Chapter 9
“May I interest you in a charcuterie board of crap?”
-Celia
A rattle at the conference room door brought my head up off the table. I had no idea how long I’d been waiting. Two detectives were waiting outside the gates of Luke and Wysdom’s new neighborhood and whisked me away to Tampa Police Headquarters. Thankfully, they didn’t lock me up in a cell or cuff me to one of those terrible interrogation tables.
But the night was still young.
The door swung open. I stared in relief at the kindest brown eyes.
“Miz Celia,” my portly attorney chuckled as he set his briefcase on the table. “You’ve gone and done it this time. What a big ole mess!”
I laughed at Willard Van Ess. My attorney. He had the gift of understatement.
“I don’t know why they’re saying I killed my ex-husband,” I flipped my hair over my shoulder. “I’ve thought about it a hundred times, but I’d never do it.”
Willard raised an eyebrow at me as he perused the file. “Really? You don’t know why they’d accuse you of murder?”
My face heated. “Freaking surprises.”
“What’s that now?” Willard lowered his considerable girth into a chair with a grunt. “Are you talking about the surprise knife-throwing incident at the cooking school?”
“I didn’t hit him.”
“But you wanted to?” Willard folded his arms and stared at me.
The older man had been with me since I filed my patent. He’s a jack-of-all-trades attorney. Everything from setting up corporations to wills. What he is not, however, is a criminal defense attorney.
“The boys in blue claim you nearly took off Mr. Cruz’s foot with a chef’s knife!”
He also is not subtle in his chastisement.
“If I wanted to hit his foot, I could have,” I sniffed.
He pointed a wrinkled finger at my face. “See. That right there is why you need to let me do the talking when the detectives come in here. You think you’re helping, but you’re not.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Willard brought up his hand when the door opened, and in walked the detectives.
The man seemed familiar. Tall with brown hair that curled over his ill-fitting blazer. His brown eyes scanned the room for threats but only found me sitting at the table. I pegged him in the late 30s/early 40s neighborhood. His partner had her long brown hair pulled into a messy bun at the top of her head. Her mascara smudged the dark circles under her hazel eyes. She rolled her shoulders several times, uncomfortable in her smart pantsuit. She seemed young, but the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes told a different story.
“Are you ready to tell us your story, Ms. Cruz?” the man sat across from me.
Willard held up his hand again. “Maybe y’all might want to introduce yourselves? I feel like I’m late to the party and all.”
The man detective cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. Sorry about that. I’m Detective Bradford Rosenthal, and this is my partner Ranae Zwissler. We’ve met Ms. Cruz before.”
“Right, when you picked me up and brought me in here,” I laughed.
“Um, no,” Detective Rosenthal reddened. “We were on the scene of your… boat explosion.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Oh, yes. The other hot mess in my life this year. An international terrorist targeted Luke for revenge, and when she couldn’t find Luke, she went after my houseboat. My sister Carolina and I were on board at the time. It was just a stroke of luck that we weren’t blown to bits.
“Oh yeah. Super Fun Times,” I nodded. “Sorry, I don’t remember much from that time. I was knocked unconscious.”
Detective Rosenthal opened his mouth to say something else, but Willard jumped in. “I hate to interrupt, but I’m Willard Van Ess, Miz Celia’s attorney. You’ve held her for several hours without any charges. So, what’s it going to be?”
Detective Zwissler slapped a crime scene photo in front of me. “Your husband was murdered. Stabbed with a pair of scissors.”
