Mistletoe and Murder

Chapter Seven

“You know,” Romana mused, “just once it would be nice to talk to someone who had something positive to say about this situation.”

Jacob surveyed the bustling main aisles of the north-side shopping mall. “Like what?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, the Cincinnati police force does have an excellent reputation for apprehending lunatics before they strike.”

“Do we?” Still scanning, Jacob grinned. “That’s news to me.”

“It would be, seeing as you cops in Homicide always look at life from the dark side. I teach criminology, Jacob. I see the stats. When it comes to apprehending crazies, this city’s police officers are among the finest in the country.”

“Either that or the majority of the nutcases gravitate to warmer climates.”

“So what-you’re saying most of the nut balls live in Florida, or California, or Texas, or Louisiana, or…” She knocked his arm with her own. “You know I could go on for quite a while here, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ve discovered that about you. I’d rather you went on about that e-picture again.”

She shuddered off the sensation of floating, ghostlike, on the ceiling and staring down at herself in death. “Surrounded by mistletoe leaves,” she murmured. And halted the thought there. “I wonder why he used them?”

“Who? Critch or the killer?”

“Either. Both. Okay, Critch was re-creating his wife’s death with the picture he sent today, but what do you suppose was going on inside the murderer’s head when he placed mistletoe around Belinda’s body?”

“Maybe we should ask Critch’s shrink.”

“If that shrink’s name is Raymond Haines, don’t bother. The man’s at least two hundred years old. God, Jacob, he was ancient when Doctor Gorman retired, and Gorman was in his late seventies by the time he left Forensics-which he only did because the hospital board put an enormous amount of pressure on him.”

“Should I know what you’re talking about?”

Exasperation swept in. “You’re in Homicide, Knight. You must have met Gorman at some point.”

“Tall, shriveled guy who looks like a cross between an undertaker and a cadaver? Yeah, I met him. Belinda said he made several passes at her.”

Romana twitched a shoulder. “I have absolutely nothing to say to that.” But she did and he knew it, damn him, because he merely waited her out. As they stepped onto the escalator, she kicked the metal step with her toe. “Was there a man in this city that Belinda Critch didn’t sleep with?”

“I never said she slept with Gorman.”

“Come on to, then.”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

“I know Doctor Gorman, Jacob. For the last five years of his tenure, staying awake and reasonably aware occupied the bulk of his time, to say nothing of his thoughts. The only way he’d have noticed Belinda Critch or any other woman is if she’d plunked herself down in his lap naked and made a blatant attempt to seduce him.”

“Maybe she did.”

“But you just said…”

“I said she said he made several passes at her. Doesn’t mean she didn’t invite them.”

“Uh-huh.” Romana took a quick look around the upper level. “I think you’re contradicting yourself. That says to me you’re preoccupied, which in turn suggests you think Critch is tailing us.”

“There’s a good chance he is, and the idea doesn’t sit well with me in a crowded shopping mall.”

“At least it isn’t peak time.” But she cast her eyes along the rows of glittering storefronts and wondered how far a carry-his-grudge-to-the-death insane person might go to achieve his goal. “Maybe we should meet this toy store actor away from his work.”

“In a theater, for instance?”

“Is he doing a Christmas play?”

“He’s in an amateur version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He’s the techno-geek kid’s father.”

Romana slowed her footsteps as they neared The Toy Box. The crowd around them seemed much larger all of a sudden. “Local theaters are smaller than malls,” she reflected. “But his home would really be the logical…” She stopped speaking as her eyes landed on a woman across the mall.

“What?” Jacob followed her line.

“Over there. Tall woman in the cream coat. That’s Shera Barret.” Amusement stirred. “She looks harassed.”

He studied the rail-thin woman with her sleek blond hair, Prada boots and shiny shopping bag. “She looks like she’s on speed.”

“It’s her natural state when she’s not on tranqs.” Romana grinned. “I’ve heard stories,” she added at Jacob’s sideways glance. “That little Gucci bag she’s carrying is probably worth 10k or more. I hope she didn’t park underground.” At his even more dubious stare, she laughed. “I’m being serious, not catty. Think street patrol, Detective. Thieves love underground lots. Ah, here we are, The Toy Box. Kiddy heaven. I wonder if Mr. Geek has the latest PS in stock. My nephew’s so into that right now.”

“If you have money to buy Christmas presents like that, Romana, you’re grossly overpaid.” Although he spoke to her, his attention lingered on Shera Barret.

Curious, Romana cocked her head. “What’s on your mind?’

“Ben Brown died of respiratory failure.”

“According to Fitz, he also suffered from asthma.”

“He was at home in front of his television, drinking a glass of brandy when he died. No exertion. Not pets or outside pollution to trigger an attack, and his house was conspicuously dust free.”

Romana moved aside so a pair of adolescent girls in Santa hats could enter the shop. “You think Barret’s partner was murdered?”

“I think it’s strange that he’d have a fatal attack of asthma under those circumstances.”

Hooking his arm, she drew him with her to the display window, where a group of animated elves played board games, listened to music and baked elf cookies in a miniature oven. “What did the medical examiner think?”

“The autopsy report claimed there were no foreign substances in his system.”

“So either the report was true and his death was natural, or someone involved in the autopsy process faked his or her results.” She dredged up a sweet smile. “Just how honest was Belinda Critch?”

“How honest was your ex?”

She removed her black gloves. “Fair enough. Bottom line, Belinda went after Barret nine years ago. Maybe she didn’t score the first time around, but who knows what might have happened at a later date? The question is, did Barret want his partner gone, and if so why?” She arched a speculative eyebrow. “Think you could get a look at Barret Brown’s books?”

“He’d have cooked those long ago.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” She straightened both herself and the front of his jacket. “Let it go for now, okay? We came here to talk to Critch’s theater friend. First things first. Or at least one thing at time.”

Not that she expected Jacob to set his thoughts aside, but she needed time to assimilate all the things that seemed to be happening so quickly around her. She was rattled by the picture Critch had sent her, and still reeling from Jacob’s kiss back at the gym. A chat was about all she had left in her tonight. Then she’d either jump Jacob and have wild sex with him, or topple into bed and shut the world out until morning.

She had to squeeze past a group of ten-year-old boys who were salivating over a rack of skateboards. No less than two dozen senior-aged women chattered in the board game section. The jackets they wore identified them as the Shopping Grannies. Scores of other customers, mostly weary-looking parents, wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles.

“These shelves are piled too high.” Romana tipped her head way back. “And the boxes are too close to the edge.”

“Police officer, university professor and merchandising expert.” Jacob set a hand on her back to keep her moving.

“You’re a woman of many talents, Romana.”

“My brother…”

“Runs a chain of office supply stores, I know. I’ve heard stories,” he said at her questioning look.

She wanted to respond to his mocking tone, but she glimpsed a holiday Barbie and couldn’t resist making a beeline for it.

“This is a retro doll, Jacob, you know, from the early sixties. Teresa would love her.”

He set his cheek on the side of her hair. “How many seven-year-olds do you figure are into retro toys?”

“Lots, but okay, maybe I’d love her more.” She searched for the price, but he started pushing. “Jacob, I only want to… Oh, my God!” Her eyes lit up. “Is that Fozzie Bear?”

She felt the change instantly, and the zap of tension that accompanied it. He whipped his head around. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t staring at the Muppet bear she’d mentioned, but at the frog beside it.

“You like Kermit?” She watched his face in profile. Something here, she realized. And the memory attached to it brought such a dark expression to his face that a shiver actually rippled along her spine.

“Jacob?” She touched his arm. “Uh, Critch’s actor friend is standing by the plastic tricycles.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He gave the frog one last look, then motioned her forward.

Although part of her longed to ask the obvious question, Romana swallowed it and, taking his hand, led him to the end of the aisle. “Looks like the guy could use a few of Shera Barret’s tranqs.” She forced a pleasant smile. “Hello, Mr. Mitchell, I’m Romana Grey. This is Detective Knight. We spoke to you yesterday.”

The man, balding and obviously uneasy, stabbed at his glasses with a ragged fingernail. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“Five minutes,” Jacob said.

Mitchell regarded his badge, nodded and drew them past the plastic toys through a swinging stockroom door.

It was a tight squeeze between the mountains of cardboard boxes, the dollies and a long red lunch table straight out of the 1950s.

“I don’t know what I can tell you.” His reindeer name tag read Manager Mitch. He smelled of peppermint, perspiration and unclean clothes. His Adam’s apple bobbed vigorously as his gaze swung between them. “Warren and I weren’t doing a play when his wife, er, died.”

“What did you think of the man overall?” Jacob asked.

“He was nice enough, you know, a regular sort of guy.”

Romana unbuttoned her long black coat in the stuffy room. “Was he a good actor?”

The man laughed, revealing crooked teeth. “Good Lord, no. His movements were rusty, and he was as wooden as Pinocchio with his delivery. He did the plays for Bel-for his wife. She was very good,” he added. His neck flushed red. “At acting.”

Jacob studied him, half-lidded. “Did Critch seem agitated before his wife was killed?”

“Not especially, no. He was a tad possessive of her, but if you’d asked me back then, I’d have said he seemed more relaxed than he’d been since before they were married.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Two weeks before Belinda died. Oh, no, wait, I passed him in the liquor store once after that.”

Romana picked up a napkin and waved it in front of her face. If there was air in the room it wasn’t moving, and judging from the smell of smoke wafting past, someone on staff liked cigarettes.

“He wasn’t quite so relaxed that night,” Mitchell elaborated after a prod from Jacob. “He said something about his wife being in trouble. Or was it threats? Yes, he said she was being threatened by someone. I think he was mostly upset because she wouldn’t tell him who was doing the threatening.”

Jacob rested a hip on the red table. “Did he say anything specific?”

“Not that I can…” The man sniffed the air. “Do you smell something?”

Besides dirty clothes and stale cigarettes? Romana shook her head. If she’d had a weaker stomach, she would have gagged. She set her makeshift fan aside instead. “You should tell your employees to take their cigarette breaks outside, Mr. Mitchell.”

He blinked at her. “Only two people on my staff smoke, and they’re not working tonight.”

“Then you should empty your trash cans more often.”

Jacob set a hand on her nape, glanced at the stockroom door. “That’s not cigarette smoke, Romana.”

She spied it as he did, filmy, gray tendrils clouding the window of the door.

A moment later, that door slammed open and three salespeople ran in. “The toddler’s toy section,” one of them revealed as an alarm began to shriek. “And the games counter.” The panicked associate pointed in no less than six directions at once. “Coming up and over the shelves. The store’s burning, Mr. Mitchell. The fire’s between us and the front door.”

FITZ SAT IN THE ATTIC SUITE she rented in her father’s house and stared at the roofs of the neighborhood where she had lived since the two of them had moved here from Belfast twenty-plus years ago. She wanted more out of life than to live in a shabby-chic suburb in a Midwestern city that too many people still tended to associate with a 1970s sitcom. Or if she had to stay, she wanted to do it in style.

She wished she’d been born beautiful like Romana. Unfortunately, the most flattering description she’d ever received was the time James Barret had called her “a sprightly lass.” Still, she’d learned how to turn a man’s head. She paid attention to what each one liked and used that knowledge to stroke their egos.

Belinda Critch had taught her that single valuable lesson years ago, in the days when Romana had been a cop and she, Fitz, had been a mere gofer in Forensics.

The hospital underworld had revolved around Belinda back then. All the men had wanted her, except old Doctor Gorman, who’d been so feeble that snickering techs had occasionally stuck mirrors under his nose during his several-times-daily catnaps.

Men had adored Belinda; women had hated her. So why did everyone think a man had killed her…?

Giving her head a shake, Fitz sat cross-legged on the window seat and dumped the contents of her treasure box on the cushion. This was her secret stash, mementoes mostly, nothing of value, just trinkets that had stuck to her fingers when she’d been feeling low. She separated out a pair of Patrick’s sunglasses, one of Belinda’s watches, a pair of James’s cufflinks-actually, those would be worth some-thing-a woman’s antique pin, another of Belinda’s watches and a ten-karat gold ring that Dylan, the so-called security whiz, hadn’t missed even though she’d slipped it off his finger in the middle of a Fourth of July picnic.

He’d been glowering at someone, she recalled. James? Patrick? His brother-in-law? His sister?

Fitz couldn’t remember. Not about that day. But she remembered other events, like the Christmas party where Belinda should have been dancing with her then-fiancé Warren Critch, but had instead been wrapped around twenty other men.

Had she ever unwrapped herself from any of them? Fitz picked through her treasures and tried to line it all up in her head. The men, the marriage, the men.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Then again, maybe it did.

She turned to stare at the soft blue lights her father had woven through the limbs of a chestnut tree. Romana was important to her, like an older sister in many ways, except she was two years younger. Ah, but hey, serious childhood issues, Fitz reminded herself.

She forced her mind back to Belinda and the upshot of the woman’s death. Critch claimed someone had threatened his wife’s life. Now he was threatening Romana’s. Because she’d saved a cop.

But what if Romana was right, and the cop was innocent? What if someone else had killed Belinda?

Fitz rubbed her forehead, had to think. What had Belinda said to her in those last days they’d worked together? If she hadn’t been so busy trying to liberate Belinda’s silver bracelet watch from her wrist, she might have paid more attention.

Picking up the coveted silver watch, Fitz ran her thumb over the tarnished inner band. Letters and numbers emerged through the black, enough of them to pique her interest.

Ten minutes later, her hands trembled, her cheeks had lost much of their color…and her fear for Romana’s life had shot off the scale.