He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
“What if Brendan isn’t hiding from his grandmother?” I asked. “What if he’s running from the cops?”
“What do you mean?”
“Brendan said he was the only relative of Mrs. Haggerty who lived close by. He used to visit her all the time. What ifheneeded a convenient place to hide a body? Somewhere familiar. An easy place to dig on a privately owned lot where no one was likely to go looking?” Hadn’t Vero and I done the same thing when we had accidentally become saddled with Harris Mickler’s corpse? We’d buried him on my ex-husband’s sod farm. The unplanted ground had been soft, recently tilled. It was the easiest, safest solution we could come up with, and it had worked for us, too, at least until someone dug him up. “What if Brendan killed Gilford and hid the body in his grandparents’ yard?”
“I thought you said the police ruled him out.”
“That’s what the file in Nick’s apartment suggested, but it didn’t say anything about an alibi.”
“Well that’s just great,” Vero said through an exasperated sigh. “If Brendan’s the killer, there’s no way he’s coming back to pick uphis grandmother. I vote we call the damn detective’s number on that business card, tell him Brendan Haggerty skipped town, his grandmother is a pain in our ass, and let the cops figure out what to do with both of them.”
“We can’t call the police about this! What are we going to say? That I broke into the man’s condo, snooped around, and found something suspicious when I searched his closet?”
“We’ll just have to give them a compelling reason to search it themselves. Put everything back where you found it, wipe the place down, and come home. It’s almost lunchtime and I can’t think on an empty stomach.”
My heart leapt into my throat. “Wait, what did you say?”
“I said, I’m starving and I—”
“Not that! What time is it?”
“Eleven fifteen. Why?”
“No, no, no,shit!” I looked down at my drenched clothes, as if by some Cinderella magic, they might turn into something suitable to wear. “I’m going to be late to my meeting with Sylvia!”
“You didn’t tell me you were meeting with—”
I disconnected the call, put the articles back in the box, and frantically straightened the hangers.
There was no time to run home to change. No time to stop at the mall to go shopping for clothes. I had forty-five minutes to wipe down every surface in this condo and get to Union Station before my literary agent killed me.
CHAPTER 12
Sylvia was easy to spot in spite of the crowds in Union Station. Elevated by what I could only assume was a pair of four-inch stilettos, the leopard-print fedora atop her bouffant coif stood out like a tacky Vegas billboard. I stood on my toes and waved, catching her attention over the masses of commuters. She started toward me, her red leather handbag slung over one arm and held out in front of her like a phalanx. The other dragged a carry-on suitcase behind her. She smiled wide enough to reveal the lipstick on her teeth when we got within clear sight of each other. She peeled off an enormous pair of sunglasses that, coupled with her faux-fur stole, made her look like the cartoon version of some nocturnal jungle creature I’d seen in a Disney movie with my kids. Sylvia slowed, her smile collapsing as she scrutinized me from head to toe.
“Oh, god. It’s worse than I thought,” she said. For one interminable, hopeful moment, I thought she might cancel the meeting and get on a train back to New York. She rose up on the toes of her shoesand held her glasses in front her eyes, squinting through the lenses to the far corners of the terminal. “There!” she said, pushing her way past me with her wheelie bag in tow. It bounced unapologetically past briefcases and over other people’s feet as she forced her way through the crowd.
“The exit’s the other way, Syl. Where are you going?” I had little choice but to follow her as her heels clacked ferociously through the depot and into the nearest ladies’ room.
“It’s a good thing I brought a suitcase. See? I knew there was a reason I couldn’t find a train back to New York tonight. It’s kismet. Put this on,” she said, digging into her carry-on and shoving a wad of nylon and spandex at me.
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What do you mean, you couldn’t find a train back?”
“All they had was coach. You know I don’t do coach. I booked my return trip for tomorrow. I’m spending the night at your house. I hope you got everything on the shopping list I sent you. I only drink Evian. And I don’t sleep on anything that doesn’t have at least five hundred thread count.”
“Sylvia—!”
“Have you seen the prices of hotels in DC? If you wanted me to stay at the Ritz-Carlton, you should have written a better book.” She pushed me backward into an empty stall, slammed the door shut, and slung a pointy, heavily padded bra over the partition. She dropped a pair of stilettos on the floor and kicked them under the door.
“Those are never going to fit me.”
“Small breasts are nothing to be ashamed of, Finlay.”
“I was talking about the shoes!”
“So we’ll tighten the straps. On the bra, too. Please tell me you at least shaved your legs. Never mind,” she said when I didn’t answer.“It’s a nice place we’re going to. I’m sure they’ll have tablecloths. Just don’t let him play footsie with you unless he’s wearing socks.”
