Chapter 6

6

It had been two weeks since Cordelia's death, and Foley and Whitlock hadn't gotten much further in their investigation. Silas had finished his postmortem examination and confirmed the gun found next to Cordelia's body contained bullets, but they were much smaller than the one recovered from her body. She had been shot with a different gun, a bigger gun with bigger bullets. And based on the bullet's trajectory, it was impossible for her death to have been a suicide.

Many questions remained, pressing against the police investigation like a weighted blanket:

Who wanted to kill Cordelia, and why?

Was Cordelia the intended target?

Or was the bullet intended for someone else, a case of mistaken identity?

Was this the work of a hit man, a hired killer?

The who, what, and why of it all had flooded my thoughts in the days following her death. In speaking with my mother about Cordelia in recent days, I'd learned Cordelia was a simple woman who led a quiet life, both before and after her husband's death. She wasn't the type of person to make enemies. She had always been thought of as somewhat of a reclusive introvert by her neighbors. After Marlon's death, she was even more so.

As for her murder, Foley wanted to lean into the theory that she'd been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and that she may not have been the intended target. They'd spoken to Samantha a couple more times, but their theory couldn't be proven. I was still of the notion that the murder had been premeditated—whether Cordelia was the target, Samantha, or someone else entirely. I just couldn't come up with a logical reason as to why just yet. Not that I was trying to come up with one. It wasn't my investigation, so for now, I sat back, checking in with Foley and Whitlock here and there to see where they were at with everything.

As I sat at my desk on a cool weekday morning, pondering on stepping out and grabbing a snack and a hot drink, the office door opened. I looked over, eyeing the woman who'd just walked in. She had short, black hair, and her lips were painted with bright-red lipstick. I guessed she was in her upper seventies, and she was dressed like she'd just stepped out of an Old Hollywood movie—wearing a fitted black dress, and not one, but two strands of pearls around her neck.

She glanced at me and said, "Hello, I'd like to speak with whoever's in charge here."

"Depends on what services you need," I said. "I'm Georgiana Germaine, the owner of Case Closed Detective Agency. I work alongside Lilia Hunter and Simone Bonet. Hunter locates missing persons, does background checks, and that sort of thing. Simone does surveillance work and assists me in homicide cases. What can I do for you?"

The woman took a seat on a chair opposite my desk and crossed one leg over the other. "My name is Claudette Carrington, and I'd like to hire you to find out who killed my sister."

"Who's your sister?"

"Cordelia Bennett."

I leaned back in my chair, sizing her up and down. She was much different than Cordelia in appearance, her opposite in every way.

"Cordelia was my mother's neighbor," I said. "She lived across the street from her."

"Who is your mother?"

"Darlene Germaine."

Claudette rolled her eyes but said nothing.

"I take it the two of you have met," I said.

"We have, this morning, right before I came to see you. She's … I'm not sure how to put it."

"Put it any way you like."

"She asks a lot of questions, to say the least."

"My mother and your sister were good friends."

"Yes, your mother told me as much. She was the one who suggested my sister volunteer at the library. Was she not?"

Claudette's tone was accusatory, almost like she thought my mother held some blame in her sister's death.

"What's your point?" I asked.

Claudette looked me in the eye and grinned. "You're a feisty one, aren't you?"

"I can be."

"I wasn't suggesting my sister died because your mother convinced her to volunteer."

"Weren't you?"

"No matter how it happened or why it happened, what's done is done. I'm here because I need to know who did it, and I've been told you have a great track record for solving murders."

I did.

An impeccable one.

I leaned back, tapping my finger on the desktop, thinking.

If I was to take her case, which I had to admit, I'd been hoping to get involved with in some way, I had questions.

"When's the last time you spoke to your sister?" I asked.

"I fail to see how my relationship with Cordelia has any bearing on her murder."

"I'm thorough," I said. "I like to know everything. Even things that turn out to be irrelevant. It's part of what makes me good at my job."

Claudette reached inside her handbag, glancing at me as she said, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all. Feel free to smoke outside. We can talk more when you're finished."

She huffed a disappointed sigh. "To answer your question, I don't know when we last spoke to one another."

"Was it days before she died? Months? Years?"

I knew the answer to the question.

I just wanted to hear what Claudette would say.

"It's been years since we talked last."

"Why so long?" I asked.

"It's rather complicated."

"I have time."

"Yeah, well, I don't like talking about it."

"How about giving me a brief summary?"

There was a long pause.

Claudette looked at me.

I looked at her.

And I waited.

"All right, fine, if I must," she said. "My sister married the man I loved. Is that brief enough for you?"

"It's a start. How long ago?"

"It's been many decades ago now."

"I can't imagine how hard it must have been on you."

"Marlon was the man I thought I was going to go through life with, and then …"

She allowed the words to trail off, staring at me like she was finished discussing the matter, and then she had a change of heart.

"I introduced Marlon to Cordelia, and that was it," she said. "Of course, the two of them spent their entire relationship apologizing to me. They said things like, ‘Oh, we didn't expect it to happen. It just did,' and ‘We never meant to hurt you.' They seemed to think all would be forgiven, that I'd wish them well and be fine with it. I was livid. I'm still livid."

"Did you ever move on, date anyone else or get married?"

She twisted her lips into a wry grin. "Oh, I've had numerous flings over the years. But flings were all they were. There was a certain kind of passion with Marlon that I never found in anyone else, not that he felt the same. I suppose I convinced myself back then that he returned my feelings. It was foolish of me. I see that now."

"When did you learn Marlon had passed away?"

"Cordelia reached out to me right before his funeral. It was the first time I'd heard from her in many years. I suppose she decided she'd apologized enough to me, and at some point, she just gave up."

"When she contacted you, did the two of you speak?"

"She wrote me a letter. I'll admit, I read it. I was curious to know what she had to say. I thought she'd be back to apologizing again, but instead she …"

"She?" I prompted, anxious for her to say more.

Claudette pulled a cigarette case and a lighter out of her handbag. "Forgive me. If I'm to continue, I need a moment."

She stood and started for the door.

I followed, wanting to keep her talking.

Once outside, Claudette lit the cigarette, slid it into her mouth, and turned, surprised to see me standing beside her.

She held the cigarette case out to me. "Care to join?"

"No, thank you."

"Then why have you accompanied me?"

"I'm a little impatient, I suppose. I'd like to know more about what your sister's letter said."

"In short, there were no apologies, no regrets. With Marlon gone, she was sad and depressed. She felt alone, and while she expressed interest in us patching things up and leaving the past behind, she was angry and disappointed with how I'd refused to relent after all these years. I could tell."

"How did the letter end?"

"She asked if there was anything she could do to make things right between us. She told me she loved me and always had."

"Did you write her back?"

"I did not."

Though stoic since she'd first walked through the door, Claudette was beginning to crack, the armor she'd been shielding herself with chipping away. I could hear it in her voice, see it in her expression, and in her eyes, which were pooling with tears.

"You regret not writing her back," I said. "I can tell."

"I regret nothing."

"There's no reason not to admit it to me. I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to listen."

"To what? The sound of an old woman yammering on about things she cannot change?"

Things she cannot change.

She could have been referring to her refusal to make things right with her sister. But I believed there was something more, a deep-seated guilt, a guilt that drove her to me today. If she didn't care, she wouldn't have bothered.

"Why are you here, Claudette?" I asked. "What made you decide to hire me?"

"I already told you. I want you to find the person who murdered my sister." She slid the cigarette case inside her bag. "Name your price."

"It depends."

"On what?"

"When I take on a client, I want to feel confident they are being transparent with me."

"Are you implying I'm not?"

"I'm implying there's something you aren't telling me," I said.

Claudette shook her head and flicked the butt of her cigarette on the ground, snuffing it out with the heel of her red-bottom Louboutin shoe. "I'm not making an effort to keep things from you."

"But you are."

"It's more complicated than you know."

"Complicated how?"

"What if I told you my sister died because of me? What if I told you that I am responsible for her murder?"