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19
On Wednesday, a new development in the Brady murder case had Cora and Liam driving to the home of Isabelle Horvath, a woman claiming to be the mistress of John Brady.
“It’s hard to believe the old man had a mistress on the side,” Cora said, as she switched lanes on the freeway and took the next exit. Isabelle’s condo was in a small bedroom community outside of Providence Falls. The scenic drive was a pleasant one, thick with maples and poplar trees lining the road. The sky was the kind of crisp, clear blue that seemed to go on forever. Even with the heaviness of the investigation weighing down on her, Cora could appreciate the beauty of the landscape. It never failed to lift her spirits, and today she was grateful for the view. “From the way Margaret Brady talked, her husband was a perfect man with no flaws.”
Liam grunted a response that sounded an awful lot like annoyance.
Cora noted the rigid set of his shoulders and the stoic expression. “Liam, what’s going on with you? Do you have something against John Brady? Or Margaret?”
He shook his head and continued staring out the window.
“Ever since we interrogated her... Did you know her husband? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No.” His face was grim.
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Are you sure?”
“Very,” he insisted.
“Then why are you angry?”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I just thought the way she spoke of her husband was ridiculous. She made it out like he was perfect. Too perfect.”
It was true that Margaret painted a rosy picture of her husband, which didn’t strike Cora as odd, at the time. But what if Margaret lied? What if she really hated her husband? “You think she was singing his praises to us in order to take suspicion off herself? You think she murdered him?”
“No,” Liam said firmly. “She doesn’t have it in her. And, anyway, her alibi is solid.”
“Unless she’s lying about spending the night at her sister’s place,” Cora mused. They said nothing further, lapsing into silence until Isabelle’s neighborhood appeared ahead of them. Cora pulled the car into a development of cookie-cutter town houses that all looked the same.
Her phone rang and she pressed the button to put it on speaker. “McLeod.”
Captain Thompson’s gruff voice filled the car. “Have you talked to the mistress yet?”
“No. We’re almost to her house.”
“We brought Margaret Brady in for more questioning. The coroner said the marks on the victim’s neck indicate strangulation by a rope or something similar. Possibly a scarf or tie. There was a piece of silk fabric found at the crime scene they think might be part of the murder weapon.”
Liam’s sudden intake of breath drew Cora’s attention to him. What? she mouthed.
Something ghosted across his face, too fast for her to catch, then his expression became carefully blank. He shook his head in dismissal, but his posture remained rigid.
“Looks like the killer burned most of the weapon in the wastebasket before leaving.”
“Well, that’s not helpful,” Cora said in frustration.
“No,” Boyd agreed. “But the fabric scrap might have something on it. We’re waiting on forensics. We’ve got Margaret Brady in the interrogation room right now, and she’s pretty shaken up. Seems she had no idea her husband was having an affair. Maybe this’ll get her to talk. If she’s hiding anything, we’re going to find it.”
He hung up without saying anything further. That was Thompson. He never did or said anything that wasn’t completely necessary.
Liam began texting something on his phone.
“Here we are.” Cora parked the car in front of Isabelle’s town house, and they walked to the door. There was a faux marble planter filled with plastic flowers on the front step, and a fancy monogrammed doormat with Isabelle’s initials scrolled across in curling black font.
Cora was just about to ring the doorbell, when the door swung open.
“Good afternoon, Officers.” Isabelle Horvath was an attractive older woman with platinum blond hair, a petite figure and red-rimmed eyes from crying. She was wearing a gold silk wrap dress and matching kitten heels. According to Captain Thompson’s briefing, Isabelle was a former beauty queen from an era when pageants were a way of life. After securing two crowns and two ex-husbands, she’d gone on to do a bit of acting in commercials, and now worked as a part-time host for a home shopping network.
Isabelle dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief and gave a regal sweep of her hand. “Please, do come in.”
