The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

Chapter 3

Yes, I’m cynical. I’ll be the first to admit it. And I have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to some men. Okay, most men. But for good reason. Some days just go from bad to worse to argh!, and when they do, damned if there isn’t always a man smack in the middle of it.

Detective Richard Head was one such man. To say that he’d been a thorn in my side from time to time would be like saying Johnny Depp was just a little bit hot in that pirate costume.

You see, Richard Head and I had a history. No, not a romantic one. God forbid! I wasn’t his type, and he sure as hell wasn’t mine. Our history was one based on mutual dislike, and mutual distrust. We’d flipped each other the finger so often it had become automatic, a reflexive action.

Police Detective Head didn’t like private detectives, and he liked female private detectives even less. And he absolutely loathed a certain female private detective who happened to catch him getting a little too close with the new dispatcher at the 10th precinct awhile back. Actually, Richard’s ex, Glory, had been a client of Jones and Associates two years ago. Or rather had attempted to be a client. But when she couldn’t pay the hefty retainer fee, I’d volunteered my services — off hours and off the books. I know, I know, not very business like. But Glory was a sweetheart. She was only working part time and just didn’t have the money. So I helped her out. And it worked out for both of us. She found out her suspicions of a cheating husband were true. And when I went out on my own, she sent a couple of her friends my way — she had been that impressed with my work.

But Detective Richard Head had not been impressed by my work. Glory had kicked him out on his ear when I handed over the incriminating evidence. Saddled with alimony payments, Richard had been forced to move in with his mother.

His mother. God, I’d almost forgotten that part. No wonder the man hated me.

But my point is, Richard Head never forgave me for doing my job and catching him red handed (or ass handed, if you prefer).

And I’d never wanted him to.

Did I mention I have a chip on my shoulder?

By now, you’ve no doubt figured out which police detective caught this call.

Yep.

By the time Detective Head arrived, the patrol response guys had been there probably five minutes. Ned Weatherby had gotten control of himself. Sorta. By that I mean he wasn’t screaming now so much as crying softly (thank you, Dylan). The police had gotten him inside before too much commotion was caused. Ned kept shaking his head and asking, why, why, why would someone want to do this to his Jennifer? He looked bewildered, lost, his bottom lip quivering as he snuffed back the tears. At least he was acting that way. For all I knew, he and his mistress were jointly responsibly for Jennifer’s demise.

I would find out. I sure as hell wouldn’t leave it to Marport City’s finest.

Of course, Detective Head looked about as thrilled to see me as I was to see him. When the first officer on the scene explained that I’d touched the victim to check for a pulse and that the bloody tracks on the floor were mine, Detective Head launched into a furious attack on me for contaminating his crime scene, compromising the evidence, etc. I fired back that if I hadn’t checked for life signs, he’d be tearing my head off right now for failing to come to the aid of a victim whose life might have been saved by some timely first aid.

Midway through my counter-attack, I saw his expression change. The fury that twisted his features just moments ago was gone. And just like that, it clicked: he’d like nothing more than to pin this murder on me! Considering I was standing beside the dead body, the victim’s blood on my hands, it’s a wonder he wasn’t standing there with a first class woody.

Oh boy.

+++

Minutes behind the many wailing police sirens (guess the boys in blue figured they could afford a few extra cars to a murder scene on Ashfield Drive), came the flashily painted media vans. They parked all along the street, contrasting startlingly with the BMWs and Hummers and Lexuses (Lexi?) of Ashfield Drive. Tanned reporters in their fresh pressed suits and their gelled hair leapt from the vans before they’d barely rolled to a stop. They grilled the neighbors, who were now milling about, for details, staying off the Weatherby property, but precariously close to the yellow police tape. A few officers — the younger ones — strolled into camera range, trying to look appropriately serious and authoritative in the background. But hell, all they needed was a “Hi mom, it’s me!” sign.

No one was admitted to the Weatherby house, of course, except for officials — cops, forensic specialists, ambulance crew, the ME from the Coroner’s Office. Well, hardly anyone. I was still inside. From where Detective Head had parked me on the living room couch with a less-than-polite ‘stay there’, I watched the activity outside through the picture window, gazing through sheers that made everyone look ghostly.

Right behind the news crews, a brand-new Porsche pulled up and an anxious-looking Jeremy Poole leapt out. Gawd, he looked just like his media pictures. Did he ever take off his suit and tie? The lawyer approached one of the uniforms on crowd control, nervously running a hand though his hair as he did. From where I sat, I could hear the conversation between Poole and the young officer drifting in the front door, which still stood open.

“I’m Mr. Weatherby’s lawyer. I demand to see my client.”

In his grief-stricken state, Ned Weatherby had called his lawyer? Interesting.

“I’ll need some identification, sir,” the officer said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Obviously ticked that the officer hadn’t recognized him, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He began fumbling through cards, dropping one after the other while the young officer waited, and the media zoomed in.

“It’s all right, officer. I can vouch for Mr. Poole.”

I glanced up to see Ned Weatherby framed in the open doorway. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d been watching Jeremy Poole’s arrival. I flicked my gaze back to the scene outside in time to see every cameraman and reporter snap their heads in Ned’s direction as though their necks were rigged together.

“Shut the fuckin’ door!” Detective Head yelled.

But it was too late. At least a dozen photographs had been snapped and every newspaper in the province — hell, every newspaper in the country probably — would have a picture of a distraught Ned Weatherby admitting his lawyer into the house. Speculation would roll like a donut down hill.

“Oh, Jeremy, it’s horrible!” Ned said, clutching his lawyer’s arm and drawing him inside. “Someone’s … someone’s killed Jennifer.”

“There, there, Ned. I know,” Poole said. “I’m … I’m so very sorry.”

“Who would want to do this to Jennifer?” Ned looked like a child asking if the boogeyman had really snuffed out Santa Claus — desperate for answers in the land of disbelief.

“Who’s in charge here?” Even in trying to be commanding, the lawyer’s voice sounded edged with panic.

Detective Head stepped forward. “I am.”

“Your name, sir?”

“They call him Dick Head,” I called from my assigned seat on the sofa.

If looks could kill, the medical examiner would have had another body to deal with, but I held my ground under the detective’s glare. Okay, that probably was not the smartest thing for me to have done, but I wanted Detective Head to get the message loud and clear. I wasn’t about to roll over and do tricks for him on this. I wasn’t scared because I had nothing to be scared of. And I wasn’t looking for an ally in him.

And I sure as hell wouldn’t be intimidated.

“I’ll deal with you later, Dodd,” Head scowled at me before turning to Jeremy Poole. “I’m in charge, and the name’s, Richard Head.”

“Yes, very funny,” Jeremy said, obviously thinking the name was a joke of some sort at his expense.

I snorted a laugh.

“Goddamn it—”

“Jeremy,” Ned Weatherby interjected, “This is Detective Richard Head.”