Page 41 of Dying to Meet You
I’m looking forward to a peaceful date with a sandwich and my CAD software when I return to the mansion. I text Beatrice to ask what she wants from the deli. But her answer makes my stomach clench:
Beatrice: Forget the deli, just come back.
Beatrice: There are two cops here to talk to you.
Oh God. I dash off a quick response, saying I’m on my way.
The drive is less than ten minutes, but that’s plenty of time to panic. I keep thinking back to the lie I told Detective Riley. Does she know?
Why else would they want to interview me again?
I park on a side street and slip onto the property from the back. Crossing the lonely stretch between the hedgerow and the tool trailer makes me twitchy. I can’t stop wondering if there was a murderer hiding back there the night I discovered Tim. And if he watched me approach Tim’s car.
Hurrying toward the house, my gaze shifts automatically to the crime scene. I do a double take. The police tape is still fluttering in the offshorebreeze, but there’s now a six-foot construction fence standing between the sidewalk and the parking area. It wasn’t there this morning.
I enter the mansion through the back door and almost shriek as Beatrice steps out of the shadows. “I told the cops you were out at a meeting,” she hisses. “But they insisted that you’d want to speak to them.”
“Do you think they arrested someone?”
Beatrice gives her head a quick shake. “We would have seen it on TV. And two detectives at your desk? That means they’re feeling desperate. They asked me a bunch more questions, too. Where was I that night? Did I see anything?”
“Sorry about that,” I whisper, because Beatrice looks strung out. The Wincotts hate bad publicity, and Beatrice hates anything the Wincotts hate.
She lets out a harsh breath. “You don’thaveto talk to them, you know. They can’t just turn up on the property every time they have a thought. The family are losing their minds.”
The family. Sometimes Beatrice sounds like she’s starring in a Godfather movie. “I know I don’t. But let’s just get this over with.”
As we walk through the library, I feel dread. Detective Riley glances around our office, her face its usual unreadable mask.
With her is an older, scowling man, who’s scrutinizing the woodwork on a nineteenth-century cabinet. “Detective Fry,” he introduces himself after I greet them. “Pleased to meet you, Rowan.”
“Pleased” doesn’t seem like the right word, given the expression on his face. I recognize him from the TV press conference.
“We have a few more questions for you,” Riley says. “Is this a good time?”
My stomach rolls. “Sure. Have a seat.” I gesture toward our two extra chairs.
The cops glance at each other. “Is there someplace more private we could talk?” Fry asks.
“Not really,” I say. “This room is the only one with furniture. The rest of the mansion is a construction site. I don’t have a lot to share, so it’s best if we just talk here.”
Riley shrugs. “Okay.” Her partner sits down beside her. “We won’ttake up much of your time. First of all, we did some digging into your ex. George Harrison Jones is no longer incarcerated. He was working in Bar Harbor until last month. His whereabouts are now unknown.”
“Oh.” That’s unsettling.
“Any contact from him?” she asks.
“Another email. Last night.”
“What did he want?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t open it.”
“If he pops up anywhere, I’d want to know right away.” She passes me another copy of her business card.
“Sure.”
She flips a page in her notebook. “Regarding the night of Tim Kovak’s death, we’ve learned that his wallet, laptop, and phone are all missing.”
