She rolled her eyes. “He was inappropriate with everyone.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Fine!” she snapped. “Yes. He was sometimes inappropriate.”
“In what way?”
She grimaced. “Nothing too obvious. He’d make lewd comments and sometimes brush up against me and pretend it was an accident. That sort of thing.”
I knew Portia was underplaying it, but I couldn’t blame her. Admitting The Louse had gotten handsy mere hours before his murder wouldn’t exactly make Portia look innocent. I mean, I knew she was, but the detective didn’t know her like I did, and I had experience with detectives jumping to incorrect conclusions where murder was concerned.
After several more minutes of questioning, Bat turned to me. “How about you? Did you see or hear anything tonight?”
It was my turn under the spotlight. “No. Like I said, Portia called me after she found the body. He was dead when I got here.”
“And did you have any run-ins with the victim?”
I propped my hands on my hips. “If you mean, did he make lewd comments or put his hands where he shouldn’t, then no. I only met the man once at a cocktail party. He was with his wife at the time, so I doubt he was willing to letch in front of her.”
“Uh, sure.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable at my word usage. “Well, we’ll know more once we finish fingerprinting the crime scene. You ladies are free to go. For now.”
He didn’t quite tell us not to leave town, but it was implied. As was the “or else” that would have naturally come after. I wasted no time dragging Portia down the stairs and out into the now dark streets of Astoria. The grand Victorian manor loomed above us in the dark, its single tower looking downright spooky.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Portia whispered as we hustled toward her building. She was clearly still in shock. “Why would someone kill him?”
“The Louse? You mean other than the fact he was harassing half the population of Astoria?”
She let out a strangled laugh. “You exaggerate.”
“Not by much. Come on.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you home before you fall down.”
She glanced back at the museum. More windows were lit up now, and I could see figures going in and out. Crime-scene techs, no doubt.
“That detective freaked me out. Do you think he believed me?”
“Of course he did,” I assured her. “You were telling the truth. I’m sure he knows it.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but I didn’t want her worrying. She sighed in relief. “Good.”
But deep in the pit of my stomach, I had a really bad feeling.
Chapter 3What Happened to Portia?
“PORTIA’S IN JAIL.”
“Wh—” I rolled over and squinted at the clock. “Do you know what time it is, Cheryl Delaney?”
“Of course I do. It’s six in the morning. Now, did you hear me?”
I blinked blearily at the sunlight leaking around the edges of my blinds. I probably should get some curtains. I had pretty, lacy things, but they did nothing to stop the dreaded morning sun. I tried to focus on what Cheryl had said. Last night had been a late one. Portia and I had stayed up past midnight, chatting and laughing and sharing a medicinal bottle of wine. I’d only left after she fell asleep on the couch.
I sat bolt upright in bed. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Agatha called me. Said the police had been to Portia’s place and dragged her away in handcuffs.”
Agatha was Portia’s next-door neighbor. She also happened to part of the bunco group Cheryl and I played with every month. Not only that, but she was best friends with Cheryl’s mom, which is probably why she’d called Cheryl with the juicy gossip. She knew Cheryl and Portia were friends.
I could hear Cheryl’s coffeemaker gurgling through the phone. Coffee. That was the ticket. I staggered out of bed, nearly falling on my face as my feet got tangled in the duvet drooping over the edge of the bed. I staggered through the house, floorboards creaking beneath my feet, intent on making the strongest caffeinated beverage humanly possible. To say I am not a morning person was to, perhaps, under-exaggerate.
“Okay,” I said as I snapped one of those pod thingies into the coffeemaker. “Tell me everything.” I sank down at the tiny bistro table that sat in the breakfast nook just off the kitchen where my laptop lay neglected. I gave it a glare before turning my gaze to the window. It gave me a nice view of my backyard, which was in desperate need of some TLC. Although the riot of daffodils and hyacinths did distract one from the weeds somewhat.
I loved my little Victorian cottage. It was the first thing I bought when I started making decent money as a writer. It had needed some work, but the place spoke to me, so I’d painted pale yellow with blue and pink trim exactly as it had been when the house had first been built. I had the floors redone and some windows fixed and generally made the place my own. It wasn’t as fussy as some of the houses, a little more on the simple side, but it suited me. Alas, I was not much of a gardener. I made a mental note to call one of the local guys to come over and work his magic.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Cheryl insisted. “All I know is what I just told you.”
“Oh, come on.” I rescued my mug from beneath the coffeemaker and splashed in a liberal dose of vanilla creamer. “Agatha is a world-class gossip. Surely she gave you more than that.” I rested my feet on the other chair and leaned back to enjoy my beverage. Nirvana.
Cheryl sighed, and I could hear her sipping on her own coffee. “Very well. But you didn’t hear this from me. And you can’t go off half-cocked.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Promise me, Viola.”
It was my turn to sigh. “All right. Just tell me.”
“According to one
