1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (12 page)

I voiced my skepticism. "Are you sure the medical examiner
didn't inhale one too many whiffs of formaldehyde, Detective?"

"Our coroner is quite competent, Mrs. Pollack. He found Fluni-
trazepam in her system. Whoever killed Marlys Vandenburg first knocked her out with the drug, then sealed her mouth and nostrils
with glue."

"Eeewwww!" Erica clapped her hands over her mouth and bent
forward, making gagging noises.

I tamped down my own urge to gag. Squeezing my eyes shut, I
tried to concentrate on my own breathing, but behind my closed
lids I saw Marlys, glue strings streaming from her body like waxy
spider webs. No matter how lousy an excuse for a human being,
Marlys didn't deserve death by glue gun.

I took a final deep breath and opened my eyes. "What's Fluni-
trazepam?" I asked Batswin.

"It's a benzodiazepine, a very potent tranquilizer similar to Valium, only many times stronger. You might know it better as Rohypnol or Roofies."

"The date rape drug?" asked Erica.

"Exactly," said Batswin. "You wouldn't happen to know how it
got into your boss's Merlot, would you?"

Erica's eyes grew wide, her face filled with horror. "I didn't do
it!"

"I'm not saying you did, Miss Milano"

"We don't keep alcohol in the office. It's against company policy.

"You always follow the rules?"

Erica cringed as if Batswin had slapped her. With her eyes
averted, her voice timid and defensive, she answered, "Of course. I
don't want to get fired."

"Not that rules ever stopped Marlys," I said. "She may have
kept a bottle in her office."

Erica turned to look at me and shook her head. "I would have
known."

I challenged Batswin, "Seems to me your killer is whoever
shared a drink with Marlys last night, and that certainly wasn't me
or Erica. Marlys wouldn't stoop to socializing with either of us."

"Mrs. Pollack, why do you keep handing me reasons to suspect
you?"

I was beginning to wonder what the police academy taught in
Basic Detectiving 101. Maybe Batswin needed a refresher course.
Or a copy of The Dunderhead's Step-by-Step Guide to How to Catch
a Killer.

"Being dissed by a snob isn't grounds for murder, Detective. At
least not as far as I'm concerned. Why are you wasting your time
with me when you should be finding out who Marlys was with last
night? By now the real killer is probably skinny-dipping in Aruba."

Detective Batswin leaned across the table. "Are you telling me
how to do my job, Mrs. Pollack?"

"Heaven forbid, Detective. I have enough problems of my
own.

"So you've mentioned."

That's when it hit me. Batswin wanted to wrap this case up as
soon as possible. Whether she had the real killer or not. In her eyes
I had motive, opportunity, and the murder weapon at my disposal.
Why look any further?

I was getting the distinct impression that Batswin's latest theory involved Erica and me in cahoots to bump off Marlys. Erica
drugged her. Then together we dragged her body into my office,
where I went to work with my handy-dandy, trusty hot glue gun.

Tie a red satin bow around us and hand us over to the district
attorney. Case closed.

I almost laughed at the absurdity except that Batswin sounded
dead serious. Pun intended. With so little violent crime in Morris
County, how many murders had she actually investigated, let alone
solved?

I had no desire to spend the next thirty or forty years dressed
in a neon orange jumpsuit as a guest of the state of New Jersey. If I
wanted to save my tush, I needed to find the real killer. And fast.
After all, I didn't have any money for a defense attorney.

Maybe I needed a copy of The Dunderhead's Step-by-Step Guide
to How to Catch a Killer.

First, though, I needed a computer, and since Batswin and
Robbins had locked mine up in the Morris County hoosegow, I
borrowed Cloris's. In exchange, I caught her up on my latest interrogation by Batswin and Erica's bombshell of a boyfriend announcement.

"That's crazy," she said around a mouthful of angel food cake,
one of the spares from her early morning wedding cake photo
shoot for the June issue.

I eyed the cake sitting on the counter. My mouth watered. My
Carb Junkie Gene shouted, "Feed me!" but I ignored its screams.

"What's crazy? Me bumping off Marlys with my trusty Smith
and Wesson glue gun or Erica having a boyfriend?"

She shoveled another forkful of cake into her mouth. "Both,
come to think of it. What would you have to gain by killing Marlys?"

"Money."

She nearly choked on her cake, reached for a cup of coffee, and
raised one eyebrow high enough that it disappeared under her wispy gingerbread-colored bangs. "Want to explain that one?" she
asked after washing the cake down with a gulp of java sludge.

Not really. I had hoped to keep Karl's financial infidelity a secret from my coworkers, but since Batswin and Robbins now knew
about my money mess and Ricardo's fifty-thousand-dollars-orelse demand, I figured it wouldn't be long before word spread.

I gave Cloris the Reader's Digest condensed version.

"So the dynamic detective duo think you killed Marlys for the
diamonds to pay off Ricardo?"

"Looks that way."

"Those diamonds were worth a hell of a lot more than fifty
grand."

"Which would certainly get me out of the financial quagmire
Karl created."

Cloris groaned. "You do have a problem." She placed her plate
on the table and leaned over my shoulder as I scrolled down a page
of book titles listed on barnesandnoble.com. "How can I help?"

I glanced over my shoulder. "Are you serious?"

"Of course, Sherlock." She stepped over to the counter and
sliced herself another helping of wedding cake. "I know you didn't
kill Marlys. Want some?"

"Thanks. For both the offer of help and the cake." I turned my
attention back to the website. "Okay, Doctor Watson, now all we
need to do is learn how to snare ourselves a murderer."

"On the Barnes and Noble website?"

"I'm looking for The Dunderhead's Step-by-Step Guide to How
to Catch a Killer."

"Is there such a book?"

I focused on the screen. "Apparently not. They've got everything else, including a completely illustrated, step-by-step guide to
becoming a clairvoyant."

"That could work."

"I wish."

I exited the website, and grabbed the plate of wedding cake
Cloris had cut for me. In the great diet game of life the score was
Carb Junkie Genes one, Anastasia's Willpower zero.

"So now what?" asked Cloris.

"You bake me a cake with a file in it?"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Let's hope what doesn't come to what?"

Cloris and I exchanged a quick glance and turned to find
Naomi standing at the cubicle entrance. She wore a deep plum
two-piece Dior suit and as usual, looked Grace-Kelly-elegant. But
then again, Naomi was the kind of woman who'd look GraceKelly-elegant in Lucille's ratty chenille robe. No Carb Junkie Gene
allowed in Naomi's family tree.

Behind her, Kim, her ever-present, ever-efficient assistant,
clutched a stack of papers while talking on a portable phone she
held in place with her shoulder. With her free hand she jotted
notes on a legal pad.

Kim could juggle seventeen tasks at once and never break a
sweat. Never show the slightest sign of frazzledom on that pert,
freckled face of hers. I figured beside a combination of Chinese
and Irish genes, she had to have a sprinkling of Speedy Gonzales in
her blood line.

I also couldn't help but notice the serenity that emanated from
Naomi this morning. I wondered if Grace Kelly had ever played a nun or a saint. If so, she would have looked exactly like Naomi
looked at that moment.

Gone was the thick coil of tension that had snaked around her
from the day Hugo brought Marlys aboard. Coincidence? Or
something else?

I shook the thought of Naomi committing murder from my
head and answered her with a lie I hoped she couldn't see through.
"I'm having a bit of a problem getting my computer back from the
police."

She turned to Kim. "See what you can do to expedite getting
Anastasia's computer released."

Kim nodded as she continued to listen to the caller and take
notes.

Naomi turned back to me. "How much of a problem do we
have?"

"None as far as editorial. I have everything backed up on the
server.

"Good. I'll get IT to hook up another computer for you. What
time are you shooting today?"

"That's the problem." I grimaced as she raised one perfectly
arched eyebrow. "I had to cancel the photo session. The police also
took the models for the June spread. I had planned to finish the
final pieces last night..." I shrugged instead of finishing my sentence. Naomi knew all about last night.

"So now we have no models to shoot?"

"Exactly. Either we reschedule photography or pick up projects
from an old issue."

I knew the latter was not an option. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor
snow, nor wind, nor murder in the dead of night would cause Naomi to run an old column or project. In the cut-throat world of
women's magazine publishing, Rule Number One was: Never give
your readers any reason to switch to a competitor's publication.
And readers got really pissed when they plunked down three-fifty
at the supermarket check-out counter only to get home to find the
new issue contained repeats from past issues.

"Can you get new models made by the end of the day?" asked
Naomi.

Not wanting to tarnish my miracle worker image-or jeopardize my job-I agreed. Even if I was at the same time kicking myself for being so accommodating.

"Fine. We'll shoot first thing tomorrow morning." She turned
to Kim. "Take care of rescheduling."

Kim continued to listen and jot as she once again nodded, her
shoulder length hair sweeping back and forth like an auburn silk
curtain.

"By the way," said Naomi, "I'm going to give Erica a shot at
Marlys's job."

Cloris and I exchanged glances.

Naomi cocked her head, waiting for some comment from either of us, but we were both speechless. "Either of you see a problem with that?"

"Not me," said Cloris.

"I suppose it makes sense," I said. "Erica always did most of
Marlys's work anyway."

"But?"

Cloris wrinkled her nose. "But behind the scenes. She's a glaring Fashion Don't."

"With zero self-esteem," I added. "There's no way she'd survive
the vultures of Seventh Avenue. And what about Fashion Week?"

"The press and tabloids will use her for target practice," said
Cloris.

"But instead of arrows, they'll pierce her heart with a volley of
Manolo Blahnik stilettos," I said.

"Right," said Cloris. "Don't get us wrong, Naomi. We all like
Erica, but she's not exactly anyone's idea of a fashionista"

Naomi offered up one of her serene Grace Kelly smiles. "She
will be."

"What do you mean?"

"Have faith." Naomi turned and headed down the hall, waving
her Movado clad wrist in the air, Kim scurrying behind her. "Ciao,
ladies. Let's get back to work."

I groaned.

"What?" asked Cloris. "You worried about Erica?"

"Right now I'm more worried about myself. I was hoping
Naomi would cave for once and let me pull a wedding spread from
an old issue. I didn't get to bed until nearly three last night."

And now besides crafting several pairs of bridal tennies, I'd
have to remake three dozen birdseed roses before tomorrow
morning.

Since I couldn't work at the office until Kim bailed my supplies
and models out of the brig, I headed home, stopping along the
way to pick up replacement materials for both projects.

I had planned to spend the evening cleaning out the apartment
above the garage for the new tenant, but that would have to wait.
At least I still had three more days before he moved in, as long as no new disasters hit between now and then. Too bad I couldn't appropriate a few of Kim's Speedy Gonzales genes.

Between the commuting time and a stop at A.C. Moore for supplies, I didn't arrive home until nearly two o'clock. Two police
cruisers were parked in front of my house.

A million possibilities raced through my brain. None of them
good. All of them somehow or other connected to the recurring
theme of what-else-had-Karl-done?