Someone to Watch Over Me

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Logan Manning’s widow stood up then, her pride and self-esteem ravaged in front of two strangers, her trust betrayed, her dreams shattered, and as Sam watched, she made a visible effort to straighten her shoulders and lift her trembling chin. She was fighting so hard to hold on to her composure that Sam thought she would surely walk out of the office—or run out of it—but instead of doing that, she stopped in front of both detectives and politely said, “I have to leave now. Do you have everything you need?”

“Pretty much, I think,” Sam said, looking at her tear-brightened green eyes.

When she left, no one spoke for several minutes, and Sam had the feeling that Sheila Winters was fighting very hard to get her own emotions under control. “She’ll be all right,” the psychiatrist said, although Sam didn’t know whether she was trying to convince them or herself.

“Do you think she knew he was cheating on her?” McCord asked.

“She knew Logan was capable of it, because he did it a few years ago and Leigh found out. She was devastated.”

“What about recently? Do you think she suspected anything?”

Sheila lifted her face and looked at him in angry disgust. “You saw her? What do you think?”

THEY WERE BARELY out of the office when Sam said fiercely, “I think it’s too bad that whoever shot Logan Manning didn’t torture him first!”

A laugh rumbled in McCord’s chest, but he was smart enough not to make some sort of joke.

“Do you know what else I think?” Sam said, raising her eyes to his.

“No,” he said, and for a second, Sam thought his gaze dropped to her mouth. “What else do you think, Sam?”

“I think that Leigh Manning had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with her husband’s death. Nothing.”

“It’s interesting that you got that out of our interview upstairs. Do you know what I heard up there? I heard motive. Lots of legitimate motive.”

“Then go after it, Lieutenant. But while you’re trying to make the puzzle fit your picture, I’m going to try to make it fit mine.”

Chapter 42

* * *

Courtney Maitland glanced at the cards O’Hara had just dealt her and laid her first discard on the kitchen table. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?” she asked him.

O’Hara heaved a gusty sigh and stood up. “I guess I’m nervous. I did something I maybe shouldn’t have done.”

“That’s how I live my life, O’Hara. On the edge. It’s exciting.”

“This isn’t about my life. I butted into Mrs. Manning’s life today. It’s been two and a half weeks since Mr. Manning’s funeral, and she won’t go out, she won’t see her friends or talk to them on the phone. She talks to Mr. Solomon once in a while, but except for Hilda, Brenna, you, and me, she doesn’t see anyone else. A lot of people still call and want to talk to her. I think most of them just want something to gossip about.”

Courtney sobered. “Leigh doesn’t know who she can trust anymore.”

“Yeah, and who can blame her?” He took a beer out of the refrigerator for himself and a Coke for Courtney and returned to the table.

He glanced at his watch again. “Mrs. Manning had a late appointment with a doctor who wanted to check her over after the accident. It’s after five, and I figured she’d be home about now.”

“Why didn’t you drive her?”

“I was picking up some things for Hilda when Mrs. Manning remembered she had the appointment, and she needed to leave before I could get back.”

Courtney waited until he’d taken a swallow of beer before she said impatiently, “What does all that have to do with butting into her life?”

“Because a little while ago, I told somebody that Mrs. Manning was going to be home this evening. He’s called a couple of times, but she wouldn’t see him, and I thought it might do her good if she did. I told him to come over.”

Courtney looked uneasy. “I don’t know if you should have done that.”

“Me neither, but it seemed like the right thing to do when I did it.”

“Everything wrong I’ve ever done has always seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” She picked up her cards again. “So, who did you invite up here?”

“Michael Valente.”

She gaped at him. “Why did you do that? The last time he was here, nobody was happy about it. You said yourself that Leigh doesn’t even know the guy.”

“I did it because the last time Mrs. Manning smiled was the night Valente was here. I know he’s got a bad reputation, but here’s why I decided he could come over—”

“I can’t believe you discarded that six of hearts when you saw me pick up the six of clubs a second ago.” Without waiting for a reply, she picked up his discard and simultaneously said, “Why did you decide he could come over?”

“Because the night he came here with the pizza, Mrs. Manning realized that she’d known him a long time ago. When she was in college, Valente worked in a grocery store right near where she lived, and his aunt used to make shrimp pizzas for her. One night, he even saved her from a mugging.”

“Why did it take her so long to recognize him, or at least his name?”

“He had a beard back then, and she only knew his nickname. I can’t remember w

hat it was, but it means ‘hawk’ in Italian.”

“Really?” Courtney said, drawing a card and discarding it. “So that probably explains why he carried her down to the cabin in the snow that day, and why he came to her rescue right away with his helicopter. He’s sort of like . . . what—an old boyfriend?”

“I’d have probably said they were just old friends, but Valente did something the night he was here that really made me wonder.”

Fascinated, Courtney prodded him for an answer when he paused to study his cards. “What did he do?”

“A couple hours after the cops broke the news to Mrs. Manning about her husband, I got up to turn out the lights and lock up. I thought Valente had left long before, but he hadn’t. He was sitting all alone on a chair near the hall by her bedroom, and he was kind of looking down at the floor like he was sad and real tired. It was sort of like he was on . . . I don’t know . . . guard duty.” He drew another card. “Gin!” he cried happily, and the telephone rang at the same time.

He rushed to answer it, and returned to the table. “Valente is on his way up here.”

“Great!” she proclaimed.

“Yeah, well, I hope Mrs. Manning is half as happy about it as you are.”

“I’ll let him in while you—do whatever you need to do,” she said, and was out of the kitchen, en route to the front door, before Joe could protest.

In her haste, Courtney yanked the apartment door open with enough extra force to turn the simple act into an exaggerated theatrical flourish—one that caused Valente to step back and momentarily look at the apartment door as if he had gotten off on the wrong floor.

“I’m Michael Valente,” he explained.

“I know you are. I’m Courtney Maitland,” she said, offering her hand.

For a moment, he looked as if he wasn’t going to shake hands with her; then he changed his mind and did it. “How do you do,” he said perfunctorily.

“I do very well,” she replied, “although I have no idea what it is I do well. The other thing that always baffles me is why people ask each other that question. It always strikes me as corny and meaningless. How does it strike you?”