stiffly with her arms folded across her midriff. “What else?” she demanded.
“What time did Mateo leave this house the night he was killed?”
Glory’s jaw dropped. “You sound extremely accusing!”
“I sound like your attorney. Please answer the question.”
“Well, how in hell would I know? I told you I’d taken sleeping pills.”
“So he was still here…and alive…when you went to bed?”
A frown drew Glory’s perfectly arched eyebrows closer together. “I guess so.”
“But that’s only a guess? Let me put it another way. Do you recall the time of night you took the pills? Incidentally, when you mentioned sleeping pills before, you gave me the impression that you’d taken only one pill. Now you’re using the plural. How many pills did you take that night, Glory?”
“God, I hate being questioned like this!”
“If you hate this, wait until you’re on the witness stand and a prosecuting attorney is doing the questioning. Glory, you must cooperate with me. I would work myself into an early grave to attain justice for a client, but the client has to freely cooperate. Now, think back and do your utmost to remember how many pills you took, and if Mateo was still here and alive when you took them.”
Glory looked sullen but she said, “I probably took three…maybe four. I don’t usually keep count.”
“And what were they?”
Glory shrugged. “I don’t know. It was something my doctors gave me for my nerves and to sleep. All perfectly legal, counselor. I don’t do street drugs.”
“Never?”
A flush crept into Glory’s cheeks. “I never say never, Lisa, and neither should you. I’m sure you’re not nearly as perfect as you want people to believe.”
“I’m not perfect, nor have I ever tried to trick or charm people into believing I am. But neither am I going to have to appear before a judge and jury to stand trial for murder. You are, so let’s continue, shall we?”
“Fine! But I was out cold when Mateo was shot, so even a fool could see that I couldn’t have pulled the trigger. And the trigger of what gun? Where’s the murder weapon? Did the police find it?”
“You’re saying there’s never been a gun in this house?”
“That’s what I’m saying, yes. Other than Chandler’s collection of hunting rifles, that is.”
“Did the police see those?”
“They saw everything. They practically tore the house apart, which I’m sure is perfectly obvious. The place is still a mess.”
“Your house is immaculate. I don’t see any mess.”
“It’s gradually being put back together,” Glory said crossly. She looked at her watch. “Can we please hurry this up?”
“Gladly. Chandler was in Detroit that night, right?”
“Right.”
“He was there on business?”
“What do you think he does, fly to Detroit and spend a night in a hotel for the hell of it? Of course he was there on business.”
“I’ll get the receipts for that trip from him. Glory, do you have even the tiniest recollection of saying good night to Mateo?”
“No.”
“Did he always come and go through the front door?”
“What?”
“From the angle of the bullet into his back, the shot had to have been fired from the front door, or very close to it.” Lisa was reaching with that comment, as the only thing she knew for certain was that Mateo had been shot in the back. But from the chalk marks outside and their distance from the house, it appeared that he’d been shot while leaving the house through the front door. She felt that she’d gained a little ground when Glory didn’t totally discount the theory, although there was some denial in her reply.
“Someone could have been hiding in the shrubbery at the front of the house, waiting for him to leave.”
Lisa pressed her slender advantage. “True, but maybe the killer was waiting for Chandler to walk through that door. Did you ever consider that possibility?”
Glory’s face paled. “Chandler wasn’t home.”
“Yes, but did the killer know that?”
“Why are you trying so hard to confuse me?” Glory got up, went behind the bar and found a small pill bottle. She took a tablet from the bottle, put it in her mouth and swallowed it without water.
Lisa watched the whole thing in amazement. “What did you just take?”
“Something for my nerves. You’ve got me all worked up.”
“Glory, didn’t the police ask you these same questions?”
“I don’t know.”
“Glory, were you ever aware of any sort of relationship between one of your housemaids and Mateo?”
“No, but since I’m not in the habit of following the help around to keep tabs on their activities, I suppose there could have been something going on.”
“Hmm,” Lisa murmured. Romance gone sour was the motive for countless homicides. She quickly wrote down notes on that theory for later consideration.
Lisa put her notebook and pen back into her briefcase. “I have one more question, then I’ll go and let you get on with your tennis party. Did you ever notice anything of value to be missing after one of Mateo’s visits?”
“Something of value such as the plasma TV in the screening room?”
Her sarcasm was almost more than Lisa could take, but she replied evenly, “No, something of value such as one of those gold ashtrays, or perhaps a piece of jewelry.”
“I hardly maintain a running inventory of small items scattered throughout the house, Lisa, nor do I leave my jewelry lying about. Why do you ask?”
“Just a theory I was working on. Oh, one more thing. Do you and Chandler carry electronic gate openers in your vehicles? Perhaps Maria, as well?”
“Everyone who comes and goes from this place has one.”
“Did Mateo?”
“I don’t keep a list, Lisa. He might’ve, but I really don’t know for sure.”
Lisa was suddenly weary of this song and dance. Maybe Chandler and Maria would be more cooperative, she thought as she put her things back into her briefcase. “I’ll call a taxi on my cell from outdoors,” she said. “I want a better look around the grounds.”
“Have fun playing detective,” Glory said sweetly. “As for me, I’m off to the tennis club.”
In spite of all the high-minded promises Lisa had heaped upon her own head during the trip out there, she couldn’t stop herself from whispering, “How on earth am I going to defend this fruitcake?”
The day got away from Lisa. After the fiasco with Glory, Lisa took care of some errands that had been stacking up all week, finishing up around five with grocery shopping. Finally at home again, she unloaded her goods into the refrigerator and cupboards, then went upstairs to her desk and checked her voice mail for messages. There were none of any importance. Next, she dialed into her telephone at the firm and listened to half a dozen messages, mostly business-related. They could wait until Monday.
One was from Grant Gowan.
“Lisa, you’re a hard woman to catch up to. I know you’re busy with the Witherington case, but I sure would