Cassandra's Last Spotlight (Charlotte Diamond Mysteries - Christmas)

by Olivia Stowe



  https://www.cyberworldpublishing.com/

  This book is copyright © Olivia Stowe 2013

  Olivia Stowe asserts her right to be known as the author of this work.

  First published by Cyberworld Publishing in 2013

  Cover design by S Bush © 2013

  Cover photo: (manipulated) Christmas tree in spotlight Copyright: yurij77 | view portfolio

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-922187-69-7

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or article, without written permission from the author or publisher.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters in this book are the product of the author’s imagination and no resemblance to real people, or implication of events occurring in actual places, is intended.

  Cassandra’s Last Spotlight

  A Special Christmas Mystery

  by Olivia Stowe

  Contents

  Cassandra’s Last Spotlight

  About the Author

  Books by Olivia Stowe

  Cassandra’s Last Spotlight

  “I have a son. He’s going to come and get me someday. Maybe you’ll be here when he does.”

  The head of a man in a wheelchair nearby snapped up. In his day he’d written many a gangster movie script, and the phrase “get me someday” that the old movie star, Cassandra, had spoken to her visitor hit him a bit differently than perhaps it was meant. Suddenly he was all ears, which meant he needed to move a bit closer, because all ears in his case required the help of hearing aids.

  Cassandra looked up into eyes of the man who hovered over her where she sat in the sunlight streaming in the window, its light concentrated in that one beam, and only momentarily there, because snow clouds were scudding over the sky outside the retirement home. Cassandra Carlisle had always basked in the spotlight whenever she could manage it, and she wasn’t so confused today not to be able to find the light. It would take a lot of confusion to negate that instinct in the woman.

  The man she spoke to made his best attempt at a smile. “Yes, I might just do that, Mother,” he said.

  From his nearby position, Karl Dickson cast a penetrating look at the man hovering over Cassandra. Did his expression reveal a sinister edge to his agreement that he might come back and “get” the old woman? Cassandra was reported to be loaded with money. And she certainly was an unpleasant old biddy. Karl would be willing to rub her out himself if he knew his name was mentioned in her will.

  But then the man had to look away from his mother, because there was no recognition of what he was to her in her eyes at all. His eyes focused on the decorated Christmas tree they were sitting beside, and he scrutinized a couple of the ornaments to try to keep from forming tears.

  They were sitting in the dayroom of the Curtain Call retirement home for retired movie industry folks. The belabored, nonconnecting conversation between Cassandra and her visiting son, Harold Snoddy, was being punctuated by the sound of hammering coming from across the room, where two men were on ladders, erecting a wintery backdrop surround scene for a small raised stage. The hearing limitations of the other resident in the room, Karl Dickson, who had been a script writer on some of the most unmemorable films of the 1970s, required him to lean forward in his wheelchair, not too inconspicuously, to tune into the conversation.

  Karl was always tuning in to Cassandra Carlisle’s conversations in the home. As a genuine leading lady of film throughout the 1960s, she swept around the retirement community like she was a queen—and all the rest of the residents were her servants. Karl liked to pick up bits and pieces of her imperial dictums and exchanges with her victims and contagonists, movie folks not known to be shrinking violets, and then feed them back in gossip to get the other residents to grant him a modicum of respect and camaraderie. He was quite aware that most of the residents didn’t like him any better than they liked Cassandra and tolerated both mostly because they all were trapped within these cushy walls in one big “let’s all pretend we’re happy” performance script.

  Because of the intermittent hammering, Harold had to lean in real close now and was rewarded with Cassandra making a broad gesture with her arms and, in a majestic voice that was undeniably hers and known to any theater-goer in his or her seventies or older, pronounced the phrase, “for there was no room in the inn.”

  Looking confused, Harold murmured, “Your room here is very nice, very nice indeed, Mother. I’m sure there will always be room for you here. And you are fortunate to be among friends from your Hollywood days, all gathered here in this wonderful setting on a river in Maryland. I was just in Washington for business and came to see how you were settling in. I’ll bring Annette and the children back to see the Christmas production. The children can’t wait to see you on the stage again.”

  “The children!” Cassandra called out dramatically, with it coming out as a shriek and her arms lifting to the heavens. The hammering stopped and the two men working on the backdrop snapped their heads around to face where Cassandra and the man were sitting, Cassandra continuing to exhibit some theatrical agitation and her son showing discomfort.

  A formidable-looking black woman, Geneva Tindle, the head nurse of the retirement home, appeared in the doorway from the main corridor. But rather than charge directly into the fray, she just stood there, surveying the room, looking not the least perturbed. Nothing strange to her was happening here. Cassandra was Cassandra and would increasingly act out like this. Geneva had seen and experienced and worked with it all.

  Cassandra continued speaking, in hushed tones, with both her son and Karl leaning in to her to hear. Harold was confused by what he heard. Karl, however, became agitated himself. He dropped the four-pound weight on the floor that he was doing curls with in his wheelchair, turned to Mrs. Tindle, and started waving his hands, trying to draw her into the dayroom.

  She just smiled at him. Still nothing strange to her was happening here. No one could be so dramatic about so little as these movie people could.

  Harold Snoddy mumbled something to Cassandra and stood. He patted her on the back, but she shrank away from him.

  Karl, turning a wild eye on Mrs. Tindle again, blurted out a “See? See?” in probably what was meant to be a hushed tone but that came out more like a stage whisper that bounced off all four walls of the room.

  Snoddy walked to the door and stopped beside Mrs. Tindle.

  “She . . .” he started to say to the nurse, but didn’t seem to know what he should say.

  “She has her good days and her bad days,” the nurse said in a low, sympathetic voice. “You told me that you’d come again for the program they’re doing for the community on Christmas Eve. She has a starring role in that. I’m sure it will be one of her good days.”

  “One of her good days on Christmas Eve? That would be a blessing. I’ll be bringing her grandchildren. But how can you know?”

  “She’s movie folk,” answered Mrs. Tindle. Geneva had been a bit actress herself at one time, which had made her a shoe-in for the job at this special retirement home in the small town of Hopewell-on-the-Choptank, located here because this was the hometown of
the facility’s benefactor, the top box-office movie star, Brenda Brandon.

  “Why does that—?”

  “She’s the star of the program. She’ll be at the top of her game, come hell or high water, for that. Just you wait and see. She may be down, but she isn’t out yet.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Snoddy said in a somewhat depressed voice. “Today, well . . .”

  “You need to brace yourself,” Mrs. Tindle said. “She might sink fast from here. Christmas might be the last time she has good days. If there are any other—”

  “There’s a stepson, but he lives overseas. They are estranged, and he . . . umm . . . would find it a bit difficult to come back into the States. I saw some letters addressed to her from him in her room, though.”

  “Well, you just might let him know, in case he would want to visit her before she sinks too far.”

  “I’m afraid all he’s looking forward to is a check when it’s all over.” Snoddy inclined his head and walked out of the room. He was barely out of sight before Karl was frantically wheeling his chair toward Mrs. Tindle.

  “Hisss. Is he gone?”

  “He who? Mr. Snoddy?” Geneva asked. She knew perfectly well who Karl was referring to, but she wasn’t in the mood for Karl’s shenanigans today.

  “Mr. Snoddy? Is that his name? Cassandra’s real last name might be Snoddy? Like in Snotty? What a hoot. Wait until . . . but that’s not important now.”

  He was tugging at the sleeve of the uniform Mrs. Tindle was stuffed into that couldn’t help but look institutional even though there was an effort here for the staff to look casual. She dutifully leaned down to him and took on a conspiratorial look, resigned to the fact that Karl wasn’t going to be deterred. She’d had years of experience in geriatrics and knew when and how to give the residents here their head.

  “Didn’t you hear what Cassandra said to him? She’s in danger.”

  “In danger? Do tell.”

  “Yes, her son—that was her son, wasn’t it?—has murdered children and is on the lam in the Middle East when he hasn’t managed to slip back into the States. And he’s going to come again and get her too—there probably were just too many people around here today for him to get it done today.”

  “Murdered children, and going to do it to her too? And he’s slipping into the States from hiding in the Middle East? You really can write them. I don’t really think, Mr. Dickson—”

  “His name is Harold, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes it is, but—”

  “Well, that’s it, then. She said so herself. Didn’t you hear her? Harold killed those children and he’s going to get her too.”

  “Now, Mr. Dickson, I’m sure there’s something . . . why would her son? . . . he seems such a nice man.”

  “Why else? For money. The woman’s loaded and he’s afraid she’s going to change her will before he can get his hands on her money. Or maybe he’s afraid she’ll spill the beans about the murdered children now that her mind is going. Who the shit knows? He had shifty eyes, though. Didn’t you see them?” Karl was truly panicked now, pulling insistently on the nurse’s sleeve. “We must do something. She’s in danger.”

  “I don’t think . . . you shouldn’t become excited, Mr. Dickson. Maybe we should go back to your room and get you some pills.”

  “Don’t need no pills, woman. Bah. Out of my way. Where’s Mrs. Clagett? Got to find Mrs. Clagett. She’ll know what to do. She always knows what to do.”

  He wheeled past Mrs. Tindle and tooled down the hall toward the administrative offices. Geneva watched him go. He had his flights of fancy—he’d been a movie script writer of very bad films, after all—she knew, but she’d never known him to be this agitated before. She should follow him and get him calmed down. But she also saw that Cassandra was fidgeting and was standing at the Christmas tree and poking at it. The choice between keeping Cassandra from pulling the tree to the floor or tracking Karl down before he found the retirement home’s executive director, Evonne Clagett, was won out by Cassandra. The tree was already swaying and the two men working on the backdrop had noticed and were moving off their ladders and in Cassandra’s direction. Evonne could take care of Karl Dickson. She was the resident superwoman.