As the sirens faded outside the building, I had a sudden realization. What was I doing here? Why was I the one protecting a crime scene as if it were my job? As if I were some officer of the court? I wasn’t. I was just some poor schnook who’d seen too many dead bodies lately and knew the score. I realized the area needed to be as undisturbed as possible so that evidence could be saved and justice served. This time, I’d even left a fabulous old book on the floor, untouched. I wish I’d taken it, though. After all, it wasn’t like the book had killed her, right?
I’d done my duty, but now I was starting to freak out over my recent proclivity for finding bodies. I couldn’t blame my head for screaming, Get away from the dead body! People are starting to talk!
I heeded the message and signaled Mitchell over. “I need to return to the classroom.”
He was taken aback. “You’re starting up the class?”
“No, no. No more class tonight. I just need to get away from here. Can you watch her for me?”
Mitchell glanced over at “her,” and said, “Sure. Go. I’ll let the cops know where you are.”
“Thanks, I think.”
He chuckled as I scurried off, back to my empty classroom. I toed my shoes off and curled up in one of the cushioned high chairs stationed around the worktable. Now that it was quiet, I took a moment to wonder, again, what was up with my karma. Why me? Why dead bodies? Was the universe sending me a message? Whatever it was, I couldn’t read it.
Layla was dead and I felt nothing. I mean, I was alarmed that a killer might be getting away with murder. But otherwise, I felt nothing except complete relief that I’d never have to deal with her crap again.
Maybe I would break into tears later, or struggle all night to get the picture of her dead body out of my head. But for now, I felt nothing. And that probably wouldn’t help my karma situation much.
Since I planned to drive to Sonoma this weekend, maybe I would ask my mother for suggestions. She was dabbling in Wicca lately and could run a happy positivity spell on me. If not, I could always undergo some ojas replenishment. Or, what the heck, I might even get my chakras lubed. I was desperate.
And not that it was all about me, but did Layla have to die on a night when I was wearing my cutest outfit for my big night out with the hot British guy?
Yes, I was whining, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble earlier, calling up my best friend and fashion maven, Robin, and opening myself up to possible mockery by asking for her advice. So I deserved to whine for a minute in the privacy of my own brain.
Sure enough, Robin had enjoyed a few laughs at my expense. Then she’d gotten down to business, insisting that I wear the one dress I owned with my sexiest pair of black heels. She knew I owned them because she’d forced me to buy them a few weeks back for an art opening I’d attended that featured some of her newest sculptures.
I’d done exactly as she suggested. Why ask for expert advice if you’re not going to take it? I’d even managed to fix my straight blond hair the way she’d instructed, using a touch of gel on my bangs for a chunky, punky look. Those were her words.
And it all seemed to work, if my students were any gauge. I was looking good. I was uncomfortable and my feet were killing me, but I looked good. And I felt good. Until Layla had to go and die.
So here I sat, feeling sorry for myself and guilty for it, plus worrying about my karma and my feet and Derek Stone and the future of BABA. Because even though I disapproved of some of Layla’s methods, I couldn’t see Naomi or Karalee or Alice running this place with the same skill and panache.
“Meow.”
“Hey, Baba,” I said, and leaned down to pick up the cat. He was large and unwieldy, but he seemed to need a comforting touch. I held him in my lap, stroking his soft fur, and wondered what he thought of this odd place he called home. Had he seen anything? Heard anything? Had he looked into the eyes of a killer tonight? If so, he would take his secrets to the grave.
“Meow.”
“Yeah, I know, you’ll never tell.”
The door opened slowly and Alice poked her head in. “Oh, you’re in here. I was worried. Are you okay? Do you mind if I come in?”
I smiled at her, glad to be distracted from my selfish woes. “Come in and sit down. I’m just hiding in here with the cat. We’re feeling sorry for ourselves.”
“Pretty kitty.”Alice leaned over and scratched Baba’s ears for a minute. The cat allowed it for a few seconds, then ran off. Alice straightened and pushed her long hair back off her shoulders. “Are you feeling sorry about Layla? Because I feel awful. And I’m so worried. I hate to even think these thoughts while Layla is… well. But I just don’t know how we’re going to go forward. Layla was everything to BABA.”
She paced the floor, wringing her hands as she spoke a mile a minute.
“Naomi is a mess,” she said, almost to herself. “The managers are both in a dither, and there’s Ned. He’s an odd Thomas, isn’t he? Well, I just hope nobody expects me to pick up the slack. I’m one step removed from a basket case at the best of times.”
“Alice,” I interrupted, amused despite the fact that I had the same concerns, “things will work out. Nobody expects you to grab the helm. Everyone here needs time to grieve and regroup.”
She pursed her lips in thought. “You know what, Brooklyn? I think I should grab the helm. Now is not the time to shrink back, but to move forward. Now is the time to hit the ground running, to ask ourselves, What would Layla do?”
She began to march back and forth, a little soldier now, shaking her fist with firm resolve. “I can’t give in to the fear. We have a festival to get off the ground. And next month, the print arts program will be launching a new book. There’s already publicity out on that and we’ve got a huge party at the end of the month. No, Layla would want us to proceed full steam ahead. There’s no time for lollygagging, no time indeed.”
Maybe she was channeling Layla, but whatever she was doing, I was glad to see she wasn’t crying or rubbing her stomach anymore. Maybe her taking charge was a good thing, just the diversion she needed to take her mind off her friend’s sudden death.
On impulse, I said, “Alice, I’m having a girls’ night at my place tomorrow night. There’s just a few of us, dinner, drinks, some laughs. Would you like to come?”
Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Is that a yes?” I said after a moment.
“You… you’re inviting me over to your house? To meet your friends?”
“Yeah. You want to come?”
She sniffled. “I would be so honored. Thank you.”
“We’re just talking pizza and cheap wine here.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she whispered. “I’ve hardly met anyone since I moved here and I don’t get out much, so you’ve got to excuse me if I’m overcome with emotion.”
I laughed. “Okay, good. I’ll write down the directions.”
The door swung open and Inspector Nathan Jaglom walked in. I smiled, happy to see the homicide detective who had investigated the murder of Abraham Karastovsky less than two months before. Was it perverse to feel as if I were greeting an old friend?
“Inspector Jaglom, hello,” I said, hopping down from the chair and walking over to shake his hand. “Do you remember me?”
“Ms. Wainwright,” Jaglom said with a broad grin. “Of course, how could I forget you? Are you involved in this?”
“Only peripherally, I promise you.” I waved my hands a little too frantically. “I was teaching a class when we heard the gunshot. I’ve got more than ten witnesses that will back me up.”
“Good.” He looked relieved, but not half as relieved as I was.
“Everyone in my class is a witness for each other, as well,” I hastened to add. “We were all working when the gunshot was fired.”
“Okay, that’s good. We’ll need a few minutes with each person, ask a few questions, check their IDs and contact info. Then you should all be free to go home.”
“Okay, sounds fair.” I noticed Alice then. “Inspector, this is one of my students, who’s also the center’s assistant director. Alice Fairchild.”
He nodded. “Ms. Fairchild.”
“How do you do?” she said, her voice barely registering. She gave me a questioning look.
“I met Inspector Jaglom recently,” I explained, “when he worked on a case where a friend of mine was killed.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She touched my shoulder in sympathy, then whispered, “I’m just going to wait in the gallery.”
After she left the room, Jaglom browsed the front counter. Holding up one of my journals, he said, “Is this the kind of stuff you’re teaching?”
“Yes. It’s a bookbinding class.”
“Looks good,” he said, then smiled kindly. “So, how are you getting along these days?”
“I’m doing pretty well, thanks.” I knew he was asking how I was dealing with Abraham’s death. “Really, fine.”
“Good.” He turned as the door opened and Detective Inspector Janice Lee entered. “Hey, Lee.”
“Sorry I’m late,”Lee said,then saw me.“Brooklyn Wainwright. Why am I not surprised?”
“She’s got witnesses this time,” Jaglom said, and chuckled. I was so happy to provide amusement for local law enforcement.
“Listen,” Lee said. “We’ve got two classrooms available for interviews. You want to take this room or the other one?”
He looked around, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Minka LaBoeuf is teaching in the other classroom,” I said helpfully.
“I’ll take this room,” Lee said immediately.
Jaglom grimaced. “Great. See you later, Ms. Wainwright.”
“You bet,” I said, and waved in sympathy. They’d both had unpleasant run-ins with Minka during the investigation of Abraham’s murder.
Lee took off her trench coat and draped it over one of the tall chairs. I couldn’t help but notice she’d put on a few pounds. It looked good on her. And while it was none of my business, she could afford to gain another ten or twenty.
“What’s up, Brooklyn?” she said, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms across her chest. She was Asian-American, tall and pretty, with a throaty voice some might consider sexy, but which I knew came from smoking too much. She had fabulous hair, thick, black, and shiny. And she intimidated the hell out of me.
“Not much,” I lied, kneading my temple where another headache was brewing. “Although to tell you the truth, I’m a little tired of running into dead bodies everywhere I go. How are you doing, Inspector?”
“I’m a bitch on wheels since I gave up smoking,” she said. “Otherwise, life is like a dream. I know what you mean about the bodies, though. I seem to have the same problem. Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“I guess,” I said, chuckling. “Hey, congratulations on the smoking thing.” I guess that explained the weight gain.
“Yeah, whatever. Turns out, my mother was right. Guys don’t like to kiss an ashtray.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, but who needs guys?” She shoved away from the counter and walked to the worktable, where she tested one of my student’s glued pages for dryness. “This your class?”
“Yes, bookbinding.” I glanced around the empty room. “My students are all hanging out in the gallery, soaking up the excitement.”
“Excitement,” she repeated, as she fiddled with the wing nuts on the press, flicking them back and forth a few times. “I hear there’s been a lot of it around here lately.”
“You could say that.”
“Yeah, I could.” She smirked, then seemed to remember she was there to do a job. “So, tell me about the victim.”
I paused, unsure where to start, then figured I’d start at the top. “She was despicable.”
“Hey, don’t sugarcoat it. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I kind of hated her.”
She leaned back and crossed her ankles. “Guess it’s a good thing you have a rock-solid alibi.”
I blew out a breath. “It sure is.”
She splayed her hands out. “So, tell all. Why was she so awful?”
I held up my hand and counted on my fingers. “She cheated, she lied, she came on to all the men, and she ruled this place through fear and intimidation.”
“Sounds like a real piece of work.”
“I had an argument with her two nights ago.” I explained about the Oliver Twist, emphasizing the fact that I had left the book with Layla’s body. “I’m ashamed to admit I went along with Layla’s lie because I was afraid she’d ruin my reputation, maybe blackball me in the community and keep me from working here.”
Lee nodded. “And how did that make you feel?”
“Like I wanted to kill her.”
“Over a book?”
I shook my head. “It was the principle of the thing.”
Lee cocked her head. “Boy, give the woman an alibi and she goes to town. You’re sounding more and more like a suspect, you know.”
“But I’m not,” I said, smiling grimly.
She leaned her arms on the back of the high chair. “I heard some rumors about a situation in Edinburgh.”
“I didn’t do it.”
She laughed. “They should’ve called me.”
“So you could give me a character reference?”
“Of course,” she said, then slapped her hands together. “Well, I should get back to kicking ass and taking names.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It’s what I live for,” she said. “But first, tell me about the other people here. Did everyone hate this woman enough to kill her?”
I hedged. “Well, some were more enamored of her than others.”
She eyed me sideways. “You giving me a little clue here?”
My lips twitched back and forth. “I hate to be a snitch.”
“This isn’t Scarface, Brooklyn. I need to find a killer. Throw me a bone.”
I gave her a two-minute summation of everything that might relate to Layla’s murder, including Tom and Cynthia’s oddball behavior, Ned’s general demeanor, Naomi’s passive-aggressive ways, Minka’s attack, and the Asian man who stormed out of Layla’s office that first night.
“Sounds like a lot of strong emotions running rampant.”
“You could say that.”
“Are you thinking this angry Asian might’ve snuck back in here and knocked out Minka instead of Layla?”
“It’s possible.”
“Can you describe him?” she asked, writing in her notepad as fast as she could.
I gave it my best shot, then added, “I wish he was the only one she’d pissed off.”
“That would make my job easier. But unfortunately, this seems to be a suspect-rich environment.”
“I hate to think someone I know could’ve done this. Maybe there’s a random psychopathic killer loose in the neighborhood.”
“You know, there just aren’t as many psychopathic killers running around as people think.”
I took it philosophically. “Another myth busted.”
She shrugged. “That’s my job.”
After I led her out to the gallery and pointed out the various players, Inspector Lee corralled most of my students back into the classroom. She isolated Cynthia and Tom, as well as the four staff members, Naomi, Ned, Marky, and Karalee, in separate offices, each with a cop taking preliminary information from them.
My students and I were dealt with quickly and told to go home. I walked back out to the gallery just as the front door opened. From across the wide space, I saw two men walk in with Gunther between them. Seconds later, Derek strolled into the foyer.
Without thinking, I gave a little cry and ran toward him. Derek saw me coming and opened his arms.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered, not even caring if I sounded like a wimpy girl.
“And I’m glad to be here,” he said. “Especially now, with you wrapped around me.”
My insides shuddered at his words. Could we just find a room somewhere and forget everything that had happened here tonight? He’d dressed up for our date, too, in a beautiful black suit, crisp white shirt, and dark crimson tie. I didn’t know an Armani from an armadillo, but I knew his outfit had to cost a few thousand pounds. And it was worth every last penny, I thought, as I nuzzled up next to him and felt the soft wool against my cheek.
“What has you so upset, darling?” he said, his breath unsettling the fine hairs of my neck. “We saw the police cars. Was there another attack?”
“Yes. Oh, Derek.”
“You’re shaking, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Layla Fontaine.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“She was murdered. A bullet in the chest. Blood.” I shivered again.
He pushed back and held me at arm’s length. “Layla Fontaine? Murdered?”
I gulped. “I didn’t do it.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it quickly. He drew me close and I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Of course you didn’t do it. For heaven’s sake. I didn’t for one minute think you were responsible.”
“But I found her,” I whispered. “And somebody’s going to connect her death to Abraham’s and, you know, what happened in Scotland. They’ll just assume I had something to do with it.”
He rubbed my back in a soothing, circular motion. “They’ll answer to me if they do.”
“Stone?”
Derek whipped around. “What is it?”
Gunther’s face was pale. “Did you hear? Layla. My God, she’s dead.”
“Yes, I’ve just been told.”
Gunther’s Austrian accent seemed to grow thicker as he became more agitated. “Is this some kind of joke?”
I took a small step away from Derek. “No, it’s not a joke.”
Gunther’s gaze homed in on me. “Who are you? What happened? A heart attack? Did she choke?”
I looked at Derek, then back at Gunther. “She was murdered.”
“Commander Stone?” Inspector Jaglom approached. “I thought that was you. Welcome back to the States.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Derek said, shaking the man’s hand. They had worked together during Abraham’s murder investigation. The first time I’d heard Jaglom greet Derek by the title of Commander, I realized the guy was actually a former commander in the Royal Navy. Before that, I was pretty sure he was a killer. Of course, he was convinced I was, too. Ah, the memories.
Derek continued, “Inspector, let me introduce you to Gunther Schnaubel.”
There were somber murmurs of greeting; then Gunther said, “Inspector, I demand to know what happened here.”
“That’s what we intend to find out, Mr. Schnaubel.”
Gunther rubbed tight knuckles across his jawline. “This is unacceptable. I spoke to Layla a mere hour ago. She sounded fine. We were to meet here and discuss certain arrangements.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Schnaubel,” Jaglom said, studying the Austrian carefully as he pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. “What sort of arrangements were you planning to talk about with the deceased?”
Gunther licked his lips. He had the grace to look flustered, as if he was just now realizing how big a bull’s-eye he’d painted on himself.
I cleared my throat. “Inspector, Mr. Schnaubel is one of the honored guests Ms. Fontaine invited to the book festival running these next two weeks. He’s a world-renowned artist and he’s teaching several classes as well as donating some important pieces to the silent auction.”
Gunther looked pleased by my words.
“I see,” Jaglom said, as he wrote in his notepad. “What sort of artist are you, Mr. Schnaubel?”
“What does that matter?” Gunther said, angry now and posing with his fist on his hip and his nose in the air, as though he expected some underling to clean up the mess that was causing havoc in his well-ordered life.
“Let’s talk some more in here, Mr. Schnaubel,” Jaglom said, pointing down the hall to one of the rooms the police were using.
“I have nothing else to say,” he said, his lips in a tight pout. Could he be more of a diva?
Derek leaned closer to Jaglom. “Inspector, could I have a word, please?”
“Certainly.”
The two men walked slowly as they talked, down the ramp to the gallery, then up another ramp and into the east hall. What were they discussing? I wondered. What did Derek know that I didn’t and how soon could I find out? And meanwhile, what was I supposed to do?
Gunther eyed me with suspicion but said nothing.
“I love your work,” I said lamely.
He raised one imperious eyebrow. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Okay, enough small talk. I should’ve been nicer to him since he was a world-renowned artist and a guest here at BABA, but all the niceness had been drained out of me. I excused myself and walked away, wondering when this nightmare would be over.