Wrong Place, Wrong Time (34 page)

Her secretary left the office, shutting the door behind her.

“Okay, Detective Montgomery, what’s this about?” Louise inquired. “I assumed you’d be barking up a more fruitful tree by now.”

A corner of Monty’s mouth lifted. “That depends on which aspect of this case I’m investigating. The one I’m here about sent me barking right to your office door.”

He perched on the edge of a chair. “Here’s the scoop. I have a client. A wealthy, decent man who’s crazy about his wife. Only she’s carrying on with some young stud. He hired me to get the goods on them. So I tailed them, watched them go at it like rabbits. Something about the whole scenario struck me as weird. Talk about staged photo ops. It was like she knew her husband had hired a PI and was trying to be as obvious as possible. Which would mean she wanted to get caught. But why? She and my client had a prenup. She’d never be awarded the hefty settlement she was angling for if he could prove she was screwing around. It just didn’t make sense.”

“How fascinating.” Louise’s tone and expression remained impassive.

Monty leaned forward. “Then I met with my client, and it all suddenly clicked. The guy was a mess, thanks to his wife. Physically shot. Weak. Sickly. During our meeting, he shoved a couple of nitroglycerin tablets under his tongue. That’s when I realized he had a heart condition. A serious one. The kind that could prove fatal if he were faced with a severe shock. You know, like the shock of seeing porn shots of his wife and her boy toy.”

Louise pinned Monty with a cold stare. “That’s a shame, Detective — although not exactly a unique scenario. What does it have to do with me?”

“Quite a bit. It got me thinking about Frederick Pierson’s wife, Emily. She had a heart condition, too. A serious, debilitating heart condition — not the recently acquired one you indicated during our chat. Because of it, she was a recluse. She stayed holed up in her apartment for years. Saw no one. Oh, except you.”

A hard light glinted in his eyes. “When we spoke last week, you told me you’d met Emily Pierson. You also said nothing went on between you and Frederick until after she died. Well, as it turns out, there are some major discrepancies in those statements.”

“I’m not following.”

“Sure you are. It’s true you met Mrs. Pierson, but not as some innocent Pierson employee. You were having an affair with her husband. You knew he’d never leave his wife. So you found a way for her to leave him — permanently.”

Louise’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re suggesting I harmed Emily Pierson, you’d better have some damned strong evidence, or I’ll be suing you for defamation.”

“Don’t bother.” Monty waved away her threat. “I learned a long time ago never to confront lawyers without proof. You see, Ms. Chambers, I did some digging. Turns out you visited Frederick Pierson’s apartment the day his wife died. You paid off a doorman to let you upstairs and to forget he ever saw you. I tracked him down. As luck would have it, he regained his memory when I flashed a wad of cash at him. So, incidentally, did the concierge at the hotel you and Frederick used as a love nest for the first months of your affair. As you can see, I’ve got more than enough proof. Care to fill in the blanks? Or should I?”

He pressed on without waiting. “You walked into Emily Pierson’s home and told her you were sleeping with her husband. Maybe you took it a step further and hinted that Frederick was on the verge of leaving her. Whatever you said, it was enough to trigger a heart attack. She died. You got Frederick. And you were on your way to happily-ever-after.”

“That’s not the way it happened,” Louise snapped. Her hands shook as she refilled her water glass and took a gulp. “Yes, I went to see her. And, yes, I told her about Frederick and me. But I did it so she’d let him go, not so she’d die. I was thirty-two years old. It never occurred to me that a blunt talk about a marriage that was in name only would be enough to induce a heart attack.”

“But it did.”

“It’s possible. It’s also possible the two events were unrelated. I wouldn’t know firsthand. I left.”

“That’s a lie. You were there when it happened. The nurse who cared for Emily Pierson told me she heard someone leave the apartment as she reached Mrs. Pierson’s side. She assumed it was a servant. But it wasn’t. It was you. I’ve got times on everything, right down to the minute. Arrivals. Departures. When Emily Pierson’s body was discovered. It’s all right here.” Monty walked over to Louise’s desk and slapped down a sheet of information. “I’d quit playing the denial game. It won’t fly. And before you decide to opt for silence, let me remind you that there’s no statute of limitations on murder. You’re an attorney. You know that.”

“I did not murder Emily Pierson.” Louise had gone deadly pale. “Okay, you’re right — I was there when it happened. I saw her collapse. I’ll never forget the look on her face. I nearly died myself. I froze. By the time I got it together enough to react, it was too late.”

Monty’s brows rose. “You don’t strike me as the emotionally fragile type.”

“I’m human. I saw a woman die.”

“You saw an opportunity. You
let
that woman die.”

Louise’s chin came up. “That’s one charge you can’t prove.”

“You’re right. And even if I could, I’d only be able to get you on failure to render assistance — a misdemeanor, at best, with a two-year statute that’s almost up. Unless, of course, there’s more. Tell me, Ms. Chambers, what happened when Frederick started seeing Sally? That derailed your plan again. Did you decide to get rid of her, too? Is that what happened at that cabin? You hired some punk to drive up and torch the place. But things didn’t go as planned. And the wrong person died. Makes sense. It also explains your sudden interest in Blake Pierson — the rising star of Pierson & Company.”

“No!” Louise’s voice trembled, and her eyes were damp. “I had nothing to do with Frederick’s death. I cared about him.” She reached for a tissue. “As for your ex-wife, I wouldn’t go to the trouble of having her killed, much less risk my career and my freedom for it. She was a fling, and not Frederick’s first. For that matter, I wasn’t exactly a saint, either. But he and I always came back to each other. That would have happened this time, too. If someone hadn’t murdered him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll never know, will we?” Monty shrugged. “One thing’s for sure: You’re one hell of an opportunist. The Piersons didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for when they hired you.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re through here,” he announced, turning and heading for the door.

“Wait,” Louise demanded. “What are you planning to do?”

Monty paused, glancing back at her. “My job. Figuring out who killed Frederick Pierson.”

“So you no longer think that someone was me?”

“Never did. The evidence says otherwise.”

“What about my job?”

Another shrug. “That’s up to the Piersons. If it were up to me, I’d kick you out on your conniving ass. But it’s not my call.” Monty’s expression hardened and he pinned her with his stare. “One piece of advice. Stay the hell away from my daughter and Blake Pierson. Your grand plan to snag Pierson’s head honcho is over. If I get even the slightest inkling you’re gunning for Devon, you’ll answer to me. And I’m one tough judge and jury.”

THE NOTE HAD been insufficient motivation.

It was morning and Devon Montgomery was making no move to stay away from the Piersons — beginning with Blake. The two of them had left her mother’s house at dawn, arms around each other as they hiked through the snow to Blake’s car. That meant he was her ally as well as her lover. And that made her twice as dangerous. She wasn’t giving up on her crusade to find out what was going on in Vista’s trailer. And with Blake in her corner, who knew what she’d uncover.

Time to take drastic action.

DEVON WALKED INTO her living room and dropped her overnight bag on the rug. She sank down on the sofa, dropping her head in her hands.

She was exhausted. She’d had less than three hours’ sleep. And she still couldn’t figure out what Vista was up to.

There was a piece missing. But what?

Her musing was interrupted by Terror, who exploded into the room, barking and jumping up and down with excitement at her homecoming. He leaped onto the sofa beside her and began licking her face.

“Hey, boy.” Devon rubbed his ears, leaning over to plant a kiss on top of his head. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“Hi, Dev. I didn’t hear you come in.” Merry strolled into the room, munching on an apple. “But Terror did. He actually abandoned his breakfast
and
an old crew sock to run out and greet you.” Seeing her sister’s drawn expression, Merry broke off, sinking down on the cushion beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just tired,” Devon replied. “The week and a half since the fire seems more like a month.”

“I know what you mean.” Merry nodded. “But there is a silver lining to all this. You met Blake. He’s crazy about you.”

“The feeling’s terrifyingly mutual,” Devon admitted. “I can’t believe how intense this relationship’s gotten in just a few days. Nothing real happens this fast.”

“Mom and Dad did.”

A quick sideways glance. “Yes, they did.”

“And, speaking of Dad, I can tell he’s getting close to solving these murders. Which means Mom will be home soon. And everything will go back to normal. Maybe better.”

That was too many pointed innuendos to dismiss as coincidence.

Devon felt her first surge of optimism where this subject was concerned. “Are you trying to tell me something?” she asked her sister.

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that you and Monty are doing better. Like the fact that you’re learning to read him. Like the fact that you’re starting to believe he and Mom belong together.”

Merry chewed a bite of apple, contemplating the questions. “I guess so.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. The way he talks about Mom. The way he’s on overdrive to save her. It’s hard to deny his feelings. And at this stage of his life, yeah, I think those feelings would take precedence over his Evel Knievel nature. As for him and me, we’re taking baby steps. Building trust takes time. We’re not rushing it. For now, we’re just getting to know each other.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Me, too.” Merry finished off her apple. “Have you told Blake about knowing where Mom is?”

Devon shook her head. “That’s the one thing I’ve kept from him. I might be a lovesick idiot, but I’m not risking Mom’s safety. Blake will either understand, or he won’t.” She rose. “I’m jumping in the shower. I’ve got to get to the clinic.”

“No problem. I’m e-mailing my econ assignment in, then starting on my problem set for stats. I’ve got lecture notes to review, a take-home exam to polish off — I’ll probably still be pounding away on my laptop when you get home.”

“I remember those days,” Devon commiserated. “I was a lot better at coping with sleepless nights than I am now.”

“You’ve got a better reason to stay up now,” Merry pointed out with a grin.

“Go do your work.” Devon’s lips twitched.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Merry walked over to the makeshift desk she’d set up downstairs and plopped into the chair. “I’m working down here. It’s closer to the kitchen. I’ll need sustenance to stay alert.”

Devon was heading for the stairs. “Speaking of sustenance, Monty’s making dinner tonight,” she called over her shoulder. “Blake and Chomper are coming. So don’t plan on getting any work done then.” She disappeared into her bedroom, Terror at her heels.

Still grinning, Merry turned her attention back to her assignment.

She’d just finished forwarding it when the doorbell rang.

Shoving back her chair, she rose and walked into the hallway. “Who is it?”

“Flowers for Devon Montgomery,” a thickly accented voice responded.

“Just a sec.” Merry scooted back to grab a bill from her purse. Then she returned and opened the door.

A deliveryman stood on the stoop, balancing an arrangement of pink, yellow, peach, white, and red roses in front of him. There must have been four dozen of them, accented with baby’s breath and greens, all in an expensive handblown glass vase. So elaborate was the arrangement, Merry could scarcely see the guy carrying them. All she could make out were his uniformed legs and the top of his balding head.

“Devon Montgomery?”

Merry stared. “Those are gorgeous. Oh yeah, sorry.” She reached out and carefully transferred the vase from his grasp to hers. “Hang on a sec.” Gingerly, she carried the flowers over to the coffee table and set them down. Then she turned, intending to bring the guy his tip. “Thanks very mu — ”

She never finished her sentence.

A handkerchief was pressed over her mouth and nose, and strong arms held her in place. A sickening smell invaded her nostrils, and she struggled to free herself. It was no use. Cobwebs danced in her head as the blackness engulfed her.

DEVON NOTICED THE flowers even before she finished walking down the staircase.

Her brows arched, and she went into the living room, checking out the arrangement that was swallowing up her entire coffee table.

“Talk about extravagant,” she muttered, searching until she found the card. She plucked it out of its holder, a twinge of uneasiness in her gut. This kind of dazzling demonstration wasn’t Blake’s style. It was, however, James’s style. She hoped the flowers weren’t from him. She wasn’t up for another round of cat and mouse.

Anxiously, she scanned the note, which read:

Dear Devon,

As beautiful as these roses are, they pale in comparison to you.

Until later — Blake

Devon blinked. Okay, so she’d been wrong. They were from Blake. How bizarre. Not only were the elaborate arrangement and the effusive words way out of character, but they were the last thing she’d expected, given Blake’s present state of mind. Maybe he’d ordered them before yesterday’s trip to the farm? Possible. In any case, she’d call and thank him.

Terror had followed Devon downstairs. As she headed for the kitchen, he dashed into the living room and exploded into a fit of barking.