that any of us really knew what to say. It was all so absurd. But it seemed clear to me that in her haste to discredit Ann in front of Joe, Sergeant Beal had squarely put Ann in the position of number one suspect. Not with any of us, or with Joe for that matter, but the rest of the police department might not see it as we did.
“Scott,” I said, “can you get those records for us? The ones listing all the employees from Michael’s time at the company?”
Scott nodded. “Absolutely. Do you think they’ll help?”
I shook my head. “I really don’t know. But we have to do something. We can’t let Sergeant Beal railroad her theory about Ann without a challenge. Maybe the list will provide some other ideas.”
“That woman…” said Ann, “that woman thinks I killed him, doesn’t she?”
“Who cares what she thinks?” I said. “She’s an idiot. The fact is that you didn’t kill Michael and we’re going to prove that.”
Ann looked up at me and said one word. “How?”
“
Chapter 13
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.
After everyone left, I put Ann to bed. She was in a state of semishock. Once she was settled, I called Aunt Winnie and told her the news. She was horrified, of course—both at the fact that Michael had attacked Ann and that she was now suspected of killing him. Peter had much the same reaction. However, knowing me as he did, he was doubly upset because he knew that I was now bound and determined to help prove Ann’s innocence. “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said. “Just promise me not to do anything stupid—at least until I get there.”
“I promise to save the stupid for until you get here,” I said. He didn’t laugh.
When Ann got up the next morning, she was still reeling from Sergeant Beal’s accusation. I tried to talk her out of going to work, but she insisted that it was the very thing she needed to keep her mind off things. We agreed to meet for dinner at six at the Old Ebbitt Grill. As Scott had promised that he would get us the list of past employees this afternoon, we planned to discuss it over dinner.
Work was a blur of meetings and deadlines, but finally, that magical number six appeared on my desk’s digital clock. Actually, it looked like a fishhook as depicted by Salvador Dalí because the display is broken, but I knew how to read it. I leaped up from my desk and went to meet Ann. Located on 15th Street in downtown Washington, the restaurant’s beaux arts façade was once the entrance to the B. F. Keats theater and is something of a D.C. landmark.
As it was a Friday, the bar was packed with the happy hour crowd. Luckily, Ann had made us a reservation and was waiting for me in one of the wooden booths in the main dining room. Sliding onto the green velvet bench, I saw that she had a pile of papers in front of her. “Scott got you the records, I see. Have you looked through them yet?” I asked, as I opened my menu.
Ann nodded. “I think I may have found something, too.” Tapping the top paper, she pointed to a name. “Donny Mancuso.”
I looked at her blankly. “Who’s Donny Mancuso?”
“Reggie’s boyfriend before Michael. In fact, she dumped Donny for Michael. He wasn’t too happy about it, if I remember.”
“And he worked at the company?”
“Yes, but wait, it gets better. He not only worked at the company, he worked on the design of the pool. He might have even been there when it was put in.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s got his own pool business. It’s out in Rockville.”
“Really? This is great!” I said, then caught myself. “Well, not
“I know exactly what you mean. It means that the police can focus on someone other than me, and
“Right. Especially when you consider that Donny has his own business. I mean, it takes a fair amount of capital to start something like that. Add in his connection to Michael, and the police will have an interesting suspect. Speaking of the police, what did they say when you told them what you found?”
The waitress appeared to take our order just then, delaying Ann’s answer. Ann ordered the Thai shrimp while I opted for the Niçoise salmon salad. As soon as the waitress left, I returned to the topic at hand. “So,” I said after taking a sip of ice water, “what did the police say about Donny? Did you talk to Joe?”
Ann paused and traced an imaginary design on the crisp linen tablecloth. “No. I didn’t call them yet.”
Something in her voice aroused my darkest suspicions. I put down my glass and stared at her. “But you are going to, right?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. But I want to talk to Donny first.”
I gaped at her, dumbfounded. “Are you crazy? Why on earth would you do that?”
Ann ducked her head. “What if he’s innocent? I mean, I’d hate to throw him to the police for no reason. I know how that feels, after all, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
“But what if he’s the killer?” I yelled. Despite the noise in the dining room, several heads turned our way. “But what if he’s the killer?” I repeated in a calmer voice. “Michael Barrow was murdered and Sergeant Beal wants to pin it on you! Here’s a guy who might have had a grudge against Michael. We’ve got to tell the police about him! Not only did he have a motive; apparently he also had an opportunity to bury the body!”
“I know,” said Ann, “but I’d just feel better about it if I saw him first. Look, I don’t know how to explain it. Donny was a nice guy and Reggie treated him pretty poorly. I doubt he had anything to do with it. I just want to go talk to him first.”
“So because of that you feel you owe him a heads-up on the police investigation?” I sputtered.
“No … yes … I don’t know. I just want to see him.” Her voice was determined. “I’ll tell the police about him, but not until I see him.”
“And when are you planning on seeing him?”
“I thought I’d go tomorrow.”
“Don’t!”
“Don’t what?” she asked.
“Don’t go back to Rockville, what else? Don’t go see Donny!”
“Ha-ha! Very funny. Please, be serious.”
“I
“Then don’t come with me. But I am going whether you like it or not. However, I would like you to come.”
I sighed. “Fine. Stupid but fine. I’ll go with you, but I want you to promise me that the second we leave, you’ll call Joe and tell him about Donny.”
“Okay, deal. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” I grumbled. “I’m on record as stating that this is a stupid idea. I’m beginning to see why Peter gets so mad sometimes.”
Ann’s eyebrows pulled together. “What are you talking about? What does this have to do with Peter?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled, taking another sip of water.
The next morning I went downstairs to find Ann in the kitchen, hunched over the paper and drinking coffee. Scarlett was curled up under one of the chairs. Seeing me, Ann pointed at the coffeemaker. Mercifully, she was
