1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (25 page)

With any luck, the fickle Goddess of Working Moms was on
duty tonight and had intervened on my behalf, persuading Mama
or one of the boys to fix dinner. No matter how hard I prayed,
though, the Goddess of Working Moms had no influence over
Comrade Lucille. However, having tasted some of Lucille's culinary messterpieces in the past, perhaps that was a good thing, and
in her own way, the Goddess of Working Moms was looking out
for me and my kids.

As I rounded the corner, I realized I wasn't the last to leave the
office, after all. Angry voices rose from behind Naomi's closed
door.

"Damn it! If your brain hadn't been dangling between your
legs-"

"Don't go there." Hugo's voice, normally soft and fatherly, took
on an ominous edge.

Creeping closer to the door, I morphed into full Jane Bond
mode. Normally, I would have respected Naomi's and Hugo's privacy, but these were not normal times. A murderer was still on the
loose, and in the eyes of Batswin and Robbins, I was still Suspect
Numero Uno.

A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to save her tush, even if it
means turning into a full-fledged, ear-pressed-to-the-door snoop.

"Why not?" yelled Naomi. "It's all your fault."

"I'm warning you-"

"Or what? You'll kill me?"

"Don't be stupid. Everything will work out. I made a mistake.
There. I admit it. Satisfied?"

"A mistake?" Naomi's shrill decibels reverberated through the
closed door and into my eardrum.

"Yes, a mistake. Nothing more. It's over. Forget about it."

"Over? We're smack in the middle of a gargantuan dung heap."

"Not if we play our hand right."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That you let me handle things. Okay?"

Naomi mumbled something I couldn't make out.

"Listen," continued Hugo in a pleading tone, "we have a chance
to set things back on track."

"Not with this new situation."

"A minor wrinkle. Trust me."

Once again I couldn't make out Naomi's reply.

"Grab your coat," said Hugo. "Let's get out of here."

I froze.

Even if I morphed into Marion Jones, I'd never be able to
sprint back to my cubicle in time. Naomi and Hugo would see me
as they rounded the corner.

I also nixed the idea of ducking into one of the surrounding
empty offices. They'd notice my car in the parking lot and realize I
may have overheard their incriminating shoutfest. I had but one
option.

I waited until I heard Hugo approach the door. Pasting a smile
of innocence on my face and forcing a sing-song lilt into my voice,
I raised my fist and rapped twice. "Naomi?"

The door flew open.

Panic covered Hugo's face, but I pretended not to notice. I
spoke over his shoulder to an equally panic-stricken-looking
Naomi. "Hi. I thought I'd drop off the July spread proposals before
I left."

"Oh, Anastasia. Uhm ... fine. Thank you." She pointed to a wire
tray on her desk.

I forced myself not to stare at her shaking hand and ignored
the guilt-riddled glances she exchanged with Hugo, but being fibchallenged, I was at a genetic disadvantage. My defective Prevarication Gene caused me to break out into an involuntary smirk
whenever I lied. If I could pull off this act straight-faced, I was a
shoo-in for an Oscar.

"I'll go over it first thing tomorrow," said Naomi.

Hugo stepped back to open the door wider. Projecting what I
hoped appeared as naive innocence, I bounced into the office, deposited the folder in the tray, and waved as I retraced my steps.
"See you tomorrow."

As I crossed the threshold, Hugo reached for my arm. "We're
on our way out, as well. After what happened the other night, I
don't feel comfortable with you walking alone to your car."

He turned to Naomi. "Ready?"

She swung her Fendi purse over her shoulder and fiddled with
the strap for a moment. "Coming"

The three of us walked in silence to the elevator, with me smack
in the middle of a triple-decker, high-anxiety sandwich. Part of me
wanted to make small talk to dispel any indication that I may have
overheard something incriminating. The other part of me feared saying something that might indict me. All of me wanted to believe
there was some other explanation for their damning words. I didn't
want to believe Naomi and Hugo were involved in Marlys's murder,
but how could I not suspect them after what I had heard?

The elevator opened seconds after Hugo pressed the button.
"After you, ladies." He swept his arm to indicate we precede him. I
ordered my leaden feet to comply.

As the elevator made the short descent, Hugo placed his hand
on my shoulder and cleared his throat. "I'm not sure I conveyed
how sorry I was to hear of your recent loss, Anastasia."

I inhaled a deep, shaky breath, relieved he had presented me
with an opportunity to direct my emotional turmoil to an appropriate topic. At the same time, though, I couldn't help but wonder
how calculated his concern was. Why now? Hugo had had plenty
of opportunity to offer his condolences over the last few days.

I offered him a sad smile. "Thank you, Hugo. The flowers you
sent to the funeral were lovely. I appreciated the gesture."

He slid his hand down to my forearm. "I'm sorry I wasn't able
to come in person. I'm sure it hasn't been easy for you. If there's
anything Naomi and I can do ... anything ... please don't hesitate
to ask." He glanced at Naomi for confirmation.

"Of course," she said, her lips curling into a benevolent smile.
"Anything at all."

Hugo and Naomi walked me to my car. They waited until I had
locked myself in and started the engine. Then they proceeded to
Hugo's Mercedes, the only other car in the parking lot. That in itself raised my eyebrows-along with my curiosity.

Not to mention my suspicions.

I could only think of one reason for Naomi and Hugo to be
traveling together, and it had nothing to do with carpooling to
save on fuel.

The big questions, though, were when had Naomi and Hugo
gotten back together? And what connection did it have to Marlys's
murder?

THE NEXT DAY CLORIS was off interviewing Donna the Donut
Diva. She arrived back at the office, her arms brimming with bakery boxes, shortly before three o'clock. "We need to talk," I told her.

"Sure" She dumped the boxes on her counter, opened one, and
passed me a glazed donut the size of Rhode Island. "Here. Try this.
Maple sugar with blueberry filling."

How could I, the willpower-challenged Queen of Cellulite, refuse such an offer? I accepted the donut and took a bite. And another. And yet another. After practically inhaling half the donut, I
told Cloris about the argument I'd overheard the previous night.

She chewed on both my words and a sugar-sprinkled cruller.
"The plot continues to thicken."

I polished off the remainder of my donut, washing it down
with a gulp of coffee. "I feel like I've been sucked up into an Alfred
Hitchcock vortex. Conspiracy to the left of me, conspiracy to the
right of me. I don't want to believe Naomi is involved in Marlys's
murder. I like her too much. But I also know I didn't kill Marlys."

"Me, too. But you've ruled out most of the other suspects."

I started work on a second donut, raspberry glaze with vanilla
cream cheese filling, speaking around the fat and calories. "Except
Gina."

"With Erica as her accomplice?"

"Highly unlikely." I dropped into the spare chair in Cloris's
cramped cubicle and licked the sugar off my fingers. "But then, so is
the idea of Naomi and Hugo as killers."

"At this point anything's possible. Someone killed Marlys."

"True. She obviously didn't drug herself and commit suicide by
glue gun."

Cloris opened a second bakery box and held it out. "Ginger orange spice. What are you going to do?"

I waved the box away. One more donut and I'd start looking
like a Sumo wrestler. "I don't know."

Ratting out Naomi and Hugo might get Batswin and Robbins
off my back, but a huge part of me still doubted their involvement,
no matter what I'd heard to the contrary. "Neither one of them
admitted killing Marlys. They could have been arguing about
something else."

"Like what?"

That question had kept me awake most of last night. "Something. Anything. I don't know. But it's not fair to use them to exonerate myself unless I have more proof."

"If you don't report the fight, is it withholding evidence?"

I hadn't thought of that. Ralph's squawks echoed in my brain.
Double, double toil and trouble. Macbeth. Act Four, Scene One.

Keeping new evidence from Batswin and Robbins could land
me in a cauldron of bubbling trouble. One more black mark against me might be all the proof they needed to haul my tush off
to the county jail. "But is what I heard evidence or hearsay?" I
asked Cloris.

She opened a third box and popped a boysenberry donut hole
into her mouth. "Don't look at me, Sherlock. I'm no walking, talking legal library."

"I think there's a difference between refusing to answer a question and not volunteering information."

"Yeah, it's called dancing on the head of a pin."

With two left feet, I thought.

Before we could speculate further, Daphne arrived, summoning me to the conference room. "Those detectives are back snooping around," she said. "They want to speak with you again."

"Thanks," I said.

She hugged her middle. "Those two give me the creeps. Especially the guy. Like I half expect him to whip off one of those cartoon ties he wears and use it to strangle a confession out of me.
You know what I mean?"

Cloris and I exchanged glances. "Is there something you haven't
told us?" I asked.

Daphne's eyes bugged out as she stepped away from me. "No! I
didn't ... I mean ... that's not what I..."

Cloris doubled over with laughter. "She's pulling your leg."

Our shared assistant eyed me. "For real?"

"For real. I thought you could use a laugh, but it was a bad
joke. Tell them I'll be right there, would you?"

"Uhm ... okay. Sure." She nearly tripped over her feet as she
jogged down the hall toward the conference room.

"Looks like I won't solve my financial problems by moonlighting as a stand-up comic."

"I don't think Whoopi Goldberg has to worry about you
breathing down her neck any time soon," said Cloris.

I started to leave, but she grabbed my arm. "Seriously, before
you go in there, think about this: if the situation were reversed,
would Naomi and Hugo protect you?"

Probably not.

Batswin and Robbins hadn't come to ask more questions,
though. They had come to deliver the sting money. "Nervous?"
asked Batswin.

"I'm used to playing with craft materials, not playing Mata Hari"
I stared into the navy canvas duffel she handed me and gulped.

"Something wrong?" asked Batswin.

"I've never seen this much money before."

"Don't get any ideas," said Robbins. "The bills are marked."