I.L. Wolf - Her Cousin, Much Removed Page 6

  “Broad.”

  “Yes.”

  “Brownish, highlighted hair?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “And not fat or doughy-looking, but broad.”

  “That’s how I’d put it.”

  Without thinking she reached over and gave him a quick pat to the arm. “That’s Marlene, Inspector Clouseau.”

  “Did you just ‘Pink Panther’ me?”

  “I most certainly did.”

  “Because you can scoff, but he still got his man.”

  “Eh,” she said, shrugging. “So that’s what you were going to tell me? You saw my boss staring at me?”

  “Your boss?”

  “Yeah, she’s married to Julian.”

  “Who’s Julian?”

  “My other boss. I thought you did your homework about me.”

  “I covered the really important stuff,” he said lightly. “So Julian and Marlene what?”

  “Green,” she said as he pulled onto her street. He slowed to find parking.

  “Why do you think she didn’t say anything to you, then? And stood off, staring?’

  Venetia took in a big breath, held it, and then let it out. “She probably thought I was flirting with you,” she said. “She wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt.”

  He stopped mid-parallel park and turned toward her. “Flirting with me?”

  “She’s eternally optimistic, that one,” she said. “So that’s all you were debating about telling me?”

  He hesitated a moment, setting the car perfectly into the spot. “Yes,” he said, but it didn’t sound all that convincing.

  After checking in with the uniformed officer sitting in his car, watching the front entrance, they headed upstairs, Detective James a few steps ahead of her, keeping an eye out for anything odd. When they got to the top of the stairs, he put a finger to his lips, and motioned to her to wait.

  He pulled his gun out of its holster, and silently made his way down the carpet of the hall, checking the door, checking her. He put his ear to the door of her unit. Waving to her to get down, he kicked the door, hard, the unlocked door flying open, and pointed the gun straight at the man in Venetia’s living room.

  “Freeze,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  “Whoa,” said the guy.

  “Wait, Detective James, what are you doing?” Venetia launched herself off the stairs and sprinted down the hallway. “Stop.”

  He didn’t waver, his gun still aimed. “Stop?”

  “Stop.”

  “Yeah, dude, stop,” said the guy.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Does she know me? Seriously, Venetia, who is this clown?”

  “This ‘clown’ is a member of our city’s finest, Mason.”

  “Wait, I know you,” said the detective, finally lowering his weapon.

  “Everyone does,” Mason said, smiling his glowing smile. “Mason Certain, Local 9 News.” He extended a hand to Cadby James, who holstered his gun and then returned the shake.

  “What are you doing in Venetia’s apartment?” he said, looking from Mason to Venetia.

  “She didn’t tell you? I’m surprised she didn’t tell you, she tells everyone, she’s so proud of me.” He held out an arm, and he watched as Venetia crossed the room to fit herself under it.

  “Proud of him?” he said.

  “He’s my boyfriend,” Venetia said, her eyes not directly on Detective James as she said it.

  “Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?”

  “We’re practically engaged,” said Mason, the smile still broad, but his eyes evaluating. “Want to tell me what you’re doing with my Vennie?”

  At this last word, one of Cadby’s eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing.

  “Well, Vennie—” he caught the headshake from Venetia and corrected himself, “Venetia and I are getting back from the hospital.”

  “Babe, are you all right?” Just like that, the TV mask vanished, and he studied her, concerned.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Boyfriend,” said Cadby. “How did I miss that?”

  “You didn’t ask,” she said.

  “You didn’t volunteer,” he said.

  “It hardly seemed relevant.”

  “Why is there an officer with you?”

  “Detective,” Venetia and Cadby said in unison.

  “Did you know Delenda O’Brien?” he asked.

  “Yeah, babe, I was so sorry to hear about Delenda.” He gave her a hug that seemed to last a little on the long side. Cadby stood and waited.

  “So you knew her?”

  He shrugged. “Look, officer—”

  “Detective.”

  “Detective, I’m sure that Vennie appreciates your help, as do I, but I’m here now, and that means you can go.”

  “Actually, I can’t,” he said, walking past them to settle himself on the couch. “I’m here on official police business. Speaking of,” he said, “how did you get in here?”

  “My key,” said Mason, sitting in the chair opposite. Venetia looked at the sofa next to Cadby, the chair filled by Mason, and went into the kitchen and grabbed a wooden chair from the tiny table.

  “Let me help you with that,” said Cadby, rising and taking the chair from her. “You sit on the sofa, I’ll take this chair.”

  “So you said that you’re on official police business?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Which is?”

  Cadby smiled, and this time, his eyes were evaluating. “We’re not yet ready to talk to the press about it,” he said.

  “The press?”

  “Local 9 News.”

  “I’m not here as Local 9 News.”

  “Have you been dating long?”

  “Long enough—” said Mason.

  “To be almost engaged,” Cadby finished. “Yes, I got it the first time.”

  “Is there something weird going on here?” said Venetia. “Because it’s feeling like there’s something weird going on here. Does anyone want any coffee or tea or anything?”

  “Coffee would be great, babe,” said Mason. “Great.”

  “Look, Mason, I don’t want to be taken the wrong way, but I’m here for a reason right now, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “I’m sure you are here for a reason, but I’m not going anywhere. Not when Vennie needs me.”

  “We’ve got a delicate situation going, and until I get the chance to ask you some questions, I really can’t have you here.”

  “Babe, can you make mine a half-caf?”

  “Using the pod machine, babe, it’s a pain to do.”

  “I’m sure the detective here wouldn’t mind the other one.”

  “Right,” said Venetia, disappearing into the kitchen.

  “I’m not leaving, so you should start asking your questions.”

  “I’ll ask them,” he said, “but you don’t seem inclined to answer.”

  “Now that’s a strange thing to say,” said Mason.

  “So all of this is off the record?” Detective James said.

  “Of course.”

  “Because Venetia’s safety is at stake.”

  “I wouldn’t harm her for the world.”

  She reappeared into the doorway. “Detective James—”

  “Just call me Cadby,” he said, “at this point, it makes more sense.”

  “OK, Cadby, are you really OK with the half-caf?”

  “Here, let me give you hand.” He screeched the wooden chair against the floor as he got up, and went to the kitchen.

  “You didn’t think it was important to tell me that you have a boyfriend?” He kept his voice low so that it wouldn’t drift back out into the living room.

  “A lot’s happened. It didn’t exactly cross my mind.”

  “You spent a lot of time on the platter.”

  “Yeah, what do you think the odds are of getting that back any time soon? I swear I saw it on the news.”

  “And
that’s the other thing. Your boyfriend’s not some guy, he’s the Local 9 News anchor?”

  “Is it really that relevant?”

  “He’s a member of the press.”

  “Barely,” she said, “Barely. He hasn’t done his own reporting in…I have no idea. Not as long as I’ve known him.”

  “And what was that nonsense about your boss, Marlene, and her being an eternal optimist at the hospital? She was staring because she knows you have a boyfriend and she thought that we—”

  “No, you’re right on that account,” Mason said crowding into the tiny kitchen, “Marlene is not a fan. Never really has been. I don’t know why,” he said. He landed a kiss on Venetia’s forehead. “How’s the coffee coming?”

  “Almost there,” she said.

  He smiled his blinding smile, reached around her to the cabinet above her head, took out a handful of mixed nuts and tossed one into his mouth. “Thanks babe,” he said, and went back to the living room.

  “You also didn’t think you should tell me that he would be here?”

  “I didn’t know he was going to be here. I don’t usually see him on a Wednesday,” she said, transferring half of the cup of coffee below the coffee maker into another mug. She grabbed another pod, refilled the machine, and hit brew.

  “You do realize those are both decaf?”

  “He’ll never notice,” she said. “Oh crap.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Wednesday.” A stream of coffee shot from the machine into the cup.

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

  “And?”

  “It’s the funeral.”

  “About that. I want you to know, I’m going to be there, I kind of have to be,” Cadby said.

  “That coffee’s really taking a long time,” said Mason from the living room.

  “That’s how long it takes when you want half and half,” she said. She gave Cadby a quick shrug.

  She handed Cadby one cup, added cream and sugar to the other and took it out to the living room. “Your coffee,” she said, handing him the mug to his moved spot on the sofa, the gesture warm and familiar. She sat next to him, her legs curled beneath her.

  “Thanks, babe,” he said, and it sounded like a string of evenings spent together, the routine more cozy than dull.

  “So I’ve got to make sure that anything that goes on here is off the record,” Cadby said, “otherwise, as I said, I’d have to ask you to leave.” He hesitated for a moment, took a look around the room. “Unless you live here?”

  “Here? No. I absolutely do not live here.” Cadby nodded as though it was the answer he expected. He pulled out his notebook. “Not that I haven’t been trying to get Venetia to sell this cubby hole and move in with me.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Not too far from the studio, actually. In a high-rise.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It’s not bad,” he said, “nice view. Of course, the view’s always better when Vennie’s there.”

  “So do you sleep there?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “and obviously, I sleep here too.” He pulled his keys off of the end table next to the couch and clinked them.

  “You have a key.”

  “Right, that’s how we started this conversation.”

  “To the front door as well?”

  “How else could I get in here? Though you only need the key for the second door, where the mail room is.”

  “Where Billie Kay was found.”

  “Where she was what? What do you mean she was found?”

  “We told you she was hurt,” said Cadby, watching Mason’s face.

  “You didn’t tell me it was here,” he said. “Were you with her?”

  Venetia shook her head. “No, but she left angry.”

  Detective James held up a hand to stop her. “I need to ask Mason a few questions,” he said, “I hate to ask you this, and since you can’t leave—”

  “You can’t leave? Why can’t you leave?”

  “Again, ongoing investigation. Is there another room you could go to, for a few minutes at least?”

  Venetia shot Detective James an odd look, but got up. “Sure,” she said, “I’ll go in the bedroom. With the door closed?”

  “That would probably be best,” he said.

  “I’m confused,” she said.

  “Can’t taint the investigation, so it’s really best if I ask you questions separately,” he said.

  “Fine,” she said, “No problem.” She went down the hall, not sure how she got ejected from her own living room. She turned the light on in her bedroom, closed the door, and sat on her bed.

  For about ten seconds.

  And then she got up and put her ear to the door. She wasn’t proud of it, but the sound would carry anyway in her place, there wasn’t really anywhere that wasn’t so close to somewhere else as to ensure soundproofing. Except the bathroom. She hoped.

  “You want to tell me about your wedding ring?” Detective James asked after a pause long enough to ensure she wouldn’t hear the question.

  “I’m not wearing a wedding ring,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s not what you think, Detective.”

  “That’s the usual response.”

  “No, it’s really not what you think. My wife…my wife died. Several years ago.”

  “And you still wear the ring?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, and Venetia heard an edge to his voice that sent her back to the bed. She shouldn’t be listening. But it was so hard not to, even from the bed, she could make out most of the words. She was going to hear it all whether she meant to or not.

  “You never told me whether you knew Delenda.”

  There was a quiet that spread all the way from the living room to the bedroom and back again, and then Mason let out a rush of air. “Yes, I knew her. She was one of those people that, no matter how much you don’t want her in your life, she keeps turning up. What’s the expression?”

  “Like a bad penny,” the detective said. “It’s more of a cliché.”

  “Right, like a bad penny, whatever that means. I think,” at this he dropped his voice and Venetia actually had to press her ear to the door, “that the little contact she had with Vennie, a lot of it was to get to me.”

  “To you? Why you?”

  There was a pause. Venetia imagined he shrugged. “She liked the idea of celebrity.”

  “Do you have a lot of celebrity?”

  “You can save the facetiousness, Detective, because I’m fully aware that I’m a local news anchor. But for Delenda, that meant status. She loved status.”

  “Did you communicate with her directly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did your communication all go through Venetia, or did you talk to her directly?”

  Good question, thought Venetia, who suddenly also wanted to know the answer to that one.

  His voice got quieter. “She would call me sometimes,” he said, “but she didn’t want me to let Venetia know.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t she want me to let Venetia know she called or why did she call me?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t know why she didn’t want me to tell Venetia. I think it was a little bit of a power thing, and a little bit of going behind her back. Delenda was one of those people who never wanted to do things out in the open, she never wanted to show you her hand,” he said.

  “And you chose to go along with it?”

  “I kind of think that what she really wanted was for me to tell Vennie, but to tell her that she’d told me not to tell her, you know, to needle at her without needling her. So I didn’t do it.”

  “And what did she want?”

  “Usually pretty stupid things, small things. Stuff around the station, recommendations for restaurants—I think those were so that she could tell her friends that her good friend the news anchor told her to there, you
know the type—and then, the last time or so—”

  “Or so?”

  “I couldn’t really tell you if it was the last time I spoke to her or not, I really didn’t care enough to keep track. Anyway, the last time, she wanted to borrow some platter from Venetia, and Vennie didn’t want to lend it to her, she was sure she’d never get it back. She thought she’d get it by asking me, I guess.”

  “And Venetia did lend her the platter.”

  “And she didn’t get it back. I even told her not to lend it to her, but I don’t know, there was always something so odd between those two.”

  “Odd how?”

  “I think if I were Vennie, I would have made sure that I didn’t have to deal with Delenda. Ever. But I don’t know, I think it was family pressure, her Sissy can be something.”

  “Venetia has a sister?”

  “No, an Aunt. Her name’s Cicada, but she goes by Sissy.”

  “And she’s related to Delenda?”

  “So they say. It’s hard to understand how, exactly, though. Never really got it. Are we about done?”

  “Not quite,” Detective James said. “Did you ever meet Delenda’s husband?”

  “Higson Boggs? No, can’t say I have.”

  “Yet you know his name and don’t seem surprised she was married. Venetia said she didn’t know.”

  “I’m on the news, remember? Our field reporter, Tipsy Nightingale interviewed him in Delenda’s house last night at our late broadcast.”

  “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be there now?”

  Even without seeing his face, Venetia could detect that edge of exasperation to Mason’s tone. “I took the night off,” he said, “it appears my girlfriend has had a pretty traumatic experience.”

  “But she didn’t know you would be here.”

  “I wanted to surprise her,” he said. “Hey don’t you think you could let her out of her bedroom exile?”

  “In a minute,” Detective James said, “I have a few more questions first. Did you see anyone when you got here?”

  “You mean, besides the uniformed officers downstairs?”

  “Yes, how did you get past them?”

  “How do you think? They recognized me, I told them I was Venetia’s boyfriend, showed them the key, and there I was.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Nothing. Did you see anyone else?”