Mistletoe and Murder

Chapter Fourteen

“You have no idea who left the card.” O’Keefe walked in measured lines within the confines of the party hall cloakroom. “Did you search the building?”

“Jacob did.” Romana gave one of her spaghetti straps a twist to straighten it. “I knocked on doors for an hour with no luck.”

“It had to be Belinda’s murderer.”

“Warning me to fear him more than Warren Critch? Calling him-or herself mad? Would you do that if you were a killer?”

“If I wanted my share of the attention and was, in fact, mad, I might.”

“It could have come from Shera Barret.”

“I know about the bribery attempt, Romana. Jacob filled me in earlier. You believe that James Barret murdered Belinda, and now Shera Barret is warning you to watch your step around him?”

“Or you could flip-flop that and theorize that Shera killed Belinda and James is warning me. Either scenario works.”

“Not so much when you factor in the phone call to Canter and the attempted bribery.”

“It still fits, Mick.” Jacob came in, shaking snow from his hair.

Romana wanted to sigh. He looked positively edible in a long black coat and European-cut black suit. His too-long hair and vaguely haunted features added a poetic air that had her fanning her face as she motioned them forward.

“We can hash this out later, gentlemen. Party’s in full swing, and we need to make the rounds. Is anyone not here?” she asked O’Keefe.

“Only Fitz.”

The pang that shot through her hurt more than any bullet. O’Keefe winced.

“Sorry. Not what I meant to say at all.”

Jacob caught her hand, brought her fingers to his lips. “Let’s dance.”

Mingling would have been more productive, but Romana needed a moment to rebalance her emotions. And, while dancing with Jacob had its dangerous points, it was certainly no hardship.

They swayed to a Rod Stewart song, something nostalgic and quite lovely, under a canopy of darkness liberally sprinkled with silver fairy lights.

A fifteen-foot traditional tree took pride of place at one end of the hall. Other, more sculptural trees dotted the perimeter. Garland swagged out from a star-shaped center point, and everything from the linen-covered tables to the black-velvet chairs seemed to glitter.

Romana estimated that there were over two hundred people in attendance. Jacob guessed closer to three. Whatever the count, it would be a skeleton police crew, at best, minding the city that night.

Her ankle-length chiffon-over-silk dress floated as she danced. Her silver shoes had stiletto heels and were really more strap than substance. A pair of Grandma Grey’s drop diamonds swung from her earlobes, and her own slim diamond bracelet slid up and down her arm whenever she moved.

Jacob fingered one of the earrings. “You really do look beautiful, but then I could say that about you any day or night.”

“And I’d be okay with it.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Any day or night.”

“You did have that gun pointed right between my eyes, you know.”

“Apparently, some points of training stick.”

He eased her away from the center of the floor. “Why does the old man call you Romanov?”

“Because that’s how his wife heard it when I introduced myself to her. She passed the mistake on to him. Two months later, she died. I’ve never had the heart to correct him.” She gave his hand a light squeeze. “There’s Patrick.”

Jacob followed her gaze. “He’s dancing with the new dispatcher.”

Another pang forked through her heart. “She has red hair.”

Jacob used his body to block the pair. “We don’t have to be here.”

“Yes, we do. But thank you.” She saw a hand come down on his shoulder and offered a pleasant, “Hello, James.”

Barret’s practiced smile didn’t waver under Jacob’s sharp look. “You can’t bring the best to the ball and not share, Detective. Shera’s at the punch bowl if you’re up for a challenge. But I should warn you, my wife’s in a bit of a temper this evening.”

Romana gave Jacob a barely perceptible headshake and James Barret her full attention as she drew him away.

“And so we dance again, Mr. Barret. I hear you were in Cleveland for a few days.”

“We’ll descend into business talk if I answer that question. I prefer a more festive topic. I trust the police are still tracking Warren Critch. Has there been any progress in the case?”

That was his idea of a festive topic? Interesting. “Not yet,” she replied. “Although it’s not so much a case as a manhunt.”

“Somehow that sounds even more dangerous.”

“Only for Jacob and me. The public’s in no real danger.” She hoped. “Tell me, exactly how well did you know Belinda Critch?”

“It always returns to business in the end.”

“Did it ever leave?”

Although his smile remained, the gleam in his eyes became a diamond-hard glitter. “I met Belinda for the first time in Gilhoolie’s Pub.”

“Yes, I know that part. Let’s fast-forward to the inscribed silver watch you gave her, date unknown.”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the watch.”

“When did you give it to her?”

“I don’t remember.”

Romana affixed what Fitz called her killer smile. “Try. Close will do. Was it shortly after Ben Brown’s death?”

He studied her through half-closed eyes. “Should I be contacting my lawyer?”

To keep him amenable, she went with her heart. “You must know by now that Fitz is missing. I found the watch in her room.”

He laughed and both gleam and smile returned full-force. “Bless her sticky little fingers. The woman’s an artiste. Fine, then, yes, I did give Belinda the watch, shortly after my partner’s funeral. She assisted in the autopsy, and at my request made certain that the procedure kept moving.”

“You mean she put a rush on it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed Ben’s money for a business transaction into which I was about to enter. He would have backed me if he’d lived, but dying the way he did threw a very large, very awkward monkey wrench into the works.”

“So you were thanking Belinda for getting her part of the job done quickly.”

“Quickly and efficiently. There was no impropriety, on her part or mine.”

“Then the secrets you referred to on the inside of the watch had nothing to do with your partner’s death?”

He gnawed on his inner lip, regarded her with grudging admiration. “I think maybe you should have been a lawyer.”

“Never know, I might get around to it. What secrets did you and Belinda share, James?”

“Off the record?”

“I’m not on the force anymore.”

“Jacob Knight is. I repeat, off the record, and not to be passed on to my wife. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Belinda and I had an affair while I was engaged to Shera. It wasn’t serious, and it didn’t last. If she’d chosen to be vindictive, she could have gone to Shera and created all manner of problems. But she didn’t. She walked away with no fuss and with no demands made. It was our secret, and we kept it. We remained friends after that-another surprise since I hadn’t expected friendship from her. Marrying Warren didn’t settle her in the least, but I do believe she loved him in her own way. I’m convinced she never wanted to see him hurt.”

“And yet she had one affair after another.”

“Meaningless flings. Strokes to an ego in serious need of repair. She came from a bad home. Drug-addicted mother, alcoholic father. Mother divorced, then remarried-another alcoholic, unfortunately. They had very little money between them and even less to give Belinda or her brother. As she got older, Belinda found she liked things. She discovered she could use her body to get them. It isn’t a new story, Romana. Men were toys to her. With the possible exception of Warren Critch.”

“What made him special?”

“What makes anyone special? A feeling.”

Since she couldn’t refute that, Romana let silence reign until the song played out.

When it did, James gave his shirt cuffs a habitual tug and squared his shoulders. “Time to brave the lioness. Remember, off the record. Now enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“I guess that means no more dances,” she said to his back. “Fitz would call me a fool.”

“For what?” a man’s cool voice inquired.

She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server before swinging around. “Why, hello there, stranger. The last time I saw you, you were limping off to a change room. Bruises healed?”

Dylan regarded her without a trace of amusement. “Your cop partner’s got a female cobra coiled around him. You think I have bruises, wait until Shera Barret goes in for the kill.”

Romana smiled, unperturbed. “Cobras don’t coil around their prey. Boa constrictors do, but then they’re not venomous.”

Dylan drank deeply from his glass of beer. “Did they give lessons on snake anatomy after I left the Academy?”

“No, that came from Mrs. Farrell, my high school science teacher.” She took a provocative step toward him. “Speaking of science teachers, have you heard any more from your brother-in-law?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are we at odds for some reason? As I recall, it was your friend Knight who had me in a choke-hold at the gym, not vice versa.”

“Critch cut Jacob’s brake line, then came after us at a Christmas tree farm with poison darts. He also took Fitz.” She wavered a little. “Maybe.”

Dylan’s forehead furrowed. “Warren took Fitz? Why?”

Romana’s laugh contained no humor. “Well, gee, Dylan, let me think. Possibly to get to me?”

He waved a hand in front of her face. “Hey, not Warren here, okay? Fitz has no part in this. It doesn’t make sense that he’d take her.”

“Meaning you really haven’t had any contact with him?”

“Pretty sure I’ve been saying that all along.”

“Then help me. Tell me who you think might have wanted Belinda dead. Besides Jacob.”

“There is no ‘besides Jacob.’”

“She wanted him to get her a restraining order. That was what their lunch entailed.”

“So he says.” He drank again, then scoffed. “A restraining order against who?”

“Excellent question. Been asked a thousand times with no answer so far. Was she frightened of anyone that you know of?”

“Men didn’t frighten Belinda.”

“Did women? One particular woman?”

“Fitz tended to annoy her. And I don’t think she was crazy about female cops who resemble Ava Gardner.”

Romana started to speak, but stopped. “Belinda thought I looked like Ava Gardner?”

“She wouldn’t have given Connor a second glance otherwise.”

Determined to remain unruffled, Romana sipped her champagne. “Didn’t see that one coming. Good shot, Dylan. A bit low, but nothing I didn’t already know.” Her eyes fastened on his. “Did Shera Barret frighten Belinda?”

He blinked, clearly mystified. “Did they even know each other?”

“For a man who loved his sister, you don’t know much about her.”

“I know there wasn’t a man in her life she cared about,” he countered. “Except me and, later, Warren. Belinda did what she had to do to get the things she wanted. I understood that, and her. You see a female viper. I see a desperate little girl.”

“And a boy who wanted to protect her.”

“Belinda wasn’t perfect, okay, she was simply like the rest of us. Screwed up and searching for something or someone who could make her happy.”

“Apparently Warren didn’t quite do that.”

“He did in as much as anyone could.” Dylan finished his beer. “Believe what you want to, Belinda wasn’t the evil woman people make her out to be.”

“I never thought of her as evil, but I wouldn’t use the word nice, either. Screwed up I can accept because, as you say, who isn’t, but one lunch followed by a phone call…” She trailed off, eyed him with consideration. “What do you know about that phone call?”

“What phone call?”

“The one Belinda placed after her lunch with Jacob. The one Patrick overheard.”

“Sorry, no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And if you did, would you tell me?”

“Might. Might not.”

Exasperation won out. “Honest to God, Dylan, you have such a pissy attitude. Innocent until proven guilty-remem-ber that one?”

“I must have washed out before the Academy instructors got to it.”

“Why can’t you admit that you and Critch just might be wrong?”

“Because Belinda’s dead, and Knight, the only man we know of who argued with her before she died, isn’t.” He ground his teeth, struggled for control. “Okay, look, I’m worked up. I’m sorry. I don’t condone Warren’s actions. We’re not Third World here. Slashing brake lines, shooting poison darts…” He broke off. “What was in the darts?”

“Curare.”

“Anyway, I agree Warren’s going too far. He’s not thinking, Romana. He’s functioning on pure hatred.”

“Yes, we kind of figured that.” Watching him choke his empty glass while he searched for a server brought a head-shake. “Bar’s over there.” She paused, frowned at his suddenly shocked expression. “What is it?” Twisting her head, she saw Jacob talking to his captain and O’Keefe dancing with the red-haired dispatcher. “What are you…”

She spied him on her second scan of the crowd, a man wearing the black pants and a white jacket of a server. He had a full gray mustache and his equally gray hair was pulled back in a stubby ponytail. Glasses partially hid his eyes, but his face said it all. If Dylan was startled, the server was positively stricken.

Except he wasn’t a server, and both Dylan and Romana knew it.

“Oh, man…” Dylan breathed, not moving. “He’s lost it.”

Romana’s lungs burned, the crowd noise vanished, and time seemed to freeze-as she stared across the floor and straight into the eyes of Warren Critch.

“YOU’RE SURE IT WAS HIM?” O’Keefe endeavored to hold Romana back. “You couldn’t be mistaken?”

“If I’m wrong, so was Dylan.” Romana slapped at his restraining hands. “Let go, Mick. He’s not after me. He took off as soon as he realized I’d seen him.”

O’Keefe trailed her through the increasingly curious crowd. “Which direction did he take?”

“Kitchen.” She spotted Jacob near the door and made his back her goal. Until she crashed into a man so frail she had to grab both of his arms to keep him from pitching onto the floor.

“Dr. Gorman, I’m so sorry.” Long, clawlike fingers closed on her dress. He gave an owlish series of blinks before finally locating her face. “Did someone die?” He patted the pockets of his dinner jacket.

“No.” Jacob vanished through the door, and, resigned, Romana stilled the old man’s thin hands. “Everyone’s fine. O’Keefe?” she said through her teeth.

“Following. Gray hair and mustache, right?” “Unless he ditches them.” “Dylan?” “With Jacob. Go.” Dr. Gorman’s mouth opened and closed like a codfish. “All this fuss and bother, and no one’s dead? Officer Grey, isn’t it?” “Yes it is. I’m flattered you remember me.” And more than a little surprised.

“I remember your rapscallion husband well enough.” His lips compressed to a disapproving line. “Made a mockery of my department. Caught him signing my name to an incoming shipment of supplies once. Another time, he falsified a report that said a live man was dead. And signed my name-again. Or was that Belinda?”

Romana’s gaze slid from the kitchen door to his wrinkled face. “Belinda signed your name on a report?”

He drew back as if slapped. “Did I say that? Oh, no, she wouldn’t do that, not in her condition.”

“Condition?” The skin on Romana’s neck prickled. “What condition was that, Dr. Gorman?”

“The usual one,” he replied with mounting impatience.

“Belinda was pregnant?”

“Never told me she was, but even I can tell blue from pink.”

“Pink.” Romana stared. “The test strip turned pink?”

“Three times, she said. She was holding the third one in her hand when I saw her outside the washroom. Pink.” He blinked again, appeared to lose his train of thought. “Must mean she was going to have a girl.”

Pink and blue strips of thought streaked through Romana’s head. They moved so fast she couldn’t hold on to them. But through the stream, one grisly fact emerged.

If Belinda Critch had, in fact, been pregnant when she died, she’d taken that secret to the grave.