"I did like you, Jane Ann, and I believed you-the poor terrified woman hiding in her closet, waiting for the vicious killers to find her and kill her, just as they killed Caskie. You're the actor here, not poor Mick. But the killers didn't come to find you, did they? And that really bothered me. Too unprofessional.
"What decided you? That Caskie was already in the line of fire? That Schiffer Hartwin would be the natural suspects, and Caskie's murder would look like the revenge killing of a scapegoat? They're rotten enough, but they were innocent of Caskie's murder.
"It was only about two greedy people who wanted money. You're both under arrest for the murder of Caskie Royal. You have the right to remain silent-" While she read them their rights, she tried to punch in Bowie's number on her cell phone as she spoke, but she was having trouble, her fingers didn't seem to be working very well.
Jane Ann said quickly, her hands out, palms up, the supplicant, "Won't you listen to me, Agent Sherlock? Won't you let me defend myself ? Okay, I didn't tell you the truth, couldn't tell you the truth because I was afraid. Caskie pulled a gun on me, said he was going to kill me, I wasn't any use to him anymore. He laughed at me when I pleaded with him. He told me he and Carla were going to leave the country, he had no other choice, not really, since the Culovort scam had blown up in his face, and those bastard bosses of his were going to make him the fall guy. I couldn't let him kill me, I couldn't let my boys be orphans. Mick came in. He saved me. He shot Caskie in self-defense. I had to set things up like I did. I had to think of my boys."
"You need more practice on that story, Jane Ann. It doesn't make a lot of sense." Sherlock couldn't get the numbers on the cell phone to come into focus. It was probably Mick's blow to her temple that was making her uncoordinated. She shook it off and finally got the numbers in. Heard the cell phone ring, heard Bowie say, "Agent Richards here."
Jane Ann broke off and took a step forward.
"Don't move, Jane Ann, really, don't move."
Jane Ann took a step back again, and simply stood there staring at Sherlock.
"Bowie?"
Jane Ann said quite calmly to Mick, "What is taking so long?"
What?
She heard Bowie's voice on the cell phone, saying, "Who is this?"
"It's Sherlock." Nothing else came out. She fell to her knees and keeled over onto her side. Her cell phone skittered across the polished oak floor.
55
Where was she?
In a closet maybe. It wasn't pitch-black, which was a relief, so no, not a closet. She lay quietly on her side, getting herself back into her brain, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. She realized her wrists and ankles were bound, probably with Mick's duct tape. She gave a couple of tugs, but there wasn't any give. There was a reason men swore by duct tape.
Her brain was only half plugged in. She felt punch-drunk and so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, and why was that? Jane Ann had drugged her, of course. Jane Ann, no dummy, had realized Sherlock was playing Mick with the fainting and the low blood sugar, and she'd mashed some kind of pills into the orange juice. She'd thought she'd pulled it off, but she'd never fooled Jane Ann, not for a minute. She didn't think she was destined for Hollywood any more than Mick was. She didn't think he'd make it as an acting critic either.
At least Bowie knew she was in trouble. Her brain was woozy again. She felt the dragging sweep of drugs and tried not to go under again. She counted to ten a half-dozen times. On the fifth try, she knew she made it to ten without a single short circuit in her brain. She realized her mouth felt desert dry. She made another halfhearted attempt to pull free of the duct tape, but there was no movement at all.
Where was she? She could see in the dim light that she was in a large room. She made out clothes, lots of clothes hanging from a long pole rack. Clothes? More than street clothes-costumes, dozens of costumes, at least that's what they looked like. There were long gowns, yard upon yard of heavy material, short silk 1920s flapper dresses that her great-grandmother probably wore, even a couple of high-waisted Regency gowns that looked flowy and soft.
What was that huge round thing that looked like gold? A gong, she realized, she could just make it out now, its mallet hanging beside it. Who would have a gong? She saw two sofas, one flowery, one dark leather, a dozen chairs, some old-fashioned and frilly, others painfully modern, end tables, lamps, and three rolled rugs not far from her feet.
Was she in an attic?
No, not an attic. Everything smelled too fresh, with maybe a layer of lavender. The room was large, deep. She saw another clothes rack with men's clothes-capes, coats, lots of shoes-modern shoes, disco pointed toes, velvet shoes, boots of all sorts. Was that a ruff hanging over a hanger under that plastic garment bag? A ruff like the men wore in Queen Elizabeth's time? Didn't the women wear ruffs too? She simply couldn't get her brain around that. There were stacks of luggage, looking vintage 1920s.