Review to a Kill Page 16

  “Of course not,” I said. “Not officially at least.”

  “And we went to the location of the IP address you gave us,” Kate said. “Turns out that email was sent from Cogent Technologies.”

  Leatrice cocked her head. “That sounds familiar.”

  “I thought the same thing,” I said. “The reason it sounds familiar is that Cogent Technologies is owned by Tricia’s father, well now her mother, wait . . .” I paused to think. “Who does own it now that all the Tokers are dead?”

  “That’s not why I recognized it.” Leatrice tapped on her laptop’s keyboard. “I saw the name when I was on LinkedIn.”

  “You’re on LinkedIn?” Kate and I said at the same time.

  My phone rang in my purse, and I fished it out. Reese. I debated whether to answer it but finally decided to get it over with. I’d have to explain myself eventually. Why not now?

  “I got your text,” he said when I answered. “I’m not even going to ask how you got this nugget of information.”

  “Okay.” This was going better than I’d expected.

  “I’m still waiting for an explanation of why you and Kate ran off yesterday.”

  Uh-oh. “You were busy, and we’d already given our statements.”

  “But you left something out, didn’t you?” Reese’s question was telling me, not asking me.

  “To be honest, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was the bride’s mother.” I’d been 99.9 percent sure, but he didn’t need to know that. “But I’m sorry. I probably should have given you the heads-up.”

  “You think?”

  I tried not to pay attention to Kate and Leatrice mouthing to each other so I looked out the car window to avoid being distracted. A silver blur caught my attention. No one drove that fast on these narrow residential streets. Before I could turn around to see who was driving like a maniac, I heard breaking glass.

  “What was that?” Kate whipped her head around, and her mouth fell open.

  “Should I call 911?” Leatrice’s voice came out as more of a shriek.

  “Is everything okay?” Reese asked.

  “Not really,” I said, jumping out of the car and staring at the flames at the end of the block. “My car is on fire.”

  Chapter 33

  “How on earth did this happen?” Richard asked as he stood next to me and watched the fire department extinguish the last few flames on my smoldering remains of a car. He wore his black messenger bag across his chest, this time without a dog inside. Richard had been my first call after hanging up with Reese, who had dispatched the fire department himself.

  “I told you already,” I said. “I heard breaking glass, and when I turned around my car was on fire.”

  “Have you been having car trouble?” He held the back of his hand in front of his nose to block the acrid smoke billowing off the burning metal. “You know you’re terrible about getting your car serviced on time.”

  “If you’re late on an oil change, your car should not burst into flames.” I gave him a side-eye glance. “I mean, it’s an eight-year-old Volvo, so it needed tweaks here and there, but, no, I didn’t have any indication that it would spontaneously combust.”

  “At least you weren’t inside it when it blew.” Richard’s eyes watered, but I didn’t know if it was from his concern for me or from the smoke.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that I could have been inside the car when it caught on fire. The thought chilled me.

  “At least you can finally get a new car.” Richard’s tone of voice became more cheery. “That Volvo really dragged down your image. It was too soccer mom for you.”

  “Well, there’s the silver lining to the rain cloud,” I said. Car shopping was the last thing I needed to add to my plate, but I wouldn’t survive long as a wedding planner without some way to transport the boxes of favors and dozens of welcome bags that brides handed over to me the week of their wedding.

  “Why were you here in the first place?” Richard wrinkled his nose. He’d been very careful not to touch anything since he’d arrived, and he’d applied antibacterial gel to his hands twice already.

  “Checking in on Leatrice’s stakeout.” I tore my gaze away from the charred hull of my car. “Where is she, anyway?”

  “Over there with Kate.” He jerked a thumb toward the fire truck, its lights flashing. “And the rest of the firemen.”

  I turned to see Kate leaning against the truck with a cluster of firemen around her. “I wondered where Kate had gone.” Asking Kate to ignore a group of cute firemen would be like asking Leatrice to wear normal clothes. Speaking of Leatrice, I didn’t spot her next to Kate but found her a moment later sitting in the driver’s seat of the fire truck, pretending to drive. I guessed I should be grateful that she hadn’t convinced one of the men to let her wear his suit.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a familiar figure talking to one of the firemen. Reese walked over to where Richard and I stood.

  “Fancy seeing you again so soon,” Richard said.

  Reese nodded at him. “No dog today?”

  Color crept up Richard’s neck. “He’s with my . . . I mean he’s with his . . . he’s at home.”

  “Aside from the dog, it looks like most of your posse is here,” Reese said. “Did you all come here in your car?”

  “No. Only Kate.” I didn’t mention that Leatrice had already been here because she’d been staking out a potential suspect in the murder case I was supposed to be avoiding. I felt my face flush and not from the residual heat of the fire. “Why the third degree? Do you always investigate car fires like the driver robbed a bank?”

  Reese smiled at that. “I’m trying to figure out why someone might want to target you.”

  “Target me? What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that your car didn’t just catch on fire. Someone set it on fire on purpose. With a Molotov cocktail.”

  Richard’s hand flew to his mouth. “This wasn’t because Annabelle doesn’t get frequent oil changes?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Reese said. “This was arson.”

  My mind flashed back to the silver car that sped past and the breaking glass I heard right before my car burst into flames. Someone in that car had tossed a Molotov cocktail at my car and torched it. Of course. I felt a bit slow for not making the connection right away. Then again, Molotov cocktails weren’t something wedding planners usually dealt with.

  At this point, bridezillas were starting to look pretty appealing.

  Chapter 34

  “That settles it.” I dropped into the front seat of Richard’s convertible. “I’m out of the crime-solving game.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Richard fastened his seatbelt and adjusted his rearview mirror. “It only took having your car torched to convince you.”

  Leatrice popped her head between the two front seats. “We don’t know that the arson is connected to the murder case.”

  “You said I wouldn’t notice she was there,” Richard said to me. “I believe the word you used was ‘invisible.’”

  “I had to say something or you wouldn’t give her a ride home, and the cars parked in front and back of her car are too close for her to get out. She’s boxed in.”

  Richard grumbled as he started his car. Kate had declined Richard’s offer to drop her off and had, instead, accepted an invitation to grab a drink with one of the firemen. None of us were the least bit surprised.

  “I’ll come back later for it,” Leatrice said. “And if I can’t move my car, maybe I’ll resume my stakeout.”

  I turned around to face Leatrice in the back seat. “No more stakeout. You did notice that my car got firebombed, right? Don’t you think that’s connected to me trying to find Tricia’s killer?”

  Leatrice tapped a finger on the brim of her fedora. “Perhaps, but that means you’re on the right track and you’re making the killer nervous.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” I said.

  Richard stopped at a red
light and twisted to face Leatrice. “Annabelle’s car was set on fire. Torched. Flambéed. Burned to a crisp.”

  “But we can’t let that stop us, can we?” Leatrice asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “We absolutely can.”

  The light turned green, and Richard shifted his eyes back to the road. “When the walls start running with blood, you run out of the house. When your car gets set on fire, you abandon the case. Haven’t you ever watched a horror movie, Leatrice?”

  Leatrice shook her head. “Too unrealistic.”

  “Who knew she was a realist?” Richard said to me under his breath.

  I shifted in my leather seat. “Do you have the seat warmers on or am I having a flashback from the fire?”

  Richard winked at me. “Warmers. Too hot?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be cold again for a very long time,” I said as Richard adjusted the controls. “Even if it wasn’t an issue of safety, I’d want to drop the investigation.”

  Leatrice pulled herself forward using the back of my seat. “I thought you needed to clear yourself as a person of interest?”

  “I know I had nothing to do with Tricia’s murder, and the police won’t be able to find any hard evidence that says I did. Anything they have on me is circumstantial. I’ve been making myself”—I glanced at Richard—“and everyone around me crazy by running all over the place trying to piece this whole thing together. But you know what I realized as I watched my car burn? I don’t have to let this be my problem.”

  Richard raised both hands in the air. “Hallelujah, she’s seen the light!”

  “I’ve put my relationship with Reese, whatever that may be, at risk by meddling in his job. And what good did it do me? We may have more clues but we’re no closer to putting them together and finding out who killed Tricia than we were the day we started. The only difference is now I’m down one car and one potential boyfriend.”

  “When you put it like that,” Leatrice began.

  “The worst part is that this awful bride is still making me miserable from the grave.” I looked out the window as we passed my favorite bakery, and my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t finished my salad. “I couldn’t wait for her wedding to be over, and the second I’m finally free of her, she gets herself shot, and I get sucked into her toxic world again.”

  Richard wagged a finger at me. “What did I tell you about the dangers of wishing your life away in this job? You keep thinking ‘I just need to get through this wedding’ each time and then, before you know it, a decade has flown by.”

  “I know.” I put a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “You were right. You’re much wiser than I give you credit for.”

  Richard paused to let a mother cross the street pushing a stroller that had more features than my late car. “That’s what I keep telling people.”

  “And because one horrible woman spent her life tearing other people down, my business is threatened, a guy I might otherwise be dating is mad at me, and my car gets barbecued.” I held up my fingers and ticked them off. “But it ends right now. I refuse to let Tricia do any more damage to me.”

  “So what will you do?” Leatrice asked.

  “For starters, I’m going to change out of these clothes.” I lifted the collar of my navy dress to my nose. “I smell like a chimney sweep.”

  “Thank goodness,” Richard said. “I didn’t want to mention it earlier since your car was on fire, but that dress isn’t the greatest on you, darling. The cap sleeves make your arms look like sausages.”

  I suppose I should have been touched that Richard resisted the urge to comment on my fashion choice when I was in the middle of a catastrophe. I was less touched that he’d just referred to my arms as sausages.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I guess I’ll just get rid of it entirely then.”

  Richard nodded. “That would be best. You know if you want me to give the rest of your wardrobe the once-over, you just have to say the word.”

  I knew exactly what Richard thought of my pragmatic and classic clothes. I also knew that if I gave him free reign in my closet, I’d end up with exactly three items left. I ignored his offer as I always did.

  “Then I’m going to get back to work,” I continued as Richard slowed to a stop in front of my stone-front apartment building. “We still have weddings coming up and a social media reputation to repair.”

  Leatrice didn’t look convinced. “If you’re sure. . . .”

  “I’m positive,” I opened the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, taking a deep breath. “I want nothing more to do with this case. Ever.”

  Chapter 35

  “Are you sure you’re all right, dear?” Leatrice asked. She’d followed me upstairs after Richard drove off and stood behind me while I opened my apartment door.

  “Perfectly fine,” I said as the lock caught and I pushed the wooden door with my hip. “I actually feel recharged. Having my car destroyed cleared my eyes.”

  Leatrice studied me. “You look a bit manic.”

  “That’s just because I’m excited to get back to work. This case has bogged me down for days, and now I’m free.” I flung my arms open wide and Leatrice’s look of concern intensified.

  “Are you sure you aren’t nervous after the arson or afraid the same person who set your car on fire will come after you directly?” Leatrice asked.

  I paused. That possibility hadn’t actually occurred to me, and I didn’t like the feeling of panic that fluttered in my stomach.

  “Not with you downstairs,” I said.

  That was a lie, but I was eager to get to work and even more eager to keep Leatrice from coming inside and distracting me with her running patter about suspicious activity in the building and the latest Perry Mason rerun.

  Leatrice beamed. “You can count on me. No one is getting in this building unless they’ve been thoroughly vetted.”

  I knew the Department of Homeland Security had nothing on Leatrice, and I felt bad for the other residents of the building. The chances of their pizza delivery reaching them just dropped dramatically.

  I closed the door as Leatrice went downstairs to assume her guard post, and I drank in the silence. My eyes wandered over the apartment, and I couldn’t help cringing at the disarray. It was easy to tell when wedding season had hit full swing or when I was meddling in an investigation. The piles of paperwork grew to dangerous heights and the dust bunnies began amassing in the corners.

  My salad bowl sat in the same spot where I’d left it, the food untouched albeit a bit wilted. I sat on the couch and took a bite. No longer crispy but not bad. The tangy chipotle dressing made up for the fact that the tortilla strips, arguably the best part of the dish, had become limp. I finished the salad and took the empty plastic bowl to the kitchen recycling bin.

  I pulled my smoky dress over my head as I walked back to my bedroom then tossed it in my hamper by the door. I pulled on the jeans lying on the foot of my unmade bed and grabbed a UVA T-shirt from a dresser drawer. This was more like it.

  Feeling a burst of cleaning energy from either the food or the weight of the murder investigation being lifted off my shoulders, I selected an eighties playlist on my phone, pulled the can of Pledge out from under my kitchen sink along with a roll of paper towels, and sang along with Journey as I tackled the police reports spread out on the dining room table. I gathered them up into a pile and dumped them in the recycling bin then sprayed the table surface and buffed it. The sight of so much clean tabletop and the fake scent of lemons gave me a rush, so I started on the papers piled up on the coffee table.

  One of my favorite things to do after a wedding was clean out the contents of the client’s file, but I often let it pile up when I had one wedding after another during the busy months. The past three wedding files sat in a stack in front of me. I flipped through the contracts and emails, finding nothing I didn’t have on my hard drive, and then added them to the police reports in the recycling. After I’d cleared off the glass coffee table, I headed for t
he kitchen. I needed some energy before I took out my Dustbuster and started sucking up dustbunnies so I grabbed a Mocha Frappuccino from the fridge and flopped on my living room couch to drink it and give myself a break.

  The apartment looked better already. Smelled better, too. I set the glass bottle on the coffee table and reached for a magazine from the metal rack at the end of the couch. I ignored the issues of Martha Stewart Weddings—I needed a break from all things bridal—and grabbed an old issue of Vanity Fair, letting myself get lost in an article about Australian hunk Chris Hemsworth.

  I jumped when my door handle rattled, followed by a loud knock that verged on pounding.

  “Open up, Annabelle!” The voice was female, but I couldn’t determine who it was over the sound of the eighties playing from my phone.

  “Who is it?” I yelled over the music.

  “It’s Kate.” Her voice was quieter now. “Let me in.”

  I glanced at my phone. Had I really been reading for that long? So much for my short break from cleaning. I paused the music on my phone, opened the door, and stood back to let her inside.

  She walked in, dropped her purse on the couch, and sniffed the air. “Have you been cleaning?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I said. “I clean sometimes.”

  “O-kay.” Kate spun around to face me. “I found out something really interesting about the case.”

  “Tricia’s murder case?” I shook my head. “I don’t want to know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t want to know? Haven’t you spent the past few days sneaking around behind Detective Reese’s back? Hasn’t Leatrice been hacking into the police computer system for you?”

  I held up a finger. “Correction. Leatrice did all that on her own.”

  “But you were using the information, right? The last I checked we were questioning suspects and hunting down an IP address.”

  “That was before,” I said.

  “Before what?” Kate asked.