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“This won’t take long,” Driscoll assured her.
From that point on, the interview was all business and, whether they’d said as much or not, she knew she was a person of interest. Driscoll took notes on a small spiral pad while Maya set a tape recorder on the middle of the table. She advised Elizabeth that the conversation was being recorded, then pressed a button so that the recorder’s tiny light glowed red, indicating that it was functioning and recording every word she would utter, the kind of thing that could be used as evidence against her should they find her guilty.
She felt her hands start to sweat, but nodded, waiting for the interrogations.
After Driscoll explained where they were and who was in the room, he started asking questions. “Where were you on Tuesday night?”
“Home. I never left after Detective Thronson was here.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Not really.”
Driscoll then asked a number of innocuous questions, and finally circled around to Court’s death. Once again, she was queried about the same things Thronson had asked her and once again she could only say she wasn’t on the highway outside San Diego, and that she’d never been to Tres Brisas Hotel in Rosarito Beach.
Chloe came out of her room and stared at them suspiciously.
“Go get your shoes on,” Elizabeth said, shooing her from the room. She checked the time, feeling anxious. It was clear that Thronson hadn’t revealed what Elizabeth had told her that she’d wished Mazie, Officer Daniels, Court, and Channing Renfro dead . . . and that they’d all died. And Maya must not have considered her claim of wishing Court and Mazie dead worth even mentioning.
Driscoll asked, “Did you know that Detective Thronson considered you dangerous?”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a suburban mother. A recent widow. Do I look dangerous to you?” Elizabeth demanded.
He scratched behind his ear. “Not really.” His tone suggested that her appearance was of little significance. “She also thought you were connected to some of the murders we’re looking into.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “What murders?”
“Wel
l, your husband and Mrs. Bellhard.”
“I just told you I was nowhere near his car when it crashed.” She pointed to the tape.
“Your boss at Suncrest Realty, Mazie Ferguson, was in a fatal accident a number of months ago.”
Elizabeth glanced at Maya, who didn’t react. Maybe either she or Thronson had revealed what she’d said. Should she admit again about wishing so many people dead? She’d been immediately sorry she’d blurted out the truth to Thronson and then . . . later that night, apparently, someone had killed her. “I’ve been straight with you. Over and over, but you’re never satisfied. I didn’t kill Court. I swear it. He was my husband and I don’t have it in me. Mazie’s death was an accident. There’s nothing more to say.” The last words nearly choked her and she saw the red recording light, burning bright. “You know, I think we’re done here. I don’t think I should talk to you, or anyone from the police department, without my lawyer present.”
“If you’ve got nothing to hide—” he started, but Elizabeth held up a hand.
“I’ve got to go. I’ve tried to cooperate and help you. God knows if there’s a killer on the loose I want him behind bars. But the more you ask me questions, the more I get the feeling that you’re hoping I’ll confess to something. I had nothing to do with Detective Thronson’s death or Mazie’s or Court’s.” She half-expected Maya to call her out, but she didn’t. “And I have my own private detective on my husband’s case, since I’m losing faith in the police,” she blurted out at the end.
“Who’s that?” Driscoll asked.
She hesitated and behind his glasses, Driscoll’s eyes glittered. “Rex Kingston. Kingston Investigations.” Driscoll blinked at the name, but Elizabeth rolled on tautly, “So, we’re done here. ” She stood and escorted the cops outside.
As soon as they were off her property, she gathered up Chloe who’d been standing in the hall outside her bedroom, watching them, shoes on her feet. Before she entered the garage, Elizabeth walked into the kitchen again and found the business card for Rex Kingston she’d tucked into the drawer the night before. Fingering it, she wondered if she should call, make good on her empty threat in case Driscoll followed up, which she suspected he would do. It felt like she had to do something or she would slowly drown in a sea of false allegations.
You’re not charged with anything, Elizabeth. Slow down. Don’t panic. And how would you afford to pay him?
That part she would figure out, she decided. But she certainly wouldn’t be able to raise her daughter from jail if she were actually arrested. Good Lord, could that really happen? Even if proven innocent, it would take a while and there would be those who blamed her, anyway. Her reputation would take a beating and she might not recover professionally. Even worse, her life would become an open book. She was already having trouble explaining to her friends what had happened at the restaurant. What if everything came out? She thought of Ravinia, what she’d said of the women of Siren Song and all their oddities. If that were true, and she was that way, her connection to the cultlike family would be exposed. And Chloe . . . what about her? Where would she go if her mother were incarcerated for even a day?
Yes, she had to call someone and Rex Kingston, stranger that he was, a private investigator who had once been with the police force, was her first choice. She could go into the office, finish up a little paperwork, then meet him somewhere. Would he think she was crazy? No, probably not, as he’d been with Ravinia and apparently bought into her wild tale.
“You like him,” Chloe said.
Elizabeth turned to find her child had followed her back inside when she’d come back for her purse. “What?”
“You like him. You thought he was the one talking to me, but he’s not and that makes you happy.”
