Last to Know: A Novel(44)

Bea Havnel slumped in her chair, pushed back from the table in the small interrogation room. Her clothing was disheveled, her hair straggled over her downturned face, and she held her wrists out in front of her, rubbing the red marks where the cuffs had been. Harry almost did not recognize her as the fresh, young blonde he knew. Bea was a hot mess and her eyes were filled with anger at him.

“Why am I here?” she asked, in a very small voice, like she was a pitiful creature being held against her will.

“You know why you are here, Bea. Because you were caught at the scene of a murder. In fact two murders. You have to admit that’s not something that occurs often.”

Harry kept his tone reasonable, though the truth was he was bewildered as to how Bea had gotten to this point. He could swear she was an innocent who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only argument against that was that it had happened twice and one of the victims was her mother.

“What do you know about knives?” he asked. Bea said nothing. Behind him Harry heard the door open and Rossetti enter with the almost obligatory cups of coffee.

Harry watched Rossetti set a mug in front of Bea. She did not acknowledge him.

“Coffee, hon,” Rossetti said loudly. Harry knew he did not like the girl, and thought maybe now he had reason.

He said, “I have to inform you, if you do not already know this, that your mother was stabbed in the eye with a kitchen knife, the ordinary kind you’d find in almost anybody’s home.”

Bea did not raise her head.

“You told us earlier,” Harry rustled the papers detailing her version of what happened in the fire, “that—and I am quoting here, ‘her hair went up in flames and then she was running and then the whole place exploded and my own hair was on fire.’”

Bea looked up at him. “That is what I saw happen.”

Harry glanced at Rossetti, who was leaning in his usual nonchalant stance, against the wall, arms folded over his chest, eyes boring into the girl, who, Harry knew, he did not trust. Not one inch. So? Why did he trust her? Instinct, he guessed. Pure instinct told him Bea could not have killed.

“The fact is,” Harry said, gently now, because he did not want simply to trust his instinct where this young woman was concerned, because all the facts were against what she was saying. “The fact is, the autopsy confirmed your mother was stabbed before she was burned.”

Bea remained silent.

“Can you offer any explanation for that? Anything that differs from what you already told us?”

Again, Bea remained silent, seeming, Harry thought, to be thinking about what he had just said. Finally she looked up at him.

“My mother was on fire, the whole place exploded. I was on fire. I ran for my life as she was running for hers. Whoever stuck that knife into her eye did it after I ran from her. Not before. I am not capable of stabbing anyone, especially my mother, even though things between us were not what I wanted. She did things I did not believe in. She led her own life. I was just—” She stopped, then lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I was just along for the ride. She never wanted me. I knew it but I had no choice. She had all the money, she paid for me. And I did that. I looked after her all these years, because even though I despised her, despised who and what she was, I had an obligation to her. I did my duty,” she said, her tone serene now, looking at the two detectives as though to say “those are the facts now do with me what you will,” but with an undertone of confidence that Harry knew meant she’d bet there was nothing they could do. They had no evidence.

“And what explanation do you have for being at the scene of the murder of Jemima Forester?” Harry’s tone was cold now. The image of Jemima was engraved in his memory.

“I told you, the dinner party was over, I needed some air, I went out there—just to take a walk—a normal thing like that. And there she was. I practically fell over her. I had no idea who she was. I still don’t know who she is and why you think I have any connection, any reason even, to kill the poor young woman. My God, she can’t have been much older than me. Why, why, why would someone do this?” Bea put her head down and began to weep.

Harry and Rossetti looked at each other. Bea was right; they had no direct connection between her and Jemima, no reason to think she might have wanted her dead, no reason to believe she might be a killer. Except the coincidence of that knife in her mother’s eye. And the knife that had slit Jemima’s throat.

“I think I should get a lawyer now,” Bea said.

For a second Harry thought she was going to add, “Before I verbally hang myself,” but she merely looked at him, awaiting an answer.

“Of course,” Rossetti agreed. “And you are aware that this entire interview was videoed and can be replayed for your attorney.” He wanted it clear that they had not overstepped the bounds or broken my regulations.

“I understand,” Bea said. Despite everything, Harry felt sorry for her. He had no doubt when her attorney arrived she would be out of there fast. This time, though, he did not ask where she would go, where she would stay. It was none of his business.





33


Interrogating Wally Osborne was quite another matter. First, he came complete with family, Rose Osborne leading the way, determined, it seemed, not to allow him out of her sight.

“You can’t just take my husband and lock him up,” she told Harry. “He did nothing wrong.”