Chapter Twenty-Eight
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was nearly noon by the time Vesper and Maximilian left the Bickertons’ house.
Vesper chewed on her bottom lip as they walked side by side toward a small park a few blocks up the road, and tried to focus on the new details of the investigation.
They’d learned so much in the last twenty-four hours, and now she felt as though the five-thousand-piece puzzle she’d originally thought she was working on was actually ten thousand.
She remembered the bruising on Ada’s face and was overcome with guilt.
She felt terribly that Ada had been attacked, but if she was honest, she also grieved the loss of the journal.
In the wake of Belver’s death, it was the only tangible thing she’d had to possibly give Chief Stettner. Now that was gone too.
Maximilian cleared his throat, interrupting her thoughts.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Let’s lay out what we’ve done so far, what we’ve learned.”
Vesper ticked a finger. “First suspect: Bess Duxley. She was one of Francis’s ex-lovers, and she had a plausible means, opportunity, and motive to want Mr. Gladwell dead.”
“But you don’t think it was her?”
Vesper shook her head. “There’s a possibility that she killed him in a crime of passion, but the truth is, I think Bess wanted her and Francis to end up together,” she said. “It certainly would have been better for her reputation.”
“Which takes us to our second and more likely suspect: Charles Belver. He stood to lose or gain a great deal because of the Gladwell Machine. We know that he was struggling financially, so he was desperate. He also had Gladwell’s prototype in his office.”
“It could still be him,” said Vesper. “Right now, we have lots of circumstantial evidence, but without a confession or physical evidence, we have nothing that definitively links him to Mr. Gladwell’s murder.”
“Suspect number three.” This time, Maximilian held up three fingers.
“The Thally Rousers. We know at least one of them was at the exhibition, and that the police saw them around the maze shortly after Francis was murdered. Francis’s brother seemed to think there was a connection there—he actually saw Francis with them, and blunt force to the head is certainly a brutal enough way for a gang to take someone out. ”
“There’s no doubt the Rousers are capable of it,” said Vesper. “They had the opportunity and means, but after talking to Miss Thally … it doesn’t really seem like there’s any motive there. He came to them, and if what she said is to be believed, they weren’t interested in his machine.”
“That’s a big if,” Maximilian pointed out. “Do you trust them?”
“No more or less than I trust anyone else we’ve spoken to,” said Vesper.
“But there are too many holes there too. If they wanted to profit off his machine, keeping Francis alive would have made more sense. He was the one that understood its mechanics. At very least, they would have imprisoned him somewhere and brought him out when the machine needed repairs and maintenance.”
She steepled her fingers together. She remembered the newspaper clipping she’d been sent, the words that’d been scrawled below her name.
You’re next.
Someone who was still very much alive knew that she was trying to find out who killed Francis Gladwell, and they wanted her to stop.
She hadn’t mentioned that death threat to anyone, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to, but new theories were forming.
She thought back to the rogue horse at the polo match, then to the mishap at the Belvers’ aviary.
In isolation, they had seemed like accidents, but now …
Tell Max, a voice in her head prompted. Tell Tom.
Vesper shook her head. Besides the fact that she had no way of proving any of these things were connected, she knew that if she told Tom, or Maximilian, they might want her to take precautions, or quit the investigation altogether. Her resolve hardened. No. She was too close to give up now.
The park they’d reached was small, more of a grassy courtyard situated in the midst of the city’s towering gray and brown buildings. Maximilian led them to an empty bench, and they sat. Vesper leaned forward, letting her chin rest in her palms.
“We’re still missing a lot of pieces,” she said, staring at a flower bed. “We know who Francis Gladwell really was and where he came from, but we still don’t know where he was getting his money.”
“It doesn’t seem like anyone does,” Maximilian agreed. “So now what?”
She sighed. “I think we have to go back to square one.”
Maximilian paused. “And do you think we can figure this out by the first?”
Vesper didn’t answer. The truth was, she didn’t know anymore.
She only had ten days left, and only a pile of unanswered questions.
If she couldn’t figure this out, she’d lose everything.
There was no backup plan if she failed, and it was starting to look like that was exactly what was going to happen.
She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered against the morning chill. A single tear slid down her cheek.
“Vesper.”
She looked up. Maximilian was watching her, his expression intent. “We’ll figure this out, I promise.”
Vesper shook her head. “You’re a powerful man, Mr. Kite, but even you can’t promise that.”
A hint of amusement touched his face. “The best investigator in this entire city is on the case,” he said. “I have complete confidence.”
Vesper wished she could borrow even a fraction of that confidence.
She stared into Maximilian’s eyes—brown today—and wished that she had ever known the kind of easy self-assurance that seemed natural to him.
She watched as his expression changed, growing more intent.
Something in those eyes shifted just slightly.
“Miss Evans,” he said in a lower voice. “I know what happened last night was … unexpected.”
Vesper’s cheeks suddenly grew hot again. She knew she should have been thinking about the investigation, but her mind kept replaying scenes from that moment in the den. She thought of the way Maximilian’s lips had felt, hot against her skin, the way she’d wanted more and more of them.
“Unexpected,” she said, “I think that’s the right word.”
“I wanted to apologize,” he said. “We’d both had a long day, we had drinks, and … I should have known better,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
Vesper felt a strange stab of emotion she couldn’t name. He regretted what they’d done. Of course he did. Her face suddenly felt hot. Was he embarrassed? Ashamed?
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she murmured. “As you said, we’d both had a long day.”
“Vesper. Please, look at me.”
It was the second time this morning that he’d said her given name instead of calling her Miss Evans. Slowly, she turned to face him again.
“What I wanted to say last night in the den,” he began. “What I was trying to say was…” He massaged the back of his neck, looking uneasy. “I … well, I…”
“Wait. Look.”
Two police officers were heading in their direction, and she recognized one of them as Stettner. A sense of unease filled her as the two men stopped before them, particularly when Chief Stettner didn’t even look at her.
“Mr. Maximilian Kite?” he said, staring at the sorcerer.
Maximilian stood, frowning. “Yes.”
“We met at your event at the Basalton Museum of Art. My name is Chief Frederick Stettner.” The stiff formality in his voice sounded strange to Vesper. “I’m sorry to do this here, but I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Vesper stood too. “Stettner, what is this? What’s going—”
“Stay out of it, Miss Evans.” The police chief’s eyes were hard. “I don’t want to make a scene, but if you refuse to come with me of your own volition, Mr. Kite, I’m afraid I’ll have to take more drastic measures.”
Maximilian stiffened. “Am I under arrest?”
“You’re being detained,” said Chief Stettner. “We’re going to need you to come to the station now to answer some questions in relation to the recent murder of Mr. Francis Gladwell.”
Vesper went cold. “Fred, wait. This isn’t right. Max didn’t kill Francis Gladwell. He—”
“Miss Evans.” There was a new sharpness in the police chief’s voice. “For once in your life, do as I say and be quiet.” He turned back to Maximilian, looking wary. “Will you come with us of your own volition?”
Maximilian swallowed, suddenly looking much younger than he was. At that moment, he didn’t look confident, or self-assured. He only looked afraid.
“I’ll comply.”
Chief Stettner nodded to the other police officer. He stepped forward and took Maximilian by the upper arm.
“Fred.” Vesper moved so that she was standing directly in front of the police chief now. She knew how short Fred’s patience tended to be, knew that she was taking a gamble by pushing him further, but she had to try one more time. “Please. Tell me what’s going on. Why is Mr. Kite being arrested?”
Chief Stettner seemed to have some sort of internal battle with himself. He frowned, but then his expression softened. He turned to the police officer now holding on to Maximilian.
“Go ahead,” he ordered. “I’ll catch up in a moment.”
The officer nodded and started out of the park, frog-marching Maximilian. Once they were out of earshot, Chief Stettner leaned in.
“This morning, we had a man come in and give testimony we believe is credible.”
“Testimony?” Vesper repeated. “What kind of testimony?”
The police chief took a deep breath, then said, “The man confessed to the murder of Francis Gladwell, and said Maximilian Kite paid him to do it.”