Angel’s Promise by Aleatha Romig
Emma
“Can you tell us when you met your husband?” Detective Owens asked.
“Detective,” Sophie interrupted. “Mrs. Ramses was asked to visit to make a statement regarding Ross Underwood. She has answered every question you and Mr. Michelson have asked regarding the deceased, from their rivalry at University of Pittsburgh, through their partnership with Editorial Inc. If you’ve exhausted all your questions, we will be going.”
Mr. Michelson leaned back against the straight chair, forcing the chair’s front legs from the floor. With his arms crossed over his chest, he stared my way. “When did you learn you were the daughter of Jezebel North?”
My gaze snapped to Sophie.
She sighed. “Again, irrelevant.”
“Counselor,” Michelson said, “We’re not in a court of law.”
“No, Counselor, we’re not. However, this is a sworn statement that can be used in a court of law. Mrs. Ramses’s knowledge regarding anything” —she emphasized the word— “outside of your investigation into Mr. Underwood’s death is irrelevant.”
Letting the chair drop to all four legs, Mr. Michelson pushed himself away from the basic wood table where we were seated and stood. The room around us was only a little larger than the table; nevertheless, Mr. Michelson paced behind his and the detective’s chairs. “This is where we’re going to disagree. We have reason to believe that Ms. Jezebel North was involved in luring Mrs. Ramses to New Orleans.”
“And that is relevant...how?”
“Were you lured, Mrs. Ramses?”
“New Orleans was a bucket-list destination. When Ross asked me to accompany him in the name of our start-up, I agreed. After all, we were business partners.”
His forehead furrowed. “And yet you didn’t check on your business partner after the night of your arrival.”
“Is that a question?” Sophie asked.
“We have no record of Mrs. Ramses,” the detective said, “attempting to contact Mr. Underwood. His phone has been in our custody since the morning he was found.”
My stomach twisted with the discussion of finding Ross. During our four years at the University of Pittsburgh, our association was more competitive than friendly. As I’d told Rett, Ross and I were never romantically involved. However, we both recognized that our possibility for success was exponentially increased when we combined our talents. For over nine months we worked on our program. We edited not only our own manuscripts but already-published works. We didn’t have our program completely refined, but we were close. We needed financial support. Or that was what Ross said—continually.
I could only imagine the student I knew and the man I’d gotten to know. The descriptions from the detective as well as Mr. Michelson of how Ross was found didn’t match how I wanted to remember him.
“Can you tell us again about Mr. Underwood’s injury?” the detective asked.
“He hurt his shoulder in a rugby accident at the university.”
“The University of Pittsburgh doesn’t have a rugby team,” the detective countered.
“No, sir. They have a club, the Pitt Rugby Football Club.”
“And Mr. Underwood’s position was?”
I inhaled. “During his junior year he was a hooker. His senior year, he was moved to scrum.”
“Why was he moved?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know that.”
“But you’re aware of the positions he played?” Mr. Michelson asked. “Which did he prefer, forward or back?”
“We never had an in-depth conversation about his preference.”
“So he didn’t mind being moved to a forward position from hooker to scrum.”
My cheeks rose in partial amusement and disgust. “I know I’m a woman, Detective; however, I happen to know that a hooker is a forward position and a scrum is a back position. It was during Ross’s senior year that he was injured. He didn’t finish the season. And as I said earlier, his shoulder didn’t always bother him, but when it did, it was a distraction. He mentioned bringing his pain medication on our trip. He was concerned that the plane flight would aggravate it.”
“A nonstop flight is only two and a half hours.”
“But,” I said, “as you undoubtedly know, we had a layover in Atlanta. There was a problem with our connection, and we had to find another flight.”
“And what was your hurry to get to New Orleans?”
I looked at Sophie who nodded.
“We had a meeting with an investor.”
“For your editing program?” Mr. Michelson asked.
“Yes.”
“Why would Mr. Everett Ramses invest in a literary-based editing program?”
Sophie answered, “That would be a question for Mr. Ramses. Mrs. Ramses can’t speak for her husband as to intent.”
“Does he speak for you, Mrs. Ramses?” Michelson asked.
“Not regarding Ross Underwood,” I replied. “I have told you all that I know. I didn’t contact Ross because I didn’t have my phone—and still don’t have it. I lost it.”
Michelson looked at the detective.
“Did you find it?” I asked.
“No, ma’am,” the detective answered. “Cell towers indicated it last pinged off Canal Street at the edge of the French Quarter the night you arrived to New Orleans.”
I shrugged. “That would be the last time I saw it.”
“And you didn’t think to contact your business partner?” Michelson asked.
“I’ll admit to being preoccupied.”
“With?”
“Not with Ross Underwood,” Sophie answered. “And as this questioning is about him, the answer to your question is irrelevant.”
Michelson grabbed ahold of the chair where he’d been seated. “What do you know about a woman named Emily Oberyn?”
My eyes opened wide. “What does she have to do with Ross’s death?”
“We aren’t sure. May I assume, by your response,” the detective said, “that you do know Miss Oberyn?”
“I don’t know her. I did know her. She dated Ross, back last year before Christmas.”
“Can you describe her?” the detective asked.
Sophie spoke up, “I’m sorry. Relevance?”
“Miss Oberyn was spotted with Mr. Underwood after Mr. Underwood left the bar where Mrs. Ramses was last seen.”
“Why aren’t you questioning her?” Sophie asked.
“We have, Ms. Lynch.”
Sophie looked at me and nodded.
My head shook. “I can’t say more.”
“You can’t or you won’t?” Michelson asked. “Was there a rivalry? Did you have a problem with the time he spent—?”
“There was no problem. Ross and I weren’t like that. It’s not that I won’t tell you, I can’t. Emily dated Ross for a few months. I got to know her a little, casual acquaintances. You know, dinner and drinks now and then. She had red hair and was about my height. She was a real estate broker, or trying to be. She was always about to make that big deal.”
“And the last time you saw Ms. Oberyn?” Michelson asked.
“I don’t have an exact date. As I said, they broke up before Christmas so sometime last December.”
“And the two of you didn’t continue any contact? Social media? Text messages?”
“No,” I answered. “I had an agreement with Ross. I would be friendly to his girlfriends, but I wasn’t any more obligated to continue a relationship than he was. You see, Ross was a lady’s man in the sense that he avoided commitment.”
“Who broke off their relationship?” Michelson asked.
I tried to recall. “Honestly, I don’t remember. Based on track record, I’d say it had been Ross. Or maybe Emily figured out that she wasn’t going to change Ross into someone he wasn’t and broke it off. I don’t think Ross ever explained.” I shrugged again. “That was how he was. If he could have installed a revolving door on his apartment, he would have.”
“Based on your knowledge of Ross Underwood, would he have been so distraught over seeing Emily Oberyn again that he decided to kill himself?”
“No.”
“You don’t believe,” Michelson asked, “Mr. Underwood would consciously take his own life?”
“Mrs. Ramses,” Sophie said, “is no more able to speak to the intent of Mr. Underwood than she is for her husband.”
“Based on your friendship, Mrs. Ramses?”
“The Ross I knew,” I began, “had one person whom he truly cared about.”
“Miss Oberyn?” the detective asked.
“No, sir. Ross cared about Ross. I don’t believe he’d hurt the person he cared about.”
“What about accidentally?” the detective asked.
“I suppose that’s possible,” I answered.
“Did you get the financing?” Mr. Michelson asked.
“I believe we’re still in negotiations,” I replied, suppressing a grin.
“What did Mr. Underwood take for his pain?” the detective asked.
“I don’t know exactly. It was a prescription, and he was always conscious of taking it.”
“What does that mean?” Mr. Michelson asked.
“It means that when he took it, Ross was conscious about possible interactions.”
“What would interact?” the detective asked.
I took a deep breath. “I’m mostly talking about alcohol. When Ross had pain, he avoided alcohol.”
“Did Mr. Underwood have a drink the night you were at the bar on Canal Street?”
I nodded. “He did. He had a Hurricane. I think he was on his second.”
“So his pain wasn’t an issue?” Mr. Michelson asked.
“He didn’t mention it.”
“Then how did you know about his medicine?”
“Ross and I worked together on our start-up. I knew he had the medicine when needed. On the plane, he mentioned that he might need it. I guess he didn’t.”
“Are we finished, gentlemen?” Sophie asked. “Mrs. Ramses is a busy woman.”
“One more question,” Mr. Michelson said. “Why would your husband want Mr. Underwood dead? Did he know you went into Mr. Underwood’s hotel room? Was he jealous?”
I sat straight as my eyes opened. “My husband doesn’t—”
Sophie stood. “We’re done.”
“Does he know about you entering Mr. Underwood’s hotel room?”
