Chapter 9
The Devil warns of a toxic relationship and possible sabotage.
CAL
Iwake up with a headache on the verge of becoming a migraine. Unrealistically, I am hoping and praying that Paul’s murder and the interrogation I am facing are a nightmare. Nope, I’m awake and I hear Marci singing in the kitchen and smell coffee brewing.
“Rise and shine!” I am happy to see Marci carrying a tray laden with coffee and pastries.
“Pain du chocolat! And lemon tarts? You baked this morning?”
“The crew starts baking at 5 a.m. I had them bring these over straight out of the oven.” She pats me on the head like a beloved pet. “Special delivery for my little jailbird.”
“Not funny,” I say with my mouth full of chocolate croissant.
I take a sip of my coffee. She made it just the way I like it. “What would I do without you?”
“Without me you’d be late for your meeting with your attorney. Which is in 30 minutes.”
A loud knock on the door downstairs startles us.
“Laura must be early. You get dressed and I’ll get her some coffee.” The knocking gets louder and more insistent. Marci grumbles as she hurries down the stairs, “Geez, Laura, give it a break.”
It’s not Laura Fuller at the door. Detective Juanita Bizzell shoves a search warrant in Marci’s face.
“Stand aside, ma’am. We have an order to search these premises in connection with the murder of Paul Davis.”
“Detective Bizzell, what is going on?” Marci stands her ground, blocking the detective’s entry. “Cal is getting dressed and plans to be at the precinct at 11:00 with her attorney.”
“Change of plans.” Detective Bizzell motions for my friend to move out of the way. “Don’t make me move you.”
Marci turns and runs up the stairs. “Get out of bed now and get dressed. That’s the police downstairs. They have a search warrant.”
I leap out of bed, upending the bed tray, spilling the coffee on the bed and the floor. Pastry crumbs fly everywhere. “This is ridiculous. I’m going down there….” I stop, put my hand over my mouth and race to the bathroom, retching.
Marci stands outside the bathroom door with her face pressed against it, whispering, “It’s gonna be OK, it’s gonna be OK, it’s gonna be OK.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Detective Bizzell moves Marci out of the way. “We need to search this room.”
“My best friend is in the bathroom tossing her guts and you need to search the flippin’ room right now?”
“Yes. Move.”
I look in the bathroom mirror: sunken eyes, ashen face, slumped shoulders. I calm myself and open the bathroom door. “It’s alright.” To Detective Bizzell I say, “Sorry for the vomit smell.”
Walking away I add, “Beyatch.” Marci grabs my arm and ushers me into my closet.
“Shhhhh! I hope she didn’t hear that. Biz has a reputation for being mean and tough as nails.”
I drop into a chair in my closet to steady myself from the shock of what I consider an invasion of my home and privacy. I designed the space as a huge dressing room with a comfortable chair, side table, and lots of shelves for shoes, books, and crystals. It is not only a closet but my meditation space.
Detective Bizzell follows us into the closet. She looks around and heads straight for the shelves that contain shoe boxes. She opens one box after another, throwing the lids on the floor and dumping the shoes.
“Detective, if you tell me what you are looking for, perhaps I can find it and you won’t have to go to all of this trouble.” Despite the migraine and nausea, I speak firmly.
Detective Bizzell turns to me. “Do you have a pair of leopard print Manolo Blahniks?”
“Ummm, yes, but I haven’t worn those shoes in years.” With effort, I rise from my chair and pull out a step stool. On the uppermost shelf, I pull out a box. “Here you go, Detective.”
The detective opens the box and shakes it. Gold tissue paper flutters to the floor. “Where are the shoes, Ms. Cassidy?”
“I honestly don’t know, Detective. I can’t remember the last time I wore them.” A missing cup and now missing shoes? What in the hell is going on?
Detective Bizzell tosses the box and snaps open her handcuffs. “I can tell you exactly when you last wore them, Ms. Cassidy. Thursday night. And you left one stuck in Paul Davis’ head.”
“You have the right to…”
She may have finished her sentence, but I didn’t hear it. I hit the floor in a dead faint.