Page 22 of Elemental Love
O’Shea didn’t blink. Evrain was impressed.
“Thanks for your openness, Mr. Brookes. Now, I have to ask this. Where were you last night and can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”
“I worked until seven—I work at ThInk in Portland—then went straight on to a client dinner at the Marriott in the evening. My boss was there—I can give you his details. It wound up around midnight and I went home.”
“You live in Portland?”
“Yes. The security cameras on my building’s parking garage should confirm when I got back and when I left again this morning to drive over here. Between a quarter past midnight and seven I was alone. I stopped for a drive-through breakfast—the receipt is probably still in the car. The breakfast is all over the path at the cabin, where I threw up.” Evrain gave the detective his address details, a contact number for his boss and Dominic’s cell number.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” O’Shea said, sounding genuinely sympathetic. “If you think of anything else”—he handed over acard—“call me any time. I’ll let you know when you can go back into the house.”
“She wasn’t ill, you know,” Evrain said. “Grandma was in great health for her age.”
“Well, from what I saw, son, and I’m not a medical expert, that didn’t seem like a death from natural causes. I won’t speculate but did she have any enemies?”
“Not that I know of, but local people might have more of a clue than I do. I only moved out here from Scotland a few months ago.”
“Okay. I’ll need you to come down to the precinct and make a statement.”
“I can do that whenever suits,” Evrain said. “I want this bastard caught.” Anger started to take over from shock and bewilderment.
“Go home, Mr. Brookes. Is there anyone you can call to be with you?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Really.”
Evrain left the security of the cop car and got behind the wheel of his own vehicle. He drove off with the intention of going home but found himself pulling up outside the diner. There was only one person he wanted to see. Dominic would come home to change before meeting Evrain for their date. He’d be able to head him off, protect him from the chaos at Agatha’s and break the news gently. He couldn’t do it over the phone and he had to tell Dominic before the police got in touch.
“Fuck it all to hell!” Evrain thumped the steering wheel. There was no way to lessen the impact of news he had barely absorbed himself, and the last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt Dominic.
Chapter eight
It was the kind of Dickensian office one might expect to see in the latest historical drama on the BBC and would definitely have felt more at home in Evrain’s native Scotland than in Portland. A heavy dark-wood desk topped with green leather took center stage, the chair positioned behind it equally imposing. Shelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes, their spines glinting with dull-gold lettering, covered the walls. Evrain doubted that any of the musty tomes had been removed from their resting places in decades. The room smelled of wax polish and old paper. A cream blind covered the single window, muting the early morning light. Evrain was grateful for the lack of brightness. His head pounded with the persistent headache that had plagued him almost continually since his grandmother’s death a month earlier. A month during which the police had failed to find a single clue as to who might have been Agatha’s murderer. Not that their lack of progress surprised Evrain. Having discussed it frequently with Gregory, they wereboth convinced that Symeon Malus was behind Agatha’s death. Gregory had related the conversation he’d had with Agatha on the night of her death. Evrain only wished she’d called him straight away. If he’d been there at the cabin, he might have put off her assailant and given them time to plan better protection. The wards at the cabin certainly hadn’t helped her.
Evrain slumped in one of the matching leather chairs set before the desk. He wore a sober black suit and shirt but had not succumbed to his mother’s telephoned pleading to find a tie. He’d worn one to the funeral, which had taken place a few days ago. That was enough of a concession to formality in Evrain’s eyes.
Dominic balanced nervously on the edge of the other chair, looking like he might bolt from the room at any moment. He clasped his hands together in his lap so tightly that his knuckles were white.
“There’s no need to be nervous, you know.” Evrain felt a need to reassure Dominic, who jumped as if Evrain’s voice had startled him.
“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never been summoned to a lawyer’s office before. It’s a little…intimidating.” His glance darted everywhere, never settling in one place for long. “I should have dressed smarter.”
“You are quite smart enough.”Stunning in fact. The blue of that shirt really brings out your eyes.“My mother told me I should wear a tie, but it’s Agatha’s will we’re hearing and she thought ties were modern-day nooses.”
Dominic smiled, but the expression was forced.
“I can picture Dickens in here taking notes for scenes inBleak House,” Evrain said. “Mr. Vholes is likely to come creeping around the corner at any moment.”
Dominic gave a nervous chuckle. “Dickens is a bit heavy for me, he takes far too long to get to the point.”
“So who do you like to read?” Evrain seized the opportunity to learn a little more about Dominic, while helping him relax with mundane conversation.
“Nothing high-brow, I’m afraid. I like old-fashioned murder mysteries.”
“Agatha Christie?”
“Yes, and I love the British TV series, you know—MarpleandPoirot. But I like other writers as well—Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham. Oh, and I’m addicted toMidsomer Murders.”
“Grandmother always told me she was named after Agatha Christie. Agatha was a friend of the family, apparently. Not sure I believe Grandma, she always had a ready supply of stories like that.”
