Swimsuit Body (15 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I'm seated on a bench in the stone plaza across the street from the municipal complex five minutes later. The park is a sprawl of green around me with paths winding through it. A fountain splashes at the center of the plaza, its soothing sound mingling with the happy cries of children from the playground nearby. I watch the passersby as I wait for Spence—moms pushing babies in strollers, joggers and skateboarders, office workers headed back to work after their lunch breaks. Everyone looks relaxed, while my own stomach churns. I'm worried about my brother.

I start at the trilling of my phone and see Lexie's name on the caller ID. “Guess who just showed up?” she says when I answer.

“I'm guessing it wasn't the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

She chuckles. “You'll be happy to know they arrived safely.”

“Thank God.” I'm flooded with relief. “How does my brother seem?”

“Fine except for being a bit travel worn. I wasn't expecting”—
A crazy person to seem so normal
, I mentally fill in the rest of the sentence, then relax when she goes on—“such a gentleman after what Uncle Howard told us.”

“Your uncle seems to think he's a gigolo.”

“Only because he's worried Grandma will remarry before he can get his hands on her money.”

“So they didn't make it legal?”

“God no.” She lowers her voice as if she doesn't want them to overhear. “Actually, their plan involved me. Seems Grandma had this crazy idea that if she showed up with an eligible bachelor in tow, I'd fall head over heels. She's been worried about me ever since I lost my husband.”

“Oh, for the love of …” I trail off, stifling a laugh.

“Not that Arthur isn't a great guy, but I have my own life.”

I wish I could say the same for myself, but between fretting over my brother and getting caught up in a murder investigation, I don't seem to have a life at the moment. “So this whole time we were worried sick, they were arranging a love match? Unbelievable.”

“Blame it on Grandma. She means well, but she sometimes goes overboard. I think she does it partly to tweak Uncle Howard. He can be a bit of control freak.”

“I noticed. She sure pulled one over on him this time. One thing I'm curious about, though … Since neither of them owns a car and they didn't rent one”—Gladys seems to have been careful not to leave a paper trail—“how did they get there? Please tell me it wasn't by way of stolen vehicle.”

“Not even Grandma would go that far,” says Lexie. “She bought a used car.”

“Whew.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “I was having visions of Bonnie and Clyde.”

She laughs, and I join in. It feels good to laugh.

“Grandma's staying on a few days,” Lexie informs me as we're saying our good-byes. “I told Arthur he was welcome to stay, too, but he seems eager to get home.” I promise to arrange it. I'm just as eager for him to get home, mainly to clear his name so he can be eliminated as a person of interest.

I'm looking up flight information when I glance up to see a grim-faced Spence striding toward me across the plaza. He wears jeans and a tan blazer, underneath which I can make out the bulge where his sidearm is holstered. He nods in greeting as he sits down next to me. “Good news,” I tell him. “I just got off with the phone with Mrs. Sedgwick's granddaughter. My brother turned up at her place along with Mrs. Sedgwick, which means you can call off the dogs. I'm booking him a flight home.” Spence's expression remains grim. “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“A warrant was issued for Arthur's arrest.”

“
What?
You can't do that. We had a deal. You agreed—”

“We have DNA linking him to the crime scene.”

I stare at him. His words might have been the buzzing of bees for all the sense they made. Then the blood drains from my face. “That … that's impossible!” I sputter. “My brother was nowhere near the crime scene. Besides, he doesn't own a gun and wouldn't know how to shoot one if he did.”

“We found a hair that didn't belong to the victim, but we couldn't find a match on any of our databases. It wasn't until we searched Arthur's place—” He puts his hand out, stopping me before I can object. “The DA got a judge to issue a search warrant based on Sedgwick's allegations. We took DNA samples, and they matched the DNA from the hair that was found at the crime scene.”

I continue to stare at him. It still doesn't make any sense. Then it hits me. “Wait. I remember. I was wearing his sweatshirt that day. When I turned the body over …” I trail off, feeling sick. In contaminating the crime scene, I had unwittingly implicated my brother, I realize.

“Do you still have the sweatshirt?”

“No. I gave it back after I washed it.”

“Did anyone see you wearing it?”

“I had it on when you interviewed me.”

“Red Stanford hoodie, torn pocket on the right side?”

“Good memory.” I pull up a photo on my phone of Arthur wearing his favorite sweatshirt at the pizzeria where I'd treated him to dinner on his birthday in March. “See. This proves he didn't do it.”

“No. It only proves he owns a red sweatshirt. May I?” Spence takes the iPad from me to send the photo to his own device, but I know he's merely following protocol. My anxiety mounts as he goes on, “We found something else when we confiscated his computer—a game he appears to have made. I spoke with his friend Ray Zimmer, who confirmed that it was Arthur's concept, though he said he helped design it.” He could only be referring to the game featuring Phantasmagora, the character played by Delilah in
Return of Laserman
.

It's an effort to speak in a normal voice with my breath short and my heart racing. “I know all that. But you make it sound like Arthur was obsessed with Delilah or something. He wasn't. The game had nothing to do with her. He was only interested in Phantasmagora.”

“That's not how it will look in court, and together with the DNA evidence …” Spence shakes his head. “The prosecution will also argue that Arthur had access to the premises through you.”

“Oh, my God.” I bury my head in my hands. I feel the walls closing in, and this time there's nothing I can do. Not even Dr. Sandefur can help. When I look up and see compassion in Spence's eyes, I grab hold as if to a lifeline. “Do
you
think my brother murdered Delilah?”

“It doesn't matter what I think.”

“It does to me.”

“Then no, I don't. There's enough evidence to charge him, but not to get a conviction in my opinion.”

It's not the rousing show of faith that I was looking for, but if Spence isn't fully convinced of Arthur's innocence, he's at least willing to keep an open mind. “So what now?”

“The chief will alert the local authorities in Bozeman and have them make the arrest.”

I picture lawmen swarming in, guns drawn. “They'd put him in handcuffs. He'd be scared to death! Please, Spence, don't let that happen. It's not like he's some criminal!”

“It's not our jurisdiction, so technically, I can't make the arrest, but I might be able to coordinate the effort at that end if they'll agree to it. The chief will see the wisdom in handling this quietly. The local boys go in with guns blazing, it would reflect badly on us.”

“Not to mention somebody could get hurt.”

“I'll speak to the chief.”

It's hardly a reprieve, but I'm grateful nonetheless. “Thank you.” Spence nods, looking like he wished he could do more. I give him a weak smile. “Did I just thank you for arresting my brother?”

“No one's been arrested yet.”

I hold his gaze. “I want to go with you. I can talk to Arthur. Get him to cooperate.” When Spence doesn't answer right away, I swallow my pride and say, “Please. I'm begging you.”

I'd never begged anyone in my life. I hate being at someone else's mercy, especially the man who was once my sworn enemy and who might be looking to even an old score. I wait with my heart in my throat while Spence deliberates and watch a little boy who stands by the fountain, clutching a coin with his eyes squeezed shut. I make a wish of my own, and with the plink of the coin hitting the fountain, I hear the magic words from Spence: “I think we can make that happen.”

He drives me to my place, where I throw some things into an overnight bag. On the way to the airport, I phone Ivy to give her the heads-up and Brianna to instruct her on managing my properties while I'm away. Brianna offers to housesit and I gratefully accept—I still don't trust Hercules alone with Prince—although I'm worried I won't be able to find anything after she's done organizing my cupboards and drawers. Next, I call Lexie to tell her of the change in plans. I swear her to secrecy, at Spence's insistence—he's afraid Arthur will flee if he learns there is a warrant out for his arrest. I can tell she's uncomfortable with it, and who can blame her? First her grandmother tries to hook her up with a total stranger, then she finds out the stranger is a wanted man.

“I thought you were calling with the results of my blood test when I saw your name on my caller ID,” I say to Spence when we're at the airport, waiting at our gate.

He looks up from scrolling through his text messages and frowns. “Yeah, about that …”

“Uh-oh.” I feel the knot in my stomach tighten.

“Your blood alcohol level was zero, but the test results showed a high concentration of diazepam—the active ingredient in Valium.”

“Jesus. No wonder I felt like I'd been shot with a tranquilizer gun. Listen, I know this looks bad, but I swear I wasn't lying before when I told you—”

He lifts his hand, stopping me. “I'm not going to arrest you, Tish. I have bigger worries at the moment.”

“What about my driver's license?”

“We'll discuss that later.”

Aware of the precarious position I'm in, I don't press my case. I, too, have bigger worries at the moment. I need to find out who killed Delilah Ward before I become the next victim or my brother is charged with a crime he didn't commit. On the flight to Bozeman, I float my theory about Olivia Harding.

Spence dismisses it. “So we're back to playing Nancy Drew, are we?” He sounds annoyed.

“You don't have to take that tone. I'm only trying to help.”

“You aren't helping.” After a minute, he says, in a less gruff voice, “Not that it's any of your concern, but we questioned Mrs. Harding, after her husband confessed to the affair. Her alibi checks out. She was home in L.A. on the day of the murder. Her housekeeper confirmed it.”

“How do you know the housekeeper wasn't lying?”

“Why would she lie?”

“Maybe Olivia asked her to, and she was scared she'd lose her job if she didn't.”

“Employees who lie for their bosses tend to cave under questioning or recant under oath. You'd have to be stupid not to know that, and Mrs. Harding doesn't strike me as a stupid woman.”

“Still, I would do some more checking on that alibi if I were you.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job?” Spence's frown deepens. We're back to sparring with each other, and in a weird way it feels more comfortable than when we were getting along.

“I wouldn't dream of it. I was merely making a suggestion.”

He sighs. “There's a big hole in your theory about Mrs. Harding. She couldn't have been the one who drugged you at Bartosz's, because she wasn't at the party.”

“I know, and I've been thinking about that. Brent was at the party. He could have drugged me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Let's say he found out his wife had killed Delilah, or she confessed. He wouldn't want the mother of his unborn children to go to prison, would he? Not to mention what it would do to his career.”

Spence doesn't bother to disguise his incredulity.

“I know it's a stretch,” I plow on. “But he was acting suspicious at the party.”

“In what way?”

“When I mentioned I was the one who found the body, he kept asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“He wanted to know what else I'd seen. You know, like incriminating evidence or someone fleeing the scene. I'm telling you, I got a weird vibe from him. And did you see the face work on that man?”

“We don't make arrests based on ‘weird vibes' or personal appearances. Not to mention he's Casey Steele. That alone gives him indemnity,” he adds with a smile tugging at his lips.

“He
was
Casey Steele. That's my point. He's hanging on to what's left of his career.”

Spence just shakes his head. He's sitting next to me by the window, having been nice enough to trade seats with me after I explained that I get claustrophobic unless I'm by the aisle. (It makes me feel like I have to pee when I don't.) No doubt he's regretting his gallantry. The jet we're on is the kind with seats two to a row and zero legroom. With his tray lowered to hold his in-flight beve­rage, Spence looks like he's crammed into a child-size desk in a kindergarten classroom. I've never been more aware of how big he is than I am now. Wedged in next to him, I can feel the heat radiating from his six-foot-plus frame and smell his scent, a combination of starched shirt, breath mints, and clean sweat. I shift around in my seat, trying in vain to put some distance between us while holding on to the V-8 on my tray so it doesn't tip over.

“How's it going with you and your wife?” I inquire now that it's clear I'm not going to get any more out of him on the investigation.

He cuts me a sour glance. “Couldn't be better. Who wouldn't rather sleep alone and eat crap food when they could be curled up next to a warm body and enjoying home-cooked meals?”