Girl in the Shadows (Cozy Mystery) (Diamond Files Mysteries Book 1) Page 6

  “Our friends at the police department have beat us to the punch. They're already at Roxanne Hartley's office even as we speak.” He shook his head. “Tough break.”

  “That doesn't sound so bad. I'm a Norfolk girl, so I'm actually proud that our local police are doing such a good job.”

  “We'll see about that.”

  “As long as the right person gets caught, that's all that matters, right?”

  He grinned knowingly. “Sure.” He poked at the phone screen again. “The good news is we have an appointment to see Roxanne Hartley at 10:30 a.m., so we aren't far behind.”

  * * *

  We were sitting in the waiting room at Hartley Cosmetics when the two police detectives who'd served the warrant for Mitzi's shoes the night before strolled through, apparently on their way out.

  The other person in the room, the receptionist, hadn't taken her eyes off Chewie since we'd arrived. She sneezed into a tissue and made a grumbling sound as she narrowed her eyes at the dog.

  The male detective flashed a taunting grin at Derek. “Diamond, you're getting slow in your old age. What's the matter? Did you forget to take your prune juice this morning, and spend too long in the can?”

  Derek responded with a good-natured head shake. “This is exactly how I planned it. I thought I'd let you two soften her up for me. Like the opening act who plays a few ditties before the real rock star comes out.”

  The detective chuckled and came over to where Derek was sitting. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck in there, rock star.”

  The female detective looked at me and shrugged. Boys will be boys.

  The two detectives left the waiting room. Their banter was probably typical professional teasing, but I hadn't smiled at the prune juice comment. It was a low blow to razz someone about their age. Derek, however, didn't seem at all bothered. He simply leaned over to pet his beagle and speak quietly into her brown velvet ears. He murmured, “We'll get our collar, won't we? That's right, we will. Good girl.”

  The skinny, dark-haired receptionist stood and said icily, “Ms. Hartley will see you now.” She stepped out from behind the reception desk and gave Chewie a disgusted look. “Does that creature go everywhere with you?”

  “This isn't a creature,” Derek said. “She's a nose with four paws. And you might want to check the bottom of your left shoe.” He pointed to Chewie, who was sniffing the receptionist's left shoe like it was a five-course meal. “I'm guessing you stepped in something on your way to work this morning.”

  The receptionist grimaced. “Right this way.” She turned and led us deeper into the building.

  We followed her to the sunny corner office, which belonged to Roxanne Hartley, owner and president of Hartley Cosmetics.

  Before the receptionist left, she looked me over, not-so-subtly assessing me. I did the same. She appeared to be around twenty-five, the same age as me. I wondered if she had some other career she was passionate about, and was only working as a receptionist for the time being while she looked for other work.

  Something about the way she held her mouth let it slip that the poor girl was actually envious of me, maybe wondering what I had done to get the kind of job where I went to appointments with presidents of companies. I gave her a one-shoulder shrug with an eyebrow raise, as if to say, I'm only a temp, and next week I might be answering phones just like you. She turned away with her nose in the air and left.

  Derek shook Roxanne Hartley's hand and introduced both of us. We were using our regular names and no cover story.

  Roxanne barely acknowledged me before she knelt down to pet Chewie, who was overjoyed to have a new person to sniff. It took a few minutes to get everyone settled into chairs around the room's elegant glass-topped desk. Roxanne had closed her office door so the beagle could wander around freely, off her leash. Chewie delighted in inspecting all of the room's potted plants.

  Smiling as she watched the dog sniff trails through the room, Roxanne said, “Your pooch must do a great job helping you solve cases.”

  Derek answered, “She helps me with absolutely everything, especially finishing my meals.”

  “I hear beagles make wonderful family pets,” she said. “Now, what can I help you two with? Have there been any new developments in the robbery investigation? Detectives Sloane and Clark wouldn't tell me anything, but I'm not an idiot. I'm sure you're here because someone said something about me. Was it Mitzi? She was always jealous of my friendship with Brock.”

  Derek leaned forward in his chair and looked beyond Roxanne, at the view from the windows. We could see boats of all sizes sailing by. I expected him to make a comment about the view, but he settled back again and dove right into our main mission. “Ms. Hartley, when was the last time you saw Brock Kensington?”

  Roxanne didn't seem surprised by his directness. “At the funeral,” she said.

  “The last time you saw him alive.”

  She blinked innocently. “Like I told your two colleagues from the Norfolk Police Department, before he died, I hadn't seen Brock socially for over a year.”

  “How about privately?”

  Roxanne's cheeks flushed to match her lips. She reminded me of a young pop singer, with her glowing dark skin and round face, her soft features highlighted with artfully applied makeup. Hartley Cosmetics made beauty products for women of all colors, but their specialty was their diverse range of shades for darker skin tones. Roxanne Hartley's lipstick was a rich plum that looked custom made to flatter her features.

  She spoke mechanically. “Mr. Diamond, I have not seen Brock Kensington, either socially or privately, in over a year.”

  “Why's that? Did he dump you?”

  She pushed her chair back and stood. She turned to be in profile to us, and used her hands to pull in her tunic-style dress above and below her stomach. She had a baby bump.

  “I'm six months along,” Roxanne said. “Despite what his ditzy lush of a wife may be spreading around, I broke it off with Brock Kensington a year ago, when I decided I wanted to have a baby.”

  “He's not the father?” Derek asked.

  She scoffed. “Of course not. The donor is anonymous, and that's how I want it. This baby is entirely mine.”

  The room was silent for a moment, the only sound being the soft hum of the air conditioner. As the only other woman present, I felt an obligation to say something.

  “Congratulations,” I said warmly. “Do you have a name picked out yet?”

  Roxanne released her tunic, took her seat again, and gave me a friendly smile. “Lux,” she said. “That name is perfect, whether it's a boy or a girl.”

  Derek's right eye twitched. He jumped into the next question. “Where were you on April fifth at eight o'clock?”

  “At my fertility clinic. I was there from six o'clock until eight-thirty.”

  “This fertility clinic of yours keeps strange hours,” he said.

  “They cater to busy professionals,” she said. “I had a consultation and some tests, then a massage and a hot stone treatment, and then another consultation.”

  Derek raised his eyebrows. “What a convenient, ironclad alibi.”

  The friendly expression dropped off Roxanne's face. “You idiots. It wasn't me, okay? I've actually been trying to help you people this whole time.”

  “You've been helping?” Derek glanced over at me. “Did you know about this?”

  I didn't know what to say, so I made a squeaking noise and shrugged.

  Roxanne continued, “I called in an anonymous tip to whoever was in charge of the case, but your people can't do anything!” She was getting worked up, talking faster. “I keep telling you people where to look, but the best thing you can come up with is to do nothing for months. Now you take the word of that pathetic drunk of a wife who doesn't even do anything! And you all come tromping in here to harass a hard-working businesswoman? People like you are exactly what's wrong with this world.”

  Derek sat back in his chair and casually leaned over to
the side to pet his dog. She'd probably come over to investigate the source of the squeaking sound I'd made.

  “I hear you, Ms. Hartley,” he said, nodding. “And I apologize for how you've been treated. But I'm not with the police. Those people are not my people, because I'm my own person. Independent, like you.”

  “Okay,” she said, her nostrils flaring while the rest of her face remained motionless.

  He continued, “I'm new to this case as of three days ago, so let's both give each other the benefit of the doubt. How about you tell me about these other leads I should be following up on?”

  She crossed her arms and then uncrossed them with an angry huff. “At first, I thought Mitzi did it. I thought she killed him. But in the last two months, I've been hearing some other things that make me wonder.”

  “Rumors?”

  Roxanne glanced over at me and narrowed her large, brown eyes. “I'm not a backstabber,” she said. “I don't gossip, and I don't tolerate rumors. Nobody needs a backstabber.”

  The way she kept saying backstabber sent a chill up my spine. Brock Kensington had not been stabbed in the back, but he had been struck on the head from behind.

  “We are nothing if not discreet,” Derek said reassuringly. “Please help us. Nobody will know you were spreading rumors, and you'll sleep easier tonight knowing you did the right thing.”

  Roxanne took in a big breath and sighed heavily. “Brock was not the perfect husband and father he pretended to be. High achievers are special people who need special treatment. When you work in a high-pressure job, you need a way to let off steam.”

  “And how did Brock do that?” Derek leaned over, picked up Chewie, and placed her on his lap. “I'm guessing it wasn't playing golf or training a new dog. Did he have a girlfriend? A side girl?”

  I shuddered as the phrase side girl ricocheted through my head. What an ugly term. Comparing a human being to a side salad or extra order of fries.

  Roxanne turned to watch the boats on the water outside. “No side girl. He learned his lesson with me. I broke his heart, you know. He didn't want to get into another mess with a girlfriend. Rumor is, he went the professional route.”

  “A hooker,” Derek said.

  Roxanne turned back to face us, wincing. “Don't bother asking me which agency, because I don't know. The whole thing is disgusting.”

  “Who would know which agency? Did he have a favorite girl?”

  Roxanne turned to her computer and wiggled her mouse to wake up the monitor. “You're the detective,” she said vaguely. “Can't you check his credit card records or something like that?”

  “He probably took certain precautions to prevent his wife from finding out.”

  “Okay then,” she said nonchalantly. “I guess you've got your work cut out for you.”

  Derek turned to me and gave me an eyebrow raise, as if to warn me he was about to do something unconventional. And he did. He picked up his dog and set her on Roxanne's desk.

  “Chewie, beg,” he said. “Not me. The nice lady. Look at her and beg.”

  Roxanne squealed and rolled back from the desk.

  The dog sat back on her haunches obediently and lifted her front paws while she whimpered. At Derek's urging, she continued to beg, tilting her head from side to side as she waved her front paws and vocalized.

  Roxanne looked like she was wavering on the edge of ordering security to throw us out. After a full minute of Chewie's persistent and adorable begging, her posture finally relaxed and she gave in.

  “Talk to Max,” she said. “Max Harris at Avamar International. He's the one who was pressuring Brock to cool it with the side girls.”

  Derek asked, “Is Max also a very good friend of yours?”

  “Brock and Max went to college with my older brother,” she said. “The three of them were the best of friends, and all of them helped me out considerably with my career. Of course, I do try to downplay that fact, since they're men.”

  I nodded as I accessed my memory of Roxanne's brother. Roland Hartley was ten years older than Roxanne, and currently worked at a construction company in Texas.

  Meanwhile Derek had retrieved a dog biscuit from a pocket and was feeding it to Chewie, who wagged her tail with enough excitement to send the papers on Roxanne's desk flying to the floor.

  “I always try to do the right things,” Roxanne said as she crouched down to pick up the fallen papers. “I broke it off with Brock when I found out about the fights he had with his wife. One time, I saw this whole trail of purple bruises all over his back. He said it was from her punching him. She's little but mean. Watch your back around Mitzi Kensington.”

  “That's why I've got my assistant,” Derek said. “She's always watching my back.” He nodded as he picked up his dog and lifted her back down to the ground.

  “Now there's dog fur all over my desk,” Roxanne said bitterly. “Please leave now. Just go.”

  “Thank you for your time,” he said, setting his business card on her desk. “We'll show ourselves out.”

  He moved toward the door quickly. I jumped up and ran to keep up with him.

  We stopped at the reception desk, where Derek spoke in a hushed voice to the receptionist. “We'd love to send your boss a token of our appreciation. I have connections with some shoe designers. Do you happen to know what size shoe your boss wears?”

  The brunette wrinkled her nose. “Not really. Maybe a seven or eight?”

  “How about heels? Does she wear stilettos?”

  “She doesn't go higher than a one-inch heel,” the receptionist said. “But lately it's been flats only.”

  Derek gave her a sly smile. “Has she been packing on the pounds lately?”

  The receptionist smirked. “At least thirty pounds, and she eats everything people leave in the break room, whether it's hers or not. She mostly wears sneakers and yoga pants when she doesn't have meetings.” Her expression brightened. “If you're looking for a good gift, you could send her yoga stuff.”

  Derek winked at the receptionist. “And what's your favorite color, Collette? Is it purple?”

  The receptionist nodded.

  He took a business card, said goodbye, and opened the door to the hallway without so much as a glance back at me.

  A minute later, we were stepping into the elevator. He picked up the beagle and held her with one arm.

  A courier in bicycle shorts joined us and pressed the lobby button.

  “That was productive,” I said softly. If Roxanne didn't wear stilettos, and she'd switched to flats since the pregnancy, it seemed unlikely she was the person who left the footprints at the Kensington residence. Plus there was the matter of her ironclad alibi.

  My head buzzed with all this new information. If Brock's business colleague had been angry at him for his behavior with a prostitute, that gave us not just one new suspect, but two: Max Harris, and this mystery woman.

  I looked to Derek for a reaction. Did he agree that the meeting had been productive?

  “Stupid name,” Derek muttered under his breath.

  I glanced over at the bike courier riding in the elevator with us. He was staring at his phone, seemingly oblivious to our existence.

  “Do you mean Max Harris?” I asked. “He could be related to the daughter's boyfriend, Chad Harris. It's a fairly common name, Harris, but I wouldn't say it's stupid.”

  “Lux,” Derek spat out. “I meant Lux is a stupid name. That megalomaniacal woman is going to name her baby after an Instagram filter.”

  Megalomaniacal? I had never heard that word spoken by a regular person. Derek Diamond, detective extraordinaire, had a rich vocabulary.

  I suppressed a smirk. “It could be worse. I hear Kale is also a popular name this year.”

  Derek shook his head. “Abby, don't mess with me just because I've been around a while. Nobody on God's green earth is naming their baby after a type of salad.”

  The courier put away his phone, cleared his throat, and adjusted the rise of his bicycle sh
orts. “My sister's naming one of her twins Kale,” the courier volunteered.

  Derek frowned at him. “Young man, how many siblings do you have?”

  “Just one,” the guy answered.

  “Well, it must be nice to be the smartest person in your family.”

  The elevator dinged, opened on the lobby, and Derek strode out.

  The courier turned to me and said, “It's okay. Sometimes my grandpa doesn't take his medication, and he gets cranky like that.”

  “He's... yeah. Sorry about that. Congratulations on the twins. Growing up, I always wanted a brother or sister.”

  The courier took off his sunglasses and looked at me like he desperately wanted to say something that would change my entire life.

  I didn't stick around to hear what it was.

  My boss and I had murder suspects to interview.

  Chapter 8

  11:37 a.m.

  Offices of Avamar International Shipping

  Max Harris had been out of town on company business the night Brock Kensington was killed. The detectives had followed standard procedure for canvassing close friends and business contacts, and Max was both of those things. He'd been in China taking meetings when he'd gotten the bad news, and he'd returned a few days earlier than planned.

  He was a round man with a jowly face and curly brown hair. We researched Max in the car right after leaving Hartley Cosmetics. When Derek showed me his photo, I immediately recognized him as the portly friend in the boat-christening photos on the walls of Brock Kensington's home office. We easily confirmed that his son was Chad Harris, Megan's boyfriend.

  And we also discovered, thanks to what Derek described as his “cheap and dirty” detective work, that Max Harris wasn't exactly the Father of the Year. Armed with that knowledge as currency, we practically barged into the man's office.

  Avamar's chief financial officer was eating an early lunch at his desk when we walked into his office with Chewie in tow. He set half a burrito on a plate, where it leaked brown sauce and meat chunks. Chewie smacked her lips noisily but behaved herself.

  “They say you shouldn't eat at your desk,” Max said around a mouthful. “But I'm always at my desk, and as you can see, diets don't agree with my system.”