relationship now. Dean Lewis and Joanna Harris had an affair. But he won’t divulge the truth to me because he knows it’ll make him a prime suspect.
Too late.
“Anyway,” he goes on, glancing at his watch, “I know she and Mr. Harris had their problems, but who am I to say what I would or wouldn’t do in a certain situation? Everyone has issues.”
I get the feeling that I’m teetering on the edge of something dark with Dean Lewis—valuable information that’ll turn this case around. I gamble, taking advantage of the answers flowing freely from him now.
“Does Mr. Harris know you and Joanna were having an affair?”
“You think he would keep me on his staff if he suspected I was sleeping with his wife?” With a curse, he jerks open the Mustang’s door, and slides inside. “Clearly you don’t know a thing about Mr. Harris’s character. The man would’ve carved me in two if he thought for one second that we were sleeping together.”
“Were you?”
I need to hear him say the words, if for no other reason than to prove my suspicions about him were right.
“If you want to know about their marriage,” he says grimly, “ask Mr. Harris. Be sure to tell him that I wouldn’t give you squat.”
I barely have time to scramble out of the garage before he reverses, barely missing my toes. Quickly, as if he nearly forgot, he rushes out of the car and yanks on the garage door until it slams against the asphalt.
“I left my number on the voicemails. Call if you think of anything that might help with the case.”
He flops into the driver’s seat and bangs the door shut again. He doesn’t even glance in my direction when he cranks the wheel and peels out of the lot.
“Was that Dean Lewis?” Patel hollers, charging along the stretch of garage doors. He’s out of breath. “Flag him down so we can talk to him!”
I’m still shaking my head, watching the taillights of Dean’s Mustang fade into the twilight. When Patel reaches my side, he doubles up to rest his hands on his knees.
“You didn’t stop him,” he wheezes.
“I didn’t need to. Our conversation was over.”
“Damn it. Took a two-minute phone call and missed him.”
“He refuses to bad-mouth his boss. Doesn’t want to lose his job. He was probably paid off to keep quiet.” My thoughts reel as I recall our conversation. If Dean loved Joanna and believed Michael killed her, would he keep working for him? Not likely. “Apparently Joanna had multiple lovers, and I’m convinced the list includes Dean Lewis.”
“I’m not surprised, considering how much time they had alone at Ravenwood. But you figure Michael Harris paid him off to stay away from us?” Making a shocked, whistle-like sound, Patel plants his hands on his hips and eyes the door. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?”
It’d be easy to lift up the door and search through those cabinets. Easy, but also illegal. Would I find a shovel—the one that shattered Joanna’s skull? Her missing wedding ring? Or a bunch of useless old cooking utensils? I start the short walk back to the cruiser.
Patel follows. “Maybe Harris and his chef were in it together.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Love triangles never work out well in the end. Maybe they were both jealous of Travis Martin?”
MICHAEL
I’ve always hated funerals.
Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I stand on the sidewalk under the awning of Morrigan’s Funeral Home, shielding my face from the steady drizzle of morning rain, and wait for Joanna’s sister to meet me. Heather flew in from Los Angeles last night and chose to stay at a hotel rather than at Ravenwood with Colleen and me. It’s probably best. The walls feel like they’re closing in as it is.
We were allowed back into our home yesterday—having stayed only one night at the Martins’—but