Laughing Heirs (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) by Michael Monhollon

Author:Michael Monhollon [Monhollon, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Reflection Publishing
Published: 2014-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Even with the lift from Mike it took twenty-five minutes to get to Carytown Joe. Only two of the tables were occupied, one by an old man reading a Wall Street Journal and having a pastry with his coffee, the other by a couple of middle-aged women with lattes. No one was behind the counter, but when I walked around it, I found Whitney in a small office. There were no police.

“Did they run off your customers?” I asked.

Whitney was sitting in a padded swivel chair, white faced and looking as if she were about to throw up. She shook her head. “Business will start picking up again about eleven-thirty.” She handed me a set of papers stapled at the top corners. It was the search warrant. I flapped back the top page to read the affidavit it was based on.

“The police have talked to you before,” I said, looking up.

“They’ve been in here, just making conversation it seemed like.”

“But you told them Brian had a key to the shop.”

“He does. It’s not like it’s a secret or anything.”

I took a breath. “You need to tell me when the police come by.” The last page wasn’t stapled to the others. It was a receipt for a woman’s jacket, a dish cloth, and three assorted kitchen utensils. “Actually, from now on, you should not talk to the police except in my presence. Any question they ask, say you want your lawyer.”

“My lawyer?”

“Me, until you find somebody else.” I turned the receipt to face her and laid it on the small table she was using as a desk. “Tell me about the jacket they took.”

“It’s an old jacket that hangs on that hook by the back door. It’s not one I wear very often. Sometimes I throw it on when I take out the trash.”

“Why did the police take it?”

“I don’t know. They seemed interested in something on the sleeve. A stain of some sort.”

“And the utensils?”

She wet her lips. “A corkscrew, a food thermometer, and…a rusty looking ice pick they found on the floor between the counter and the wall.”

“Which counter?”

“The one out there.”

“Where any patron could have dropped it. When you say rusty looking…”

“The blade had dark splotches on it.” Her expression was earnest. “Robin, I’m scared for Brian.”

“Me, too,” I acknowledged.

“I’m going to go down to the jail this afternoon. I need to see him.”

I sighed. “You can’t. He gets one visitor every seven days. His sister saw him Saturday.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“He seems to think he’s covering for you.”

“Covering for me how? Why would he think that?”

“He found your glasses case with a dead woman, and he took it,” I said. “He tried to leave town, and now he’s doing a good job of remaining silent.”

“I thought he was running because things looked so bad for him.”

“Taking off had the effect of directing suspicion to him—and, possibly, away from you. That may be why he left the glasses case in his apartment. He knew the police would catch up to him, and he didn’t want it found on him.

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