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“He had other clients,” Thomas reminded her, but she waved a hand, like she was swatting at a bothersome fly. “Ancient history. I need to see him. Where is he? Oh, dear God.”
Thomas thought about the condition of Merritt’s body, the jagged red smile slashed across his neck. “He’s been taken to the morgue.”
“Then let’s go there.” She read the hesitation in Thomas’s eyes. “What happened to him? He was . . . killed how?”
“His throat was cut.”
She gasped again, a hand flying to her mouth. “Who would do something like that?” Again her face scrunched as much in revulsion and horror as sadness.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Johnson said. “Did your husband have any enemies?”
“Only the ones associated withthatcase.”
“We’ll need a list.”
“Fine. You can start with Natalie McIntyre,” she said. “Or, wait—her name changed. Natalie—oh, it will come to me.” She sucked in her breath, then snapped her fingers. “Natalie Brizard. That’s it. Some fancy French name, I think. Her maiden name. Doesn’t matter. But she, Natalie? She ran Merritt ragged with her calls and clues. It was weird, ya know?” Celeste looked up from her chair and was apparently warming to her subject. “It wasn’t as if she was all that into her son, if you know what I mean. Never visited him. Got involved with someone else pretty soon after the trial. I think her connection, the reason she kept calling Merritt, was the money. When Sam died, he left a pot load of assets. Stocks, bonds, property, interest in oil wells or off-shore drilling or whatever, and when she and Sam divorced, she thought she got the shaft. ‘A pittance.’ That’s what she told Merritt.”
“You think she would kill your husband?” Thomas asked, remembering the brutal murder.
“Oh. No.” She’d finally collected herself. Rubbed her eyes. “You asked about enemies and there was no love lost between Natalie and Merritt. He was Samuel’s divorce attorney, but, no, I don’t think she would . . . She isn’t capable of . . .” But Celeste couldn’t finish the sentence as she thought about it. “You said Merritt was in the morgue. I-I need to see him.”
“First,” Thomas said, “let’s go to your place. We’ll need to search through Merritt’s things, look for clues, you know. And maybe we can talk there. I would advise you to wait to see your husband.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Not pretty,” Johnson said.
Celeste’s lips pursed as she thought. “Fine. Roxanne and Donna can deal with my clients. They have their numbers. As for clues at our place—good luck. Merritt kept everything digitally, on his phone and laptop, oh, and his iPad, too. But he took all of them with him. There’s nothing at the house except old, old files in the attic.”
“What about a desktop computer?” Johnson asked.
“Nope, got rid of it years ago.” She popped her head through the connecting door to the salon, had a quick conversation with Donna, then slipped into a jacket and picked up an oversize coral bag. Unlatching the back door, she said, “Let’s go this way. I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.”
“Are you okay to drive?” Johnson asked as the cold slapped them in the face.
“Yeah, fine.” And she did seem it. For as destroyed as she had been upon learning the news, she now seemed to have pulled herself together, a determined look in her eye as she marched in three-inch heeled boots along the snowy alley. Flipping up the hood of her coat, she said, “This is Jonas McIntyre’s fault.” Her breath fogged in the air as they walked briskly to the corner of the long building, snow continuing to fall, the wind brittle. “His sister came in earlier—oh, God.” She stopped dead in her tracks at the corner of the building. “Kara. She was going up to see Merritt this morning.”
Johnson, in lockstep with her, said, “She’s the one who called us.”
“What? Kara? No wonder she wanted to know where he was. Is . . . is she okay?”
“At the hospital.” Thomas was checking his phone, hoping to hear that Kara McIntyre had come around. He wanted to talk to her, as she was the person who had called in Merritt Margrove’s murder. What else did she know? For that matter, what did Jonas McIntyre know and why was he there? Was it possible he killed Margrove? That didn’t make any sense. Yet it was a damned coincidence that Jonas showed up in Kara’s wrecked Jeep and was now injured.
Again, Celeste appeared shocked, her red-rimmed eyes rounding as they crossed the sparsely filled parking lot. “Kara was attacked, too? Or wait—did she get into it with Merritt?” Her neatly plucked eyebrows drew together as she took in a swift breath. “Oh, shit. Did she kill him?” Panic started to rise again, her eyes round with the horror of the thought.
“Accident,” Thomas said quickly. “She called it in. We don’t know what happened. Won’t until we talk to her.”
Celeste nodded, but didn’t seem convinced and sighed, looking up at the heavens as if seeking some kind of divine intervention. “When it rains, it pours, ya know, and when it snows? It’s only worse.” Blinking against tears again, she fished into her massive purse and withdrew her keys. Just as his phone buzzed. Squinting through the snow, he saw it was from a deputy at the hospital. Kara McIntyre was awake. He texted that he’d be there within the hour.
Johnson said to Celeste, “I’ll ride with you and fill you in on the way to your house.”
“Good. I want to know everything.” As they reached the front of the strip mall she pressed a button on her keyless remote. A sleek black Corvette responded, its lights blinking, a beeping sound audible.
Thomas pulled Johnson aside. “Kara McIntyre’s awake. I’ll meet you at Margrove’s after I talk to her. Don’t want her slipping back into a coma before I get some details.”
Johnson nodded, then caught up with Celeste. “I can drive,” Johnson offered again.
“Oh, right,” Celeste mocked, shaking her head as she reached the driver’s side and opened the door. “No way in hell. You can ride shotgun.” Celeste hitched a chin toward the passenger side of the sports car. “No one drives my baby but me.”
