Authors: LYNN BOHART
“What time did he come in?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, wiping her brow as if the interview were taxing her strength.
“It must have been about eight o’clock because I’d already finished the quail.
When he arrived, I moved to the head table and finished my dessert up there.
It
was a lovely chocolate mousse.”
Her eyes sparkled with appreciation
,
and he suspected she’d enjoyed a good many desserts.
It was fascinating how people could always remember particulars about food in the midst of adversity.
He’d once interviewed a woman whose husband
dropped
dead at a Mandarin restaurant, yet she could recount every detail about the elaborate meal down to the pattern on the dinnerware.
“Can you describe anything unusual about how Mr. Poindexter might have looked when he arrived?”
She flicked a finger at her nose, for what reason Giorgio couldn’t be sure, but now he counted the seconds before this interview was over.
The beady eyes looked at him as if a light bulb had just been turned on in her squat
little head.
“I do remember something.
He wasn’t dressed for dinner.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that was part of the game.
We announced in the registration materials that we were going to stage a vintage murder mystery.
Everyone was to dress accordingly.
He was rather casually dressed.
I remember because he apologized for not even wearing a tie.”
“Did he seem
to be
in a hurry
,
or otherwise distracted?”
“Yes, he kept looking at the door as he took his seat, as if he were expecting someone.”
“How long did he continue to do that?”
“I don’t know.
Once Mr. Marsh began to speak, I forgot all about him.”
“Was he in the room when you were notified about the murder?
I mean the real murder.”
“Yes.
We had only just started the game.
Father Damian came in and took Mr. Marsh aside, but by then we could already hear the sirens approaching.”
“What happened next?”
“Mr. Marsh told everyone to stay in the room.
He and Father Damian went out to meet the police.
When he returned, he told everyone that a woman had been found dead in the kitchen.”
“Did anyone get up and leave?”
“Yes, but an officer appeared and told everyone to stay put.
He said they would be interviewing everyone before the night was over.
Another officer came and stood at the door.”
“Who was it that tried to leave?”
“
A
s a matter of fact, it was
Cory Poindexter.”
“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.
Please don’t leave town for a few days without letting us know.”
“I live right here in Pasadena.
I can come
in and talk with you any time.”
Giorgio hoped to God it wouldn’t be necessary, but merely smiled as she slipped off the bench and waddled away.
Jus
t then Swan and Maxwell arrived.
“Where do we start?” Swan inquired.
“I want to interview Mr. Poindexter.
You and Rocky can finish with the priests and then check to see if anyone remembered anything after we left last night.”
Swan nodded and left.
Giorgio went into the banquet room where about twenty people sat in small groups having a light breakfast.
He found Marsh near the kitchen door talking to a young woman.
“Do you know a Cory Poindexter?” he asked Marsh.
“Just a minute.”
He gestured to an attractive woman sitting nearby.
She got up and came over.
“Miriam, do you know a Cory Poindexter?”
She pointed to the back of the room. “He’s the young man with
blonde
hair looking our way.”
She indicated a man in his mid twenties who
quickly
glanced away
the moment he was noticed
.
Giorgio circled back in his direction.
“Mr. Poindexter?”
“Yes,” he said, turning to Giorgio as if he
was unaware of his presence
.
A thick,
blonde
mustache matched heavy eyebrows giving his face an imposing quality.
He was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt, khaki slacks
,
and expensive shoes.
A gold watch glittered at his wrist accenting an even tan.
He looked like a man who was acutely aware of his appearance.
“May I have a few minutes?”
Poindexter quickly scanned Giorgio from head to foot, much the same way an electronic scanner would check for weapons at the airport.
To a man like Poindexter, every other male was competition
,
and it was clear he was mentally calculating whether Giorgio was an equal adversary.
“I already spoke with an officer,” he said dimly.
“I told him everything I know.”
“I’m following up on a few things,” Giorgio placated him.
“Why don’t we go outside?”
Poindexter preceded Giorgio into the lobby.
They stepped outside
,
and Poindexter emerged into the morning light as a world-class athlete might enter a stadium full of fans.
The sun was beginning to warm the day and Poindexter paused, lifting his chin until the sound of running feet interrupted his pose.
The young female reporter was back, a brown lock of hair flying free.
She was only about twenty-three but showed the determination of a pit bull.
“Detective,” she called, “I’d like to
…
”
Giorgio turned to the patrolman standing close by.
“Officer, I want you to escort this reporter back to the parking lot and then escort all media back down to the main entrance.
Only police personnel will be allowed up here
from now on
.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer chirped.
He threw out an arm to block the young woman, who
then
hurled an angry look at Giorgio.
“Detective, the public has a right
to know what‘s going on here.
“Let’s go, miss,” the officer ordered.
He held out both arms, swiveling her around without actually touching her.
She cast a frustrated sneer over her shoulder.
“I’d like a statement, Detective
,” she called
.
“
That’s the least you can do.”
Giorgio watched the officer usher the protesting young woman back down the curved path.
“That won’t stop her, you know.”
Poindexter gave him a half smile.
“I know.
Let’s sit over here.”
The ground was still damp and debris clogged paths adding to the rustic nature of the gardens.
They moved further down the colonnade to where a dark, heavy wooden bench sat propped against the building
.
Poindexter reached into his pants and pul
led out a packet of cigarettes.
“Care for one?”
His manner was casual as he sat and crossed his legs at the knee.
A gold bracelet dangled from his sleeve
and
across the edge of a tattoo on the back of his hand.
“No.
Thank you.”
Giorgio had never smoked and prided himself on the one vice he had avoided all these years.
He couldn’t say the same for pastries and touched his midriff, silently comparing himself to Poindexter’s lean physique.
“I need to ask a few questions about the dinner last night.”
Poindexter lit the cigarette and took a long draw while Giorgio joined him on the bench.
“What time did you arrive in the banquet room?”
Poindexter inhaled and looked out towards the valley as if carefully considering the question.
Giorgio
knew he was stalling for time.
“I’m not exactly sure,” he said, exhaling a stream of smoke and watching it curl upw
ards into the cool morning air.
“Had the dinner begun?”
He now eyed Giorgio with suspicion.
“I think you already know that Detective, or you wouldn’t be asking it.
I came in late.
And, yes,
the dinner had already begun.”
Cautious arrogance replaced his casualness
,
and Giorgio sensed a cat and mouse game about to begin.
Giorgio wondered why it was that young males so often looked upon this line of questioning as a tennis match.
Even if they weren’t guilty of anything, they revealed their fragile
egos through their need to win.
“Can you tell me why you were late?”
“I went for a walk.
It was a beautiful night.”
His answer made Giorgio remember the storm the night before.
“Can anyone substantiate that?”
He turned to Giorgio with a smirk.
“The weather or the walk?”
Giorgio was losing patience.
“The walk.”
He smiled and returned his gaze to the view.
“Jeremy Slater went with me.
You can ask him.”
“What time did the two of you go for a walk?”
“I think we left around six-thirty,” he replied slowly, letting the smoke emerge from his mouth as he spoke.
“And Jerem
y was with you the whole time?”
The question caught Poindexter off-guard
,
and he paused, glancing sideways.
Giorgio pressed for an answer.
“Did Mr. Slater also arrive to the dinner late?”
“We parted at the back door.
I don’t know if Slate
r went directly to the dinner.”
Poindexter emphasized this point and seemed pleased he’d just thrown suspicion on someone else.
“And where did you go?”
He turned to Giorgio, a brief look of caution flashing in his eyes.
“Just because I came into the dinner late d
oesn’t mean I killed that girl.”
“We’re just trying to put facts together.”
He shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
“I continued around the building.
Then I returned to my room.
I had some things on my mind.
I wasn’t even sure I was going to go to the dinner, but I finally did.”