks, waving her over and unfortunately putting Juliette right in her crosshairs.
“You,” hissed June Piedmont. “I should have known you would be at the center of whatever this … this … tomfoolery is. What did she tell you, Detective? Because I can assure you, this woman is nothing but a liar and a fraud.”
“You’d know how to spot one, wouldn’t you?” Juliette challenged.
“How dare you—”
“Mrs. Piedmont, please,” said Detective Marks, looking uncomfortable. “Mr. Piedmont. If the two of you could come with me, it would be better if we could discuss this somewhere more private. Ms. Winters, I know you were here first—”
“We’re happy to wait,” Juliette said sympathetically.
“I assume you plan on doing something ill-advised and potentially illegal?” Charlie asked as Detective Marks led the Piedmonts down the hall.
“Of course,” Juliette said, checking for witnesses before following after them. “We’re going to listen in on their conversation.”
“Is it worth pointing out that this is the kind of thing people actually do get arrested for?” Charlie whispered as Juliette tugged open the door adjacent to the room where Detective Marks had disappeared.
Just as she thought—there was a window into the adjoining room where Detective Marks had sat the Piedmonts.
“You can wait outside and stand guard if you’re not comfortable bending the rules,” Juliette said, slipping inside the darkened interior.
“Breaking the law, Juliette, this is breaking the law,” Charlie muttered, though he followed her into the room. “You’re a terrible influence, do you know that?”
“You’re not the first man in dad jeans to tell me that,” Juliette said, pressing buttons and flipping switches until an old-school speaker overhead buzzed to life. “There we go.”
“… again, we really do,” came Detective Marks’s voice. His back was to them, which gave Juliette an unfettered view of June’s sour expression and Robert’s blank stare.
“We’ll help apprehend Brad’s murderer any way we can, of course,” said June primly. “A ghastly affair, quite traumatizing to everyone at the club. We’re only too happy to put this whole sordid business behind us and continue on with our renovations.”
“Do you recognize this, Mr. and Mrs. Piedmont?” asked the detective, sliding a photo across the table. Robert shifted sharply in his chair, but June’s expression went stone-cold as she put a hand on his arm, digging her fingers in.
“It looks to be whiskey,” she said, admirably casual. “Though I can’t fathom why you would drag us down here in the middle of the night to identify a bottle of liquor. What has that got to do with poor Brad’s death?”
“We found this bottle stashed in a duffel bag in the locker room where Bradley Ellingham was murdered,” said Detective Marks, “and we have several witnesses who have confirmed Warren Ellingham was drinking this same whiskey the night of his heart attack. Apparently, a gift from the two of you, wasn’t it? ”
“How should I know?” June scoffed. “We had our personal sommelier pick something out for him. I don’t know what he bought! It could be one of any thousands of bottles.”
“It’s a very rare bottle of whiskey, actually,” Detective Marks mused.
“Only one of a hundred of this kind produced. And wouldn’t you know it, each bottle was hand-labeled with the lot number written on the bottom.
See here?” The detective pulled out another photo, tapping the number 073 inscribed with silver marker on the bottom of the bottle.
“We’re checking sales records on where each bottle was shipped.
What do you suppose we’ll find, Mrs. Piedmont? ”
“Junie,” Robert said, clearing his throat and shifting once again, “maybe we ought to call—”
“Even if that is the bottle we gifted Warren, what’s it got to do with anything?” June demanded. “Why are we here, Detective? For making a gift to a dear friend? This is targeting, plain and simple, and we won’t stand for it. Whatever you think you’ve got—”
“Funny thing about this bottle, ma’am,” said the detective, tapping the edge of the photo. “The autopsy on Mr. Ellingham—the elder Mr. Ellingham, that is—concluded natural causes, with a caveat. You see, Mr. Ellingham had a drug in his system called digitalis. Are you familiar with digitalis?”
“We’re over the age of sixty, everyone we know is familiar with common heart medications,” June said, but there was a distinct edge of panic to her tone.
“Junie,” Robert said gravely, “we really ought to call Martin. I think we need a lawyer.”
Detective Marks nodded slowly. “Sure, we can get the lawyers involved. I probably would, too, if I were facing what you’re facing.”
“What is that?” June asked despite herself, her face turning gray.
Detective Marks leaned back in his chair, slow-playing the whole thing so well that Juliette had to reassess her opinion of the man.
He was far more clever than his rumpled appearance would suggest. “Well, the problem is, we checked with Warren’s doctor.
And turns out, he wasn’t on any kind of heart medication.
So, we’re thinking to ourselves, how could a drug like that end up in his system?
And why? So here we are with this whiskey bottle, which you just admitted you hand-delivered to Warren before his heart attack.
And my guys, well. They know a coincidence when they see one.
So we sent it to the lab for processing.
What do you suppose we’ll find, Mrs. Piedmont? ”
Juliette wasn’t so sure she would have survived such an intense interrogation. Just watching this one was giving her heartburn. Though it was fun to watch June Piedmont squirm.
And squirm she did. “If you are implying that I—that we—had something to do with Warren’s death … That we … what? Poisoned him? Why would we do such a thing? Warren was our friend! We’ve known him for decades, ages. We would never … we could never! Honestly, Detective, on what grounds?”
“You know, I was wondering that myself,” said Detective Marks, scratching at his cheek.
“Until I started asking around among those close personal friends of yours at the club. Turns out, you two are in debt up to your eyeballs and about to default on a number of bad business loans. Apparently, you used the club as collateral against your last loan, but there was a discrepancy with Warren’s signature. And when the bank reached out, well—”
“I want our lawyer, right this instant!” June cried. “You can’t treat us like this! We are American citizens. We know the governor! We pay your salary, young man, and if you think—”
“Junie!” Robert Piedmont heaved the world’s weariest sigh, but his voice was clear and resigned. “Junie, get off your high horse. Can’t you see the man already had everything he needed before we ever set foot in this station?”
“They have nothing, Robert, this is all circumstantial—”
“Junie, I’m tired as hell.” Robert sighed.
And while Juliette had considered him the unfortunate spouse of an enterprising wife, in that moment she saw him for what he really was—a man with zero fucks left to give.
“The membership drives, the lying, the phone calls, the investigation. I’m sick of all that shit, Junie Bee.
I can’t do this anymore. You can’t do this anymore.
You’ve got bald patches on your head that you’re filling in with possum fur, honey. ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” June said, touching her scalp in horror.
“Possum fur?” Charlie murmured in bemusement.
“It’s surprisingly soft,” said Juliette, before shushing him. They were finally getting to the good part.
“Mr. Piedmont, if you have a statement you wish to make, I’m all ears,” said Detective Marks, shockingly calm in the midst of the storm brewing across from him.
“Don’t you dare, Robert,” June hissed. “Don’t you dare say a thing.”
“We did it, Detective,” Robert said, not looking at his wife. “We killed Warren Ellingham.”