Double Shot

I glanced at Brewster, who nodded. In as few words as possible, and looking straight at the video camera, I recounted the chronology.

“And you told us earlier there was a man there?” Blackridge prompted.

Brewster indicated that I could answer, so I again summed up the story about the down-at-the-heels gent wanting his money.

Blackridge leaned into my face. “Do you own a gun, Mrs. Schulz?”

“I’m advising my client not to answer,” Brewster interjected. “And I want you to take the bags off.”

“Look, Counselor, either you let us swab her hands or we’ll get a fast court order to do it.”

“You will find GSR on my client’s hands,” Brewster announced, his voice matter-of- fact. “The explanation is simple.”

“I’ll bet it is,” Blackridge muttered.

“There was a rodent infestation at her place of business this morning. She was carrying a firearm to protect herself and accidentally fired when surprised by the rodents. Not only do we have a witness to this shooting, but a Furman County patrolman, called to the scene, saw the bullet hole in the Roundhouse kitchen floor. He also saw her weapon in her van’s glove compartment.”

“Right,” said Blackridge. Then he turned to me and glowered. “So you do have a gun. Your ex beat you up today, didn’t he? Or maybe he did it last night. So you planned today out. You put mice in your restaurant, got a friend to meet you there, and then you shot at the little furry creatures. That way, you’d have a good explanation for the GSR. You knew you’d see Dr. Korman at the event you were catering, and that he’d want something right away. He always wanted something, didn’t he? You’d have to do something for him, take something over to his house. Or maybe you made up an excuse to go over there.”

“No—” I protested.

“You saw your chance and you took it, didn’t you, Mrs. Schulz?”

“No!” I yelled. My voice was loud and vehement, but I didn’t care. “I’d have everything to lose and nothing to gain by doing such a thing!” Under the table, one of Brewster’s loafers nudged my left sneaker. I pressed my lips together.

“Again, Mrs. Schulz, for the record, do you know who else disliked Dr. Korman as much as you did?”

“My client refuses to answer unless you reword the question.” For a surfer dude, Brewster Motley sure seemed to know his stuff.

“Calm down, Counselor, we’re not in court yet.” Blackridge tilted his wide, meaty face at me. “Do you have any idea who Dr. Korman’s enemies were, Mrs. Schulz?”

For the third time that day, I found myself spelling MacEwan and, even more reluctantly, Vikarios. I said John Richard had no job, and appeared to be living on what I surmised was borrowed money. Beyond that, I did not know.

“What about the other ex-wife? Marla Korman? Any enmity between her and Dr. Korman?”

Brewster shook his head and said, “My client refuses to answer any questions about Dr. Korman’s other ex- wife. You’ll have to interrogate Marla Korman yourselves.”

Well, I certainly didn’t like the idea of that. But Brewster had not given me permission to speak.

“Where is your gun now, Mrs. Schulz?” Blackridge asked.

“My client refuses to answer.” Brewster had allowed a weary note to creep into his voice. “Okay, boys, do the GSR test, and then we’re done here, unless you intend to arrest my client.”

Blackridge made a face, but glanced over at the cops who’d bagged my hands and gave a single nod. They brought in the distilled water and Q-tips, removed the bags, and swabbed first the top and inside of my index fingers, then the web of my hands going to my thumbs, and finally the top and inside of my thumbs. Checking for antimonium barium, otherwise known as gunshot residue. Which they were going to find, all because I’d been startled by mice.

The cops left the room with the swabs. The detectives exchanged some prearranged facial signal and told us to wait. When they banged out the door, it shook on its hinges.

I covered my mouth and leaned over to Brewster. “What are they doing now? Where’d they go?”

Brewster, with a palm over his own mouth, whispered, “They’re consulting with whoever was behind the mirror. They’re trying to decide if they have enough evidence to go to a prosecutor now. They’re also trying to decide if you’re a flight risk. My guess is that they’ll answer no to both questions, and let you go.”

What seemed an eternity later, but was probably only ten minutes, Reilly reentered the room. I thought of Arch. My stomach cramped. Please, God, let me not be sent to jail.

“Mrs. Schulz?” His tone was solemn. “You may go for now. Please do not leave Furman County. Do you understand?”

Did I understand? How dumb did he think I was?

My voice was weak and my body was unsteady. But I said, “Sure,” scraped back my chair, and followed Brewster Motley out of the interrogation room.

7

As we walked down the department’s echoing metal steps, dizziness assaulted me. I grabbed the metal railing, which was shockingly cold. Or was it really hot? Hard to tell.

I told myself that grabbing something hot should remind me of…a delectable dish, something hot from the oven, its crumbly crust steaming, its fruit filling sizzling…. I stopped and closed my eyes.

The last time I’d burned my fingers had been when a pot holder had slipped, and I’d inadvertently grabbed the copper side of a hot tarte tatin mold. Straight from the oven, the tarte’s luscious, bronzed apple slices had bubbled and popped around the edges of a circle of buttery, impossibly flaky pastry. To compound the injury to my burned finger, a few drops of scalding caramelized juice had oozed out of the pan onto my palm and I’d yelped. To comfort myself, I’d wrapped my hand in an ice pack; with my free hand, I’d scooped out a large helping of the tarte and heaped it with frosty globes of cinnamon ice cream….

“Goldy?”

I opened my eyes and stared up at the wavy-glassed four-story bank of windows. The glass caught and magnified the sunlight. I blinked in the glare.

What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, caramelized apples….

Brewster, seeing that I was no longer descending, turned and gave me a questioning look. “Need help?” he asked.

“Thanks, I’m fine,” I replied, and started back down the ringing metal steps. Then I stopped again. I had no way to get home. The detectives had brought me down in a department car. Tom was either at the Druckmans’ house or at home—in either case, he was with Arch and I didn’t want to bother him.

“Actually, there is something you can do for me, Brewster. If you wouldn’t mind.” I told him I needed a ride back to my van, which was at the scene of the crime. If the crime-scene guys had finished with it, then I’d be able to pick it up and drive home.

“That’s absolutely no problem,” he replied cheerily. “I have a few more questions for you, anyway. Might save you an office visit.”

Oh great, I thought dully as Brewster disappeared outside to retrieve his car. More questions. I’d already had what, three hours of interrogation at John Richard’s house and here at the department? I just couldn’t wait.

When Brewster pulled up in his gold Mercedes—a sleek, shiny sedan not unlike Marla’s—I smiled at the unlawyerlike stickers on his rear window. On the right was “Burton,” a brand of snowboard; on the left, bless my intuition, “Hobie Surfboards.” I didn’t care what kind of dude he was as long as he was a good attorney. And so far, he’d seemed more than competent.

The bright light and dusty wind momentarily blinded me as I made my way to the passenger door. Once I was settled into the plush leather seat, though, Brewster smoothly maneuvered the Benz out of the parking lot. No question: This was not like driving with Marla. There, every item of conversation was punctuated with my friend either braking, accelerating, or cursing.

“By the way,” Brewster began, as if reading my mind, “your pal Marla is paying for all my time. So don’t worry about costs, and don’t hesitate to call with questions.”