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We all filed somberly out of Frank E. Campbell’s, and into the media frenzy. As we fought our way past the camera crews, I saw that Victor had somehow worked his way up to the front of the mob. What was he doing there? I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd to ask him, but he was gone by the time I broke free.
A week after the funeral, Leigh Dafoe called another meeting to announce that Welburn Books was not going to be sold and our jobs were, for the most part, secure. Craig Murray was our new publisher and editor-in-chief. He would address his employees and take over his new duties as soon as the family’s affairs were in order.
Visions of a truckload of horrible books aimed at African-American book buyers danced through my head and I left the meeting determined to land a new job before Craig took the reins.
10
DETECTIVE MARCUS GILCHRIST
Late one afternoon, I was busily updating my résumé when a tall, barrel-chested white man walked into my office without knocking. He had dark, nondescript hair, piercing brown eyes, and a bushy moustache. His overcoat was gray, and even though it was a frigid February day, he was not wearing gloves.
“Jacqueline Blue?”
“Yes?”
He held out a hand and I shook the icy appendage.
“May I sit down?”
He closed the door and sat down before I had a chance to answer.
“Miss Blue, I’m Detective Marcus Gilchrist from the NYPD. I’m meeting with all the senior staffers here regarding the murder of Annabelle Murray. Do you have a few moments?”
“Hold on a second.” I closed the document and turned the computer monitor away so I could give him my undivided attention. “What can I do for you?”
“You may be able to help me catch a killer.”
He waited for some response from me and I waited for him to go on.
“Miss Blue, are you aware that you are the last person to see Annabelle Welburn Murray alive?”
“What?”
He sighed and took a little notepad from his coat pocket. “I’m afraid it’s true, ma’am. You did visit Miss Welburn on the morning that she died, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
So I did.
“Hmmm—who else was in the apartment?”
“I don’t know. I never went past the vestibule.”
“And you say her eyes were red-rimmed?”
“Yes. I’m sure she’d just finished crying.”
“Then what happened?”
“I got back in the elevator and went to work.”
“Were you in a hurry?”
“No.”
Wrong answer. Detective Gilchrist sat up straight and closed the notebook with a snap. “Yes, you were.”
