Читать книгу Sabotage - Kit Wilkinson - Страница 13

“Tell me the truth, Miss Gill.” Steele glared across the interrogation room at her. “Quit wasting my time.”

Emilie pretended to study her neglected manicure. She refused to give the detective the satisfaction of knowing he frightened her. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“I know you were in that tack room. Fingerprints don’t lie. And yours were the only other prints in the room besides those of Garcia. You were the only one in the stable that night. And the only one with a key to that room.”

“What about the key at the main house?” Her voice remained surprisingly calm considering how her heart pounded against her ribs.

“Locked up and accounted for. According to your housekeeper, no one’s touched that key box in weeks.”

“Maybe someone made a copy?”

“Maybe. But you have a key and motive,” he said in a whisper.

“A motive?” Emilie closed her eyes tight, trapping the tears inside. Her hands pressed together into her lap. She forced herself to breathe. “How do you think I could—”

“Don’t say another word, Miss Gill.” Mr. Adams, her father’s attorney, burst into the room. He looked as he always did, calm, coiffed and smug. The smell of expensive cologne and fine fabric wafted in after him. Placing his leather case on the tabletop with efficacy, he handed her a dark winter coat and a pair of large sunglasses, then he stared at the detective. “I’ve read over your statement, Mr. Steele. It’s absurd. Judge Hayward must have been asleep when he signed that warrant. You have speculative evidence at best. My client’s only care is to make the Olympic Equestrian team. Eliminating her own groom would hardly advance her progress to that end. In any case, I’ve posted bail and Miss Gill will be going home now. If you have any further questions for her, they go through me first.”

“Then I’ll be in touch.” Steele clenched his jaw then exited the room.

“Please tell me this is all over now.” Emilie folded over in her chair, shaking from head to toe.

Mr. Adams took the seat next to her and patted her knee. “This is a bit of a mess, actually. Mr. Steele has strong physical evidence indicating that you and Mr. Garcia were involved. He believes Garcia wanted to leave you for another woman and that you killed him in an act of rage and jealousy.”

“But that’s not true! How can he have evidence on something that never happened?”

“I don’t know,” Adams said. “But I’m afraid with the amount of time that you and Mr. Garcia spent together we might have a tough time convincing a jury.”

“A jury?”

“Just thinking ahead. Now, let’s get you home and rested.” Adams attempted a smile.

Emilie released a shaky breath. Mr. Adams helped her from the table and into the long coat. She placed the sunglasses atop her head and followed the lawyer through the station. They passed Steele in the hallway.

“This isn’t over,” the detective sneered.

Mr. Adams ignored the detective and continued to escort Emilie to the back door. “Until there’s another suspect, I’m afraid that man is going to make a nuisance of himself—one of those cops that thinks anyone with money has something to hide.”

“Daddy is not going to be happy about this,” Emilie said.

“Don’t worry about your father.” Mr. Adams patted her shoulder. “Or about yourself. We’ll have this all taken care of.”

She nodded slowly, wanting to believe him but hearing, all the same, what he left out. Her father would get the charges against her buried. But what about Camillo? Who would find his killer if the police were only investigating her?

“So, the local news station is parked out front,” Adams continued. “I arranged for your family limo to sit there as a diversion. Mr. Randall is parked around back and he will drive you home.”

Derrick? Her shoulders drooped low. “Why him?”

“No one knows him or his car.” Mr. Adams pointed to a black compact as they stepped outside.

Derrick stood beside the small car. He gave her a wave, a pleasant expression fixed on his face. Emilie wanted to sink into the ground.

“Go straight home. Your father’s orders.”

Emilie stared after the lawyer as he turned back into the police station.

“Come on, girl. It’s freezing out here.” Derrick’s accent seemed extra-thick.

She forced her shoulders back, breathed in the crisp November air and pulled the sunglasses down over her eyes as she turned to face him. Derrick held the passenger door open with an overly gallant gesture. She climbed in, wondering what he must be thinking of her, of this job and this big mess he’d landed himself into. Did he consider for one second that she was a killer? Did anyone? The mere idea made her shudder.

Derrick hopped in the driver’s side and revved the engine. “Sorry about the car. Mr. Adams insisted I drive it.”

“Do you really think I’m worried about the kind of car I ride home in?” She glanced sideways at him. Didn’t he realize she had far worse things to consider? That the detective would be after her again, or worse, her father would have the whole thing swept under the rug. “You seemed pretty relaxed about picking up an alleged killer.”

“Yeah, right.” Derrick snorted.

Emilie studied him. There was no tension, no doubt in his expression. Did he really not have any suspicions? “How can you be so sure? It’s not like you really know me.”

“I know enough.” He grinned. “You beat people in a riding ring, not over the head with jump rails. I’ve always been a good judge of character, Emilie. You’re no killer.”

“Well, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.” A warm tingling sensation rippled through her, a little hope filtering through her doubts and fears. “Wish Detective Steele could see it like that. But he has my fingerprints and fabricated motive.”

“Relax, Emilie,” he said. “The truth will win out in the end.”

“I guess.” She swallowed hard. “Did you talk to Mr. Winslow?”

Derrick guided the car through the busy parking lot. “I did. He’ll call back and set something up. I also talked to some of the boarders. They got together and planned a service for Camillo.”

“A memorial service for Camillo?” A lump bulged in her throat.

“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon at Community Christian.”

“But…” She turned to Derrick. His gray eyes were soft and tender. “You did that? How did you know?”

Derrick pressed his lips together, keeping his eyes ahead.

“You overheard the conversation with my father.”

Derrick gave a slow nod. “I did. A little of it, anyway. But I can’t take credit. It was Mrs. Kecksin’s idea. All I did was say that I thought you’d approve.”

They turned the corner of the police station. Television crews lining the street came into view. Reporters and cameramen hovered around her father’s limo. None of them noticed Derrick’s car. Emilie still slumped down low in the seat.

“Ah. Now I see why he wanted me to drive my car,” Derrick laughed. “Wow. Is your life always this…?”

“Messed up?” she suggested.

“I was going to say eventful.”

She slid the glasses down her nose and cut her eyes at him.

A subtle grin had spread over his lips. He looked down at her. “I meant that you’re keeping it together pretty well,” he said. “I was expecting hysterics.”

“Well, they teach us how to deal with these types of things in finishing school.” A newfound calmness settled around her. She smiled for the first time that day and sat up again.

Derrick chuckled. “You know, you’re not quite what I expected.”

“Ha. I’m sure this whole job isn’t quite what you expected.”

“You’ve got that right.” His smile widened, displaying the one dimple. “But God brought me here. So I know something good will come of it. Just wait and see.”

She dropped her head in her heads. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t been accused of murder.”

“That’s true. I haven’t. But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I’d help the detectives find the truth.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If your friend was killed, there has to be a reason,” he said. “If Detective Steele is looking in the wrong direction, maybe you should help him look in the right one.”

“But I don’t know who could have killed Camillo.”

“No. But you knew him better than anyone else. You’d know where to start looking.”

“I don’t want to play detective,” she said.

“Okay. Just saying that’s what I would do if I were you.”

“Well, you’re not me.”

“I would pray, too,” he added, ignoring her last statement.

“I don’t really do that.” She waved a hand through the air.

Derrick frowned. “It’s pretty simple. You just talk to God like you’re talking to me. You should try it.”

“Maybe,” Emilie said, ready to change the subject.

Derrick nodded and fell silent until they drove onto the Gill estate. “To the stable or home?”

“Home.”

Emilie didn’t know why but she did not look at Derrick or thank him when she climbed out of the car.

Derrick watched Emilie weave through the beautiful gardens behind her home. The back door opened to her—perhaps the housekeeper had come to greet her. At least she wasn’t alone. She turned and closed the door to the house without looking his way. Not even a wave. Derrick wasn’t sure why that bothered him but it did.

He sighed long and hard then backed up and headed to the stable. He wanted to meet with the evening stable worker and follow up on a few things he’d started earlier. But it was later than he’d realized. Stephan, the scheduled stablehand, had already left. All the horses had been brought in, fed and watered, except for Emilie’s. That was his job. He started with the ladies, Duchess and Chelsea. Then he fetched Marco and finally the stallion. He couldn’t help but stare at the yellow crime scene tape strung up near Bugs’s stall, blocking the entrance to the old barn. What had really happened there behind that tape? “Ho there.”

Derrick started at the strange, deep voice, thinking himself the only person in the stable. He dropped the stallion’s hoof that he’d been ready to pick and walked to the door of the stall.

“Got a call about one of the Gill horses.”

Down the aisle, a tall man stood, legs apart and hands on hips. He was deeply tanned and dressed in a leather apron—the farrier.

“Yes. Yes, you did.” Derrick stepped out of the stallion’s stall, locked the door and moved toward the man. “That would have been me. I’m Derrick Randall, the new groom.”

“James Joyner.”

They shook hands.

“I’d thought maybe I’d missed you. I had to go out for a bit.” Derrick led him to Marco and showed him the shoe Cindy had tacked on earlier.

“No. Got tied up at a new stable.” Joyner inspected all four hooves. “Looks to me like he could use a new set.”

“You have time for that tonight?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” James grinned then headed to his truck. “Meet me at the west doors.”

Derrick pulled Marco from his stall and headed to the side entrance where James would back up his truck to work. In no time, the farrier was hunched over, pulling Marco’s back leg between his knees and removing the old shoe. Then, holding a foot-long rasp in his hands, he filed over the hoof with long smooth strokes. James’s hands were marked with cuts and scrapes. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he muscled through the layers of thick hoof.

Marco misbehaved. He knocked Derrick with his enormous head, then jerked his legs from James, striking a structural column to his rear.

“Is he always so restless?” Derrick asked. “He seemed to have better ground manners earlier.”

“Not gonna say he’s my best client.” James chuckled and wiped the sweat from his face. “I heard there’s been a lot going on at the stable. Maybe he’s just a little shaken up.”