Girl in the Shadows (Cozy Mystery) (Diamond Files Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  “If he was nude, it must have been a lover. We need to check on Roxanne Hartley's alibi.” I scribbled a line and a question mark on the whiteboard. “I could make some phone calls tomorrow and do that.”

  “Hmm.” He squinted at the whiteboard. “I appreciate the offer, but it's a fertility clinic. They've got patient confidentiality rules.”

  “But you've got your ways, right? As a highly skilled professional detective?”

  He kept squinting at the diagrams. “Not everyone's a highly skilled professional. What if the killer was a hit man, but not a very good one, and he messed up the job? People make mistakes.”

  “Sure, but this isn't like McDonald's forgetting to pack your french fries in your order. Wouldn't a paid assassin do the one thing he was paid to do?”

  Derek continued to stare at the board. “You'd be surprised,” he said. “At least McDonald's has training programs and supervisors. Not so much the assassin business.”

  I pulled a chair over to the whiteboard and sat facing it. “Coco was involved somehow.” I had printed out the social media photo Keiko had alerted me to, and it was now stuck to the board with an alphabet magnet borrowed from my refrigerator. I straightened the picture. I'd hoped it would be the breakthrough clue to crack the case, but it hadn't done anything except add a mess of lines.

  “Coco Labelle and Chad Harris,” Derek mused. “Maybe he found out she was 'borrowing' Megan's jewelry.”

  “Yes,” I said. “There's got to be something there. This picture's got to mean something.” I tapped it for emphasis.

  “Then again, Norfolk isn't exactly New York City,” Derek said. “How'd you find that photo, anyway?”

  I couldn't tell him I'd been complaining about him to my best friend and inadvertently given her enough details to figure out which case we were working.

  “It was on the internet,” I said vaguely.

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “We could interview Chad,” I said. “Or meet Coco again, if we can afford it.”

  “We can afford it,” he said.

  “So? Do you want me to call her agency?”

  “Not yet. Sometimes paths cross and it doesn't mean anything.” He gathered the papers on the table into a neat pile, put the earrings back into the envelope, and stroked the grain of the wood table. He continued, “For example, my grandson is now the proud owner of your old yellow kitchen table. Does it mean anything? Yes and no.”

  “What?” I crossed my arms.

  “You have this new designer table, and my grandson has your old one. Are you collaborating on a murder?”

  I tapped my fingers on my arms. It was three o'clock now, and I hadn't eaten since breakfast. As my blood sugar dropped, so did my patience.

  “Explain yourself,” I demanded. “Explain how you know about the table, or I'm quitting. You can take your homicide files and your dog and get out.”

  “Easy now,” he said. “You're going to laugh when you hear this one.”

  “Try me.”

  “My grandson moved here a year ago. I've been meaning to check in on him, so I took this case so I could write off a trip to see him. I saw him on Monday night, and he told me about the blonde he met earlier that evening. He said he'd met a hot rich girl.”

  “You're full of crap.” I crossed my arms tighter. “There's no way you could know, unless you've been spying on me. What did you do, you crazy old man? Plant a bug on me? A hidden camera?”

  Despite the venom I was spitting his way, Derek looked nothing but amused.

  “My grandson is an artist. An extremely talented artist.” He calmly pulled out his phone, thumbed through some photos, and then handed it to me.

  On the screen was an image of me. Not a photo, but a drawing. It was barely more than a sketch—a few squiggly lines and patches of crosshatching for shadows, but it was me.

  “Red Beard is your grandson,” I said. My voice croaked with embarrassment. I really needed some food.

  “His name is Josh. My daughter wanted to name him Derek, after me, but I didn't want to burden a brand-new baby with the weight of someone else's name. Nobody else in the family is named Josh.”

  I handed back the phone. “He's really talented. You must be so proud.”

  Derek beamed with pride. “Let's hold off on the champagne until Josh sells a few of his pieces for cash.” He tucked the phone away. “The kid looks up to me, so I try to be supportive. When a boy doesn't have a strong male role model in his life, he can go astray, or latch on to the closest thing to a substitute.”

  I turned to face the whiteboard. “People can go astray so easily,” I agreed.

  “Anything you want to talk about, Abby? Anything bothering you?”

  “Just this case,” I said, keeping my back to my boss. “It's such a tangled mess.”

  “Well, your drawing skills don't help,” he said lightly.

  I reached for the wadded-up paper towel I'd been using as an eraser and started removing lines and names from the whiteboard. “This board was a stupid idea. I'm sorry for all my stupidity today.”

  “Hold on,” Derek said. “Don't erase that.”

  “I'll do a better one,” I said, still removing lines.

  “Freeze!”

  He sounded serious, so I froze.

  Derek said, “Put down the eraser and step back carefully.”

  I did so.

  “Tell me what you see,” he said.

  “A big mess by a clumsy nonartist.”

  “Look closer,” he said, yanking the cap off a red marker. “You'll see who killed Brock Kensington.”

  He added some arrows and a new time line.

  I blinked at the board, stunned. Everything was there. Right in front of our eyes.

  Chapter 11

  8:15 p.m.

  My Apartment

  Owen let himself in and gave me a surprised look. “Abby, you actually look happy to see me. What a nice change from your usual sour look.”

  “I'm just happy. I did something good today.”

  “With that detective guy? Did you quit?”

  Supportive as usual. “Never mind.”

  He came over to where I was sitting and sniffed my wine glass.

  “Want some?” I asked.

  “Sure, I'll have a glass of that plonk you buy by the box.”

  Owen's mouth always ruined things, but if I distracted him with kissing, he would find a way to make me feel good, even if it didn't last. And I didn't care about tomorrow. Only tonight. And celebrating.

  I got up from the couch and leaned in to kiss him. He pulled away jerkily.

  “Hold your horses,” he said. “I gotta take a leak.”

  “Sure.” I went to the kitchen, refilled my glass, and poured him one. He was wrong about the wine being plonk. After Derek left with Chewie, I'd run out to the store and bought a bottle of Owen's favorite Chardonnay. It was just like him to not recognize a good thing when it was right under his nose.

  Down the hallway, the water for the shower switched on.

  * * *

  Later that night, when we were in bed and setting the alarm clock for the next morning, I asked Owen why he'd had a shower after getting home.

  He kissed my bare shoulder and said, “Don't you like me better when I'm not stinky and sweaty? I even used your fluffy yellow scrubber thing and your body wash that smells like flowers.”

  “You did smell nice,” I said, clicking off the lamp. “But you showered this morning. What did you do today that made you sweaty?”

  “I don't like your suspicious tone, but if you must know, I took the boat out after work. That's why I was late getting home.”

  Home. I didn't like how he was referring to my apartment as home. Just because he had a key, that didn't make anything official.

  “Owen, you don't live here,” I said. “This isn't your home. It's mine.”

  “My name's on the lease,” he said. “It's more mine than yours.” He kissed my shoulder and neck. “Don't
be cranky, Abby. You know I love you.”

  I stayed on my side with my back to him, resisting his charms as best I could. “But it's not your home.”

  Softly, he said, “I really do love you.”

  “I know,” I whispered. Owen loved me. He also loved his wine, his boat, his friends, buying expensive gifts, impressing strangers, and sleeping with other girls. He especially loved sleeping with other girls when he was in a committed relationship. I knew because I'd been the other girl—the side girl.

  The girl in the shadows.

  We'd met a year earlier, last June, when I'd been a food server at the yacht club. He was there with a busty brunette who kept flashing her giant engagement ring in everyone's face. I didn't mind the girl. She was the sort of happy-go-lucky, boisterous party girl I wished I could be. She told jokes and was the center of attention for their table of eight.

  Owen, meanwhile, couldn't have looked more bored if he'd been asleep. I thought he was cute, with his bright red hair and the freckles on his nose. The other guys at the table were all cut from the same sandy-haired WASP cloth—attractive, but boring. When I rolled out the dessert tray, Owen caught my attention by taking my hand in his.

  His touch had been electric, right from the start. Sparks shot from him, up my arm, and through my body. I hadn't been touched by a guy in ages. He must have sensed my need, smelled it on me. He clutched my fingers in his warm palm and gazed up at me, grinning impishly.

  “Do you have anything stronger than coffee?” he'd asked. The others at the table paid no attention. His brunette fiancée continued telling a story about one of her professors.

  I let the grinning redhead hold my hand. The tip of his nose was flaking from a sunburn.

  “Any ideas?” he asked. “I need something to wake me up.”

  “I could make you a shot in the dark,” I said. “That's a shot of espresso poured into a cup of brewed coffee.”

  He licked his lips and stroked my fingers in a movement that seemed designed to send shivers through me. He glanced at my name tag before locking gazes with me. “Abby, I'd love a shot in the dark, but only if you make it. Can you do that for me? A shot in the dark with your beautiful hands?”

  “Sure,” I said, my voice thick and my mouth dry. “The espresso machine is over by the bar, so as soon as I finish with the dessert tray, I'll go over there and make one for you.”

  “By the bar?” He raised his eyebrows and bit his lower lip suggestively.

  “Yes,” I said huskily. “In ten minutes.”

  I felt the burn of eyes on me. His fiancée had finally noticed our hand contact and was shooting me daggers. I wrenched my hand free of his grasp and hid it behind my back. She scowled at me before going back to her anecdote.

  I turned away and finished handing people their dessert selections. Their words were a blur, and they must have thought I was an idiot, the way I had to ask them to repeat themselves.

  Ten minutes later, I was at the bar making Owen's shot in the dark when I heard a bird-call whistle coming from the nearby hallway. I left the bar, entered the hallway, and was anything but surprised to find Owen standing there, waiting for me.

  Without a word, he kissed me. I kissed him back with a ferocity that scared me. All week, I'd been deliberating over whether to leave the city for a job offer or stay, and whether to stay in my crowded shared rental house or move out on my own. I'd been so gripped with indecision that I'd been late for my shift that day because I couldn't even decide what to wear.

  But kissing Owen was a relief from all that indecision. I didn't have to wonder, because I knew it was wrong. So wrong. But it felt so good.

  He kept me as his side girl after that. He claimed he wanted to break things off with his fiancée, because the relationship was all but over, but an engagement was a bigger deal than simply dating. His father and her father had been business associates for years. The way Owen talked about it, you'd think they were royal families from two warring countries negotiating a treaty through marriage. You'd think the fate of humanity rested on him finding the “right time“ to break it to Justine.

  While I didn't have Owen all to myself, what I had of him was as good as or better than any other relationship I'd had. He was attentive when we were together. He didn't like the looks my roommates gave him, so he pulled some strings and got me my apartment at a discounted rate. He stipulated that it would be his name on the lease, but it was such a great deal, I couldn't say no.

  I could never say no to Owen, at least not for very long.

  As we lay in the dark that night, a year into our tumultuous on-off relationship, I wondered how many breaks my heart could take, and how much pain I deserved for doing things I knew were wrong.

  “You're too quiet over there,” he said. “Are you passed out from all that cheap wine?”

  “Just thinking about stuff. I told you I had a big day.”

  He grabbed my shoulder and rolled me over playfully, chuckling. “Want me to take your mind off your worries?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, and he did.

  * * *

  In the light of morning, everything was clear. It might have been the dreams I'd had all night, or it might have been the way I was looking forward to the rest of the day—looking forward instead of looking back.

  While Owen slept, I got up, showered, dressed, made some phone calls, and then returned to the bedroom, where Owen was only semiconscious. I yanked open the curtains. Sunshine flooded the bedroom. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.

  “This room gets incredible light in the morning,” I said. “The whole apartment does.”

  From under the pillow he agreed groggily. “It's a great apartment. Great location.”

  “And you really want to move in? Fully and completely?”

  He pulled the pillow away and gave me a skeptical look. “I might still spend the odd night at my dad's house.”

  “Fine by me,” I said. “When are you moving the rest of your things in?”

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and gave me a dazed look. “I'll call the movers. Probably early next week.”

  “Perfect. I can't wait.”

  He gave me a boyish grin. “I like your hair that way. You look so polished and put together.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come here and let me mess up your makeup.”

  I stayed where I was. “I think you're going to be very happy here, Owen. It's a beautiful apartment, a great bachelor pad.”

  He sat up in bed. “Bachelor pad? What?”

  I held my arms out wide. “It's all yours, babe. I'm moving out. I should be cleared out by Monday when you move the rest of your things in.”

  He snorted and stretched his arms over his head. “Abby, be reasonable. What are you worked up about? Is this because I didn't want to hear about your temp job?” He patted the bed again. “Come here and tell me all about it.”

  “No. This isn't about my temp job. I know you've been seeing someone else. Another girl. That's why you showered last night. You didn't want me to smell her on you.”

  “You're paranoid,” he said, pointing a finger at me.

  “Maybe I am, but I also have a very good sense of smell. Not as good as a beagle's, but good enough. I pulled your clothes out of the laundry and I smelled them. She's all over you, this other girl.”

  “This is crazy.” He crossed his arms. “You're a paranoid underwear sniffer. I guess it's a good thing you're moving out, because I don't need this much crazy in my life.”

  “Admit it, Owen. Be a man and admit that you're cheating on me.”

  “Cheating?” He snorted.

  “Be a man. Who was it?”

  “I saw Justine yesterday at the club. She's going through a really hard time. Maybe she hugged me a few times, but I swear, nothing happened. I didn't relapse again, I swear.”

  “You swear? But your word means nothing.” I crossed the room to the door. It wasn't a huge room, but I felt the weight of every step. This was it. I'd go to
Keiko's place tonight, and I wouldn't set foot in the apartment again by myself.

  He called after me, “Come back and tell me about your work. Why'd you have the whiteboard out? Come back, Abby.”

  Come back? Never again. “Goodbye, Owen.”

  I strode out the front door.

  Goodbye, great apartment with the amazing views and great light.

  Goodbye, feeling wrong.

  Goodbye.

  Chapter 12

  FRIDAY

  2:35 p.m.

  Norfolk Police Department

  Detective Clark came into the interview room with a big smile on her face.

  “Diamond, you've surpassed my expectations,” she said as she took a seat across the table from us. “You've been on the case for how long?”

  Derek looked down at the dog on his lap. “How long, Chewie?”

  Chewie cocked her head to the side expressively. Beagles were bred for hunting, but they also convey near-human emotions in the most adorable manner.

  Derek looked up at Detective Clark. “Since Monday, so that's five days. Not my fastest, but I'm not as spry as I used to be.”

  “Hey, they don't make any of us as good as they used to,” she said with a chuckle, ruffling her own short, mostly gray hair.

  “This work will put the miles on you,” Derek said.

  “Sure will,” she agreed.

  Argh. Were they going to exchange tips for getting seniors' discounts next? I couldn't take it anymore. I was going to implode from curiosity.

  I blurted out, “What was inside the safe?”

  She gave me a tight smile. “You get right to the point, now, don'cha?”

  “The safe,” I said. “Did the locksmith get in?”

  “Our specialist did get into Mr. Kensington's home safe,” she said, her smile broadening.

  Derek leaned forward. “And? What was in there?”

  “Not much,” she said. “Nothing of any significant economic value.”