Sage of Innocence Page 13

  I chewed on my lower lip. “Okay, well, we’re going to the beach to fly the kites. Be careful who you poke at, though, Muffy. Someone’s sufficiently upset about something that he’s willing to kill over it.”

  The more I learned about Giorgio Valetta, the less I believed he was in Maryland when Fred was murdered. I didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone in the house.

  She must have been having a similar thought about me wandering around the island with her children, because she snagged her sunglasses from the shelf where she’d placed them, slid them back over her eyes, and said, “Let’s take the golf carts to the beach.”

  Dylan reentered the room just in time to hear that his mother was tagging along and let out a whoop of excitement.

  Chapter 22

  We flew the kites for what seemed like hours, running barefoot through the hot sand to catch the wind, and then standing with upturned faces and watching them sail toward the sun, colorful specks in a brilliant blue sky. We laughed, we collapsed into a big pile of arms and legs on the blanket we’d found in the back of one of the golf carts, and not once did I think about my penniless future, a revenge-seeking killer, or Louie Lewis in tights.

  Then Muffy’s cell phone rang.

  “Please don’t answer it, Mama. We’re having so much fun,” Skylar pleaded.

  But Muffy dug it out of her bag and checked the display, “I’m sorry, sweetness. I have to take this call.”

  She turned to me and mouthed ‘police,’ so I tickled the soles of Skylar’s feet and then gently jabbed Dylan in the ribs with my index finger.

  “Come on, guys, I’ll race you to the water.” And then I pushed myself up from the blanket and sprinted toward the ocean, knowing they’d chase after me.

  After splashing in the knee-high waves for a while, we searched for bits of beach glass in the sand until Muffy came down to join us.

  “Everything okay?” I asked quietly.

  “More or less. The investigating officer wanted to thank us for helping to bring the blackmail situation to light and to remind, um, well, you that they’ll take it from here.” Her tone was heavy and apologetic at the same time.

  I guess I was supposed to feel chastised or chagrined or something, but I just arched an eyebrow and said, “Yeah, right. They’re doing a bang-up job so far.”

  “They’re following the leads they have. In a way, it’s good. Now instead of just Chip, there are three other suspects.”

  “You mean two.”

  “I mean, three. In a way it’s good, but in a way it’s bad.” She flapped her hands in an oddly helpless gesture. “They want to talk to Roman.”

  My stomach plunged toward the beach and slammed to a lurching stop somewhere around my knees.

  “Sage? Are you okay?”

  My throat was suddenly bone dry and when I tried to say “fine” it came out in a croak.

  “Chip asked if he could be there during Roman’s interview, just to offer support, but the detective explained that would be improper.”

  I opened my mouth to protest and she held up a hand to stop me. “I talked to Chip. Our attorney is going to get someone down there to represent Roman. Chip’s going to get in touch with Roman’s mother and let her know what’s going on.”

  “What can I do? I have to do something.” Something other than reveal a secret that upends Roman’s entire life and makes him a murder suspect, I mean.

  Muffy looked at me closely. “What you should do is come back to the house with me and the kids, play Candyland while I grill us some dinner, and let the professionals handle it.”

  I knew she was right, but I also knew I’d crawl out of my skin if I just sat around. She apparently knew it, too, because she went on, “Or you could take one of the golf carts and go try to poke a hole in Giorgio’s alibi.”

  I stared at her in surprise. “Do you mean it?”

  “It’s a terrible idea. But it’s what I’d do if I didn’t have two small children and someone I cared about was in a jam.” She gave a short laugh. “Well, someone I care about is in a jam. But if you can prove that Giorgio was on the island when Fred died, it’ll help both our someones.”

  “You really think it was Valetta?”

  She shrugged. “The cops have more or less dismissed Louie as a harmless weirdo. I’m not so sure about that, but they’ve got him under surveillance. Giorgio, however, is nowhere to be found, and his lawyer is stalling the police when he’s not busy sending me threatening emails. Sure seems like a man with something to hide.”

  “Right. Okay. Thank you, Muffy. Thank you.” My mind was racing, and so was my heart. I gave each of the kids a quick hug goodbye and started to run toward the parking lot, my feet sliding in the fine, soft sand.

  “Even though Giorgio’s not on the island right now, you still need to be careful,” she warned my back.

  “I will,” I shouted over my shoulder without turning around.

  * * *

  I started the golf cart and tried to work out something that resembled a plan as I steered it toward the residential area.

  Think, I told myself. How would an actual detective confirm whether Giorgio Valetta had been participating in a golf tournament hundreds of miles to the north when Fred Spears was killed?

  Well, I answered myself, a real detective would have access to things like Fred’s time of death; the name and location of the celebrity pro-am; Giorgio’s travel itinerary; and other helpful detecting stuff.

  I could start randomly Googling Valetta’s name and “charity tournament in Maryland,” but if working for Chip and Muffy had taught me anything it was that charity pro-am golf tournaments would be way overvalued at a dime a dozen. There were literally dozens every weekend, all over the country. And Maryland had probably a billion or two golf courses.

  I crossed the main road and raised a hand in greeting to a cart passing in the other direction.

  Keep thinking.

  Okay, how does Chip decide which charity tournaments to participate in? The invitations—boatloads of invitations—come through Linda Zaharee. Chip and Muffy usually met with Linda once a month or every six weeks to sift through them, weed out the ones that weren’t worth Chip’s time, and choose a handful that would benefit a good cause and raise Chip’s profile.

  I turned left, headed toward the ocean for no specific reason, other than its natural pull on me.

  It was safe to assume that Linda had similar meetings with all her clients, including Giorgio. For all I knew, her belief that he was at this particular tournament might be based on a conversation where they decided he should go. That didn’t necessarily mean he actually went.

  I ran through how it could have played out: he could have bailed on the tournament and stayed on the island, hoping that no one would ever have a reason to run down his alibi. And no one would have, if Marilee and I hadn’t discovered Fred’s blackmail book.

  My hands were shaking with excitement. I needed to talk to Linda. With a destination in mind, I pulled over and parked the cart then pulled out my phone to look up her address.

  As I was committing it to memory, the phone vibrated in my hands.

  Muffy.

  “What’s wrong?” I answered, skipping the preliminaries.

  She skipped them, too. “Do you know where Roman is?”

  “He’s with the lawyer Chip got him. At the police station. Right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Right?” I repeated frantically.

  “Maybe he’s just running late,” she said in a wholly unconvincing voice. “Chip offered to drop him off there, but he said he’d ride his bike. The lawyer’s there, but Roman’s not. The police are starting to get antsy.”

  “Great.”

  “Listen, just stick to the plan. But if you hear from him or see him, make sure he gets his butt down to the station like right now. Understand?”

  “I got it. I will.”

  “And Sage?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Call
me if you do hear from him. I’m worried.”

  That made two of us. I ended the call, stowed the phone, and hit the gas on the cart. The cart jumped, juttered, and careened back onto the street.

  It was time to see just how fast this thing could go.

  Chapter 23

  When I reached Linda’s house, I sat for a moment in the cart, catching my breath and pulling my thoughts together. I looked up at the house. It was a typical island cottage. Tiny, tidy, and colorful. Well-maintained seafoam green paint covered the shingles. The trim was painted a deep coral shade. Riotously blooming flowers planted along both sides of the walkway formed a fragrant path to the door. A piece of driftwood with the cottage’s name, Hole in Won, displayed in whimsical hand-lettering hung beside the front door.

  Here we go. I lifted the mermaid-shaped doorknocker and let it fall against the door.

  I waited about a hundred years and knocked again.

  I didn’t hear any evidence of life from inside. No slapping sound of sandals hitting hardwood, no rustling, no voice calling, ‘coming!’

  I hadn’t considered what I’d do if she wasn’t home. She had to be home. My entire plan—if you could call it that—depended on Linda being home.

  I pounded once more on the door, more out of frustration than any belief that it would prove fruitful. But just as I was turning to walk back to the golf cart, the door creaked open an inch.

  “Can I help you?”

  My knees nearly buckled with relief. “Ms. Zaharee, I can’t even tell you how happy I am to see you.”

  She eased the door open a few more inches and stuck her foot in the opening. She gave me a cool smile. “Sage, isn’t it?”

  “Right, Sage Field. We met at the memorial service. I need to ask you something.”

  Her lips creased down into the slightest frown. “I wish you’d have called before you came all the way over here. I was just on my way out.”

  “I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time, I promise.”

  She shook her head ever-so-slightly.

  “Please,” I pressed, feeling for all the world like Skylar imploring her mother, “it’s really important.”

  She tapped the face of the slim bracelet watch on her wrist and sighed, “I can give you two minutes, literally. That’s all the time I can spare.”

  “That’s perfect.” I beamed at her, grateful and relieved.

  Rather than invite me in, she stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Given her time limitations, I decided to skip the part where I explained my clever theory. “What’s the name of the tournament that Mr. Valetta was golfing in when Mr. Spears was murdered?” I blurted.

  She narrowed her bright eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I have to. Could you just tell me, please? I’d be happy to fill you in on all the details when you aren’t in a rush.”

  She pursed her lips and thought. “I’ll be honest; this doesn’t feel right. Giorgio is my client, and, while the information you want is far from a secret, one of the qualities he pays me for is my discretion. I’m sure you can understand. I wouldn’t tell some random person Chip’s appearance schedule either.” She gave me a toothy smile.

  I realized I’d been dismissed.

  “Wait, please. I think he might not have attended the match, which means he doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “Surely you don’t think I’m going to implicate one of my clients.”

  “Not even if it clears some of your other clients?” I countered.

  “Clients plural? Oh, you mean Louie, as well.” Her expression turned stern. “Young lady, I know you’re trying to help your boss, but you really need to stop meddling in an active homicide investigation. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She pulled the door open and disappeared into the house. I heard the click of the lock engaging.

  I stood on the porch for a few seconds with my mouth gaping open like an idiot. That hadn’t gone according to plan. For a nanosecond I toyed with the idea of hanging around until she left for her appointment and then trying to break in to her house to look for information, but I was kidding myself. I was many things, but a cat burglar wasn’t one.

  I trudged toward the golf cart, my shoulders slumped in dejection and my eyes fixed on the ground.

  Linda had been prickly, to say the least. Not at all the warm, polished woman I remembered from the memorial service. Great. Not only was I about to lose my job and possibly send my friend to prison, I was burning connections left and right. When all was said and done, I wouldn’t just be unemployed. I’d be unemployable.

  I sighed and, just then, nearly stumbled over a loose stone in the path. I caught myself before I fell but twisted into a tall begonia in the process.

  As my movement disturbed the leaves, I spotted a flash of red behind the shrub. I crouched low to the ground and parted the plant with my hands. The red flash was Roman’s bike, hidden in the shrubbery.

  My heart hammered. If his bicycle was out here, that meant he was inside. I looked back at the house and reached for my phone.

  Chapter 24

  I sat in the golf cart and speed-dialed Muffy with shaking fingers without taking my eyes of the cottage’s front door.

  “Did he call you?” she said as soon as she picked up.

  “No,” I whispered. “But I think I know where he is.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  Good question. I cleared my throat. “I don’t know. Anyway, I thought I’d ask Linda about the tournament that Valetta was supposed to be at in Maryland.”

  “Linda? Zaharee?”

  “Right.”

  “That was smart.”

  “So I stopped by her house. When I knocked on the door. She didn’t answer at first, but then she came to the door and she was acting weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “She didn’t invite me in. She wouldn’t even tell me the name of the tournament.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “She said it wouldn’t be discreet of her.”

  “It was a public event.”

  “I know, right? Anyway, she was just … off, somehow. She rushed me off the porch and then locked herself in the house—even though she’d just told me she was on her way out.”

  “That all sounds strange, no doubt. But what does it have to do with Roman?”

  “I tripped while I was walking back to the golf cart and I saw a red bike, his red bike, hidden in the bushes.”

  Silence filled my ear.

  After a moment, I said, “Muffy?”

  “I’m here. You think Roman is inside her house?”

  “I definitely do. And for whatever reason, she didn’t want me to know.”

  More silence. Then, finally, I heard her sharp intake of breath. “Okay. I’m calling the police now. You get in the cart and come straight home.”

  “All right.”

  “Sage, I mean it. Are you going to do it?” Her voice was edged with warning and worry.

  “I am,” I lied.

  I hung up and stashed the phone in the open shelf above the steering wheel. Then I sat very still and stared at Linda’s house, trying to make up my mind about what to do next.

  The first thing I decided to do was medium-risky, but relatively smart. (The second thing I decided to do was bone-headed in the extreme, but we’ll get to that.)

  I drove the golf cart around the corner so that it was parked behind Linda’s house, then I crept through her backyard and peeked in all her windows. Well, not all of them, because when I reached the glass-enclosed lanai or Florida room or three-season room—whatever you want to call that room—I spotted Linda and Roman through the clear glass wall.

  I gasped and ducked for cover. I’d like to tell you I lucked out and hid behind a lamb’s ear plant or something equally soft and cushy, but I’d be lying. I more or less sat straight down on a thorny rose bush
. Luckily my fear of being caught outweighed the pain of being stabbed hundreds of times in my derriere, so I managed not to shriek. But just barely.

  Once my eyes stopped watering, I gingerly pressed myself against the side of the house and snuck another look.

  Roman sat ramrod-straight in a rattan chair, while Linda paced in a frenetic, loopy pattern around the room. Roman’s stiff posture and the way he tracked her with his eyes, swiveling his neck as she spiraled through the space, made a lot of sense when I saw the gun in her right hand.

  I knew next to nothing about firearms, but this one was short and stubby, and thick and serious-looking. The way she was gesticulating with it and waving it around as she shouted was definitely worrying, too

  “… really don’t understand,” Roman was saying. His voice was barely audible, but it was calm and calming. As if he was trying to settle her down.

  She wheeled around toward him. I could hear her loud and clear. “What’s to understand? After Louie and Giorgio both called me in a panic, babbling about some blackmail scheme that Fred had been running on them, I realized the police were nowhere near naming a suspect. I’d thought they were going to pin it on Chip and move on. But, no such luck.”

  She resumed her circuit around the room. “What was lucky was running into you while you were on your way to the police station. Now that the police really need to investigate everyone’s story, I need a new fall guy. Even reasonably competent police work will clear Chip. And Louie. And Giorgio. Enter you.”

  “Me?”

  She bobbed both her head and the gun up and down. “You. As Chip’s illegitimate son, you’ve got a great motive for killing the man who was blackmailing Chip over the fact that he has an illegitimate son.”

  I saw Roman ball his hands into fists at his side, but his face remained impassive.

  “It’s not like I’m going to confess to something I didn’t do. So, what’s your ultimate plan?”

  “So glad you asked. I’m going to stage your suicide. You’re going to leave a note confessing. You’ll say you grabbed the club in a moment of anger and took a swing at Fred.”