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Neither of those answers is forthcoming. I do hope to get them before this is over. For now, though, I am going into the city with a woman who is pretending to be me, and I am pretending everything about that is okay.
Celeste
When we return from Tampa, I pull into the driveway to see state police cars blocking my spot. As I slow, the two officers from earlier—Coleman and Mazur—climb out of one. Two more uniformed officers get out of the second.
“More questions?” I mutter as I turn off the ignition. “How many rounds with the beat cops before they send in the actual detectives?”
“Those are deputy sheriffs,” Daisy murmurs, her voice soft, almost reluctant, as if she hates correcting me. After a pause, she says, with equal reluctance, “The regional detachment is small, without any full-time detectives, so the deputies will handle it unless the case requires pulling in someone with more experience.”
A quick glance my way as she adds, “I didn’t know any of that, either. Tom told me.”
“Deputy sheriffs. Right.” I take my empty coffee cup and climb out as I call, “Deputies. You’re back.”
“Sorry to disturb you again, Miz Turner,” Coleman says.
Daisy pops open the trunk and pulls out a grocery bag. The young officer—deputy—jogs over with, “Here, let me help,” earning an eye roll from his older partner.
“We’re not here to play bag boy for the ladies, Montrell.” He walks up to me. “We’re here to search your house, ma’am.”
I blink. “What?” I collect myself and straighten. “My boyfriend is”—I flush—“was a lawyer. He told me never to allow a search without a warrant.”
He pulls an envelope from his pocket and holds it out.
I pause.
“Your warrant,” he says.
“On what grounds?”
“We received an anonymous tip, one that provided cause for searching your spare bedroom, back shed and lanai.”
I frown. “I don’t use those rooms.”
Daisy freezes, poised there, bags in hand, eyes rounding as she realizes what those three things have in common. They’re all places she’s slept.
“This is ridiculous,” I huff. “Daisy is my guest.”
“Are you left-handed, Miz Moss?” Mazur says as he walks toward her.
“N-no. Right-handed.”
“Huh. Strange that you wear your watch on your right wrist, then. My wife does that because she’s left-handed.”
Daisy rubs at her watch and then stops. She hesitates and then, slowly, removes the watch, showing a fading circlet of bruises.
“Yes, I got these from Mr. Garey,” she says. “But I can explain.”
“You will. Like you’ll explain the fact that you were seen together after midnight, having a heated argument.”
“I mentioned that,” she says. “I told you that I spoke to Mr. Garey Friday night. He ambushed me on the road.” She glances my way, and her cheeks color. “He was intoxicated and made comments. That’s how I ended up with this.” She lifts her wrist.
“You told us he made a pass at you.”
“A drunken pass,” she says quickly. “He wasn’t serious. He was just...”
“Being an ass,” I say, and she shoots me a grateful look. “If Daisy already admitted they had words that night, then I’m not sure what the problem is.”
“The problem is that she says he made a pass at her, and yet they walked away together.”
Daisy shakes her head. “It was a half-hearted pass. He grabbed my arm. We had words. He apologized. Then we talked.”
“After he accosted you?”
“Like I said, he was drunk. I was trying to defuse the situation, and I didn’t want Celeste involved. We parted amicably.”
Mazur stares at her, laser eyed, as if he can bore through to the truth. Daisy stands her ground, and he wheels toward the house. As he passes, he shoves the warrant into my hands. Coleman shoots me a sympathetic look and follows his partner.
