“Excellent. I have plenty and, honestly, I’d love your input on this case that Thomas and I have been talking about.” I finished the three omelets, plated them, and poured us glasses of Sterling’s blood-orange lemonade.
Thomas brought Detective Kerry up to speed. “That’s why Doug asked us to get the old case file?” she asked, tucking into her omelet.
“That’s my guess.” Thomas devoured half of his omelet in two bites.
“What do you think? Ronald’s handwriting is the closest match to the notes.”
“Do you have them here?” Kerry asked, her green eyes widening with interest.
I shook my head. “No, they’re at my place, along with my dad’s journal.”
“Can we take a look?” She looked to Thomas. “It would be great if we could come up with a solid lead for Doug. No wonder he seemed so distracted. He left in a rush a while ago. He said he had to get up to the Cabaret, but didn’t elaborate.”
My mind went to Shelly. Could the Professor have learned something new when he pulled the old case files?
Thomas finished his omelet. “That was delish, Jules. Thank you.”
“Do you want a second?” I pointed to the stove where I had left the burner on low.
“No. I can’t, but Kerry’s right. Can we stop by your place later and take a look at the handwriting samples you and Lance gathered against the old notes?” Thomas sighed. “I hate to say this, but that was good thinking on Lance’s part.”
“I wouldn’t tell him that. You’ll never hear the end of it.”
Thomas laughed. “I have no intention of sharing that. It stays in this room. As does this case for the moment. If we can work it for the Professor and come to him with something solid, I think we will both feel great, right Kerry?”
She nodded. Their walkie-talkies crackled in unison. Thomas responded to the dispatcher while Kerry finished her omelet. “Thanks for dinner. We’ll come by later tonight. Will you be home?”
“I just have to clean up and swing by the shelter. Then I’ll be home all night. I want to look through my dad’s notes again.”
“See you then.” They left with a purpose.
I did a quick kitchen cleanup, gathered the notes and handwriting samples along with the box of pastries, and left. The plaza was humming with activity. Locals and the first round of early tourists filled restaurants and wandered between shops. Shakespearean banners flapped in the slight breeze and posters advertising Irish dance celebrations and St. Patrick’s Day green beer lined the information kiosk in the center of the plaza. I walked toward Lithia Park as the sinking sun cast a shadow on the Elizabethan rooftops. The sun lingered longer now. I loved spring and summer, when I could close the bakeshop and still soak in some warm evening sun. However, living in the Siskiyou Mountains meant that once the sun began its decent, it would disappear quickly.
“Juliet!” I heard someone call my name and turned to see Amanda, my old childhood friend and new owner of the Cabaret, flagging me down from the Lithia Fountains.
I waited for her.
She was breathless when she reached me. “I’m so glad I caught you. I was on my way to the bakeshop to give you these.” She thrust a manila envelope at me. “I made copies of everything I could find for you. I even found some old photos of your parents from opening night that I thought you might enjoy.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting you to make copies this fast.” I took the envelope from her.
“I know, but I already had boxes of our old stuff out and I know how much some of these photos of your dad will mean to you. I figured I would do it while it was fresh in my mind. And that way I didn’t have to worry about Shelly breathing down my neck. I swear if I hadn’t gathered all this stuff together tonight, she would have shredded it just to spite me. She was watching my every move while I made photocopies. I’m not sure how much more I can take.”
A thought flashed in my mind—what if there was something in these old donor statements, playbills, and theater programs that Shelly didn’t want anyone to see?
“This is great,” I said to Amanda. “I still can’t believe you bought the Cabaret.”
She pointed to two young girls who were running through the lush green park grass, holding bubble wands the size of their heads. Iridescent bubbles trailed behind them, floating into the fading evening light. “I know. It’s surreal. In some ways I feel that was just us. Do you remember how many hours we spent at the park, searching for hidden fairy gardens and splashing in the creek?”
“Those were good times. It’s funny, after having been away from Ashland for over a decade, I see it differently now. I can appreciate how lucky we were to spend our childhoods here.”
“I completely agree.” Amanda nodded. “It was a magical place to grow up in. We rode our bikes everywhere, to the bowling alley, the pool, for ice cream. That never happened in L.A. No joke, my neighbor once called the police because a twelve-year-old boy was walking home from school by himself and she wanted to report the parents for child abandonment. Can you imagine? We used to take quarters to the mini mart and stuff our pockets with candy and then bike to the park. I don’t remember our moms even telling us when we had to be home. We would just sort of find our way back around dinnertime. Jed is astounded by how that vibe still seems to be running strong in Ashland. We see kids biking everywhere and kindergartners walking to school on their own. He’s also shocked at how welcoming everyone has been. We’ve met more people here in a week than we did in ten years in the same condo in L.A. Am I wrong, or is Ashland still the same as the Ashland of our youth?”
“Not at all. I think you’re right. If anything, I feel like it’s changed for the better in that there are even more shops and restaurants now. It’s become such a foodie town, but at its core it’s still a small town with a lot of heart.”
The girls raced past us with their bubble wands. Their moms hurried to catch up with them, shouting out reminders to stop before they got to the street. Amanda and I reminisced about sleepovers, my dad’s homemade Ding Dongs, and the time her mom had taken us to see Pippi Longstocking at the movie theater.
“How are we in our thirties?” Amanda asked. “Doesn’t it feel like we were just begging our moms to drive us to the mall in Medford so we could pierce our ears and get perms?”
“Perms.” I stuck out my tongue. “Who thought those were a good idea? But, you’re right. I wonder that all the time when my staff looks to me for answers and I realize I’m the one in charge.”
She laughed and glanced at her watch. “On that note, I should go. I have another dress rehearsal to get through tonight. I’m sure Shelly will be breathing down my neck. You should have seen her when I was making copies and getting the photos of your parents together. I thought she might pop a vein or something. The woman is an utter control freak.” She blew me a kiss. “Lunch or wine soon. We’ve only scratched the surface.”
I agreed, thanked her again for the folder, and continued on to Lithia Park. In the short time we had spent catching up, the sun had fallen behind the mountains, plunging the plaza into a hazy purple light.
A strange sensation came over me as I walked to the park. It was hard to explain, but it almost felt like someone was watching me.
You’re being silly, Jules, I told myself, but I stopped in front of Elevation, the outdoor store, where I used to live in the upstairs apartment and looked around me. Across the street at the Merry Windsor, a bellboy in pantaloons and tights was helping an older woman with her bags, but fortunately there was no sign of Richard Lord. Behind me on the sidewalk, a group of tourists had stopped to read the menu posted at the sushi restaurant. No one appeared to be taking any notice of me.
Jules, you’re freaking out. Maybe channeling my dad was finally getting to me.
I proceeded onward, through the park, passing the duck pond and following the path that led to the creek and the children’s playground. Not long from now the grassy area would be full of families picnicking and kids
splashing in Ashland Creek, but this evening it was deserted.
The feeling that someone was watching me persisted as I crossed the wooden bridge and headed for the shelter. It only took a minute to drop off the box of pastries. When I returned outside, I saw someone, dressed in black from head to toe, directly across the street.
My heart thudded in my chest.
Maybe I hadn’t been imagining things.
The person’s face was shielded with a balaclava, leaving only their eyes exposed.
I stepped backward.
The stranger in black moved toward me with such purpose and force that I froze.
What were my options? Should I scream for help? Return to the shelter.
Think, Jules.
It was as if fear had eroded my brain synapses. I couldn’t formulate a plan, and the person in black was now at the footbridge.
The box in my arms felt like dead weight.
You have to get inside.
I commanded my muscles to move, but it was as if I were observing the scene from outside of my body. Part of me wanted to know what this person in black wanted. The other part of me was yelling at the top of my lungs to get away.
The person in black had crossed the footbridge and was directly across the street from me. Since my leaden feet didn’t want to move, I was about to let out a scream for help, but at that moment a pair of runners with headlamps and reflective shirts raced past.
They must have spooked whoever was stalking me because the stranger in black made a break for it, sprinting across the footbridge and out of sight.
I let out a long sigh of relief, but knew that it was only temporary. The late-evening purple light had shifted to blackness. Aside from a few glowing golden streetlamps, the park was plunged in darkness. I had to get out of here.
Unfortunately I was too encumbered with the box of paperwork from Pat, our fake OSF surveys, and the new folder from Amanda to run, so I hugged the edge of the sidewalk in order to stay as visible as possible under the streetlights. I kept glancing behind me as I power walked to the plaza. There was no sign of the person in black, but the fact that someone had been watching me could only mean one thing—I was close. Really close.
Chapter Twenty-Four
My nerves were scattered on the drive home. I made a quick call to Thomas to let him know that someone had been watching me at Lithia Park. He told me to hang tight, that he and Kerry would be by soon. Then, I commandeered the dining room table and spread out every piece of information I had connected to Chuck Faraday’s death. The photocopies that Amanda had made included relics from the Cabaret’s opening. A wave of tears flooded as I looked at photos of my parents and the Professor smiling on opening night. They had their arms wrapped around one another and reminded me of the three musketeers. If my dad hadn’t died, what would things be like now? Would the Professor still be alone? Would he have ever found love?
I felt torn. As much as I longed for my dad, I was glad that Mom and the Professor had each other.
Focus, Jules. I forced myself back into the moment, combing through receipts and playbills from the Cabaret. What could be in there that Shelly didn’t want me or Amanda to see?
Could Shelly have been the one following me? That person was wearing a baseball hat, but the build was about right.
I found her handwriting sample. It looked nothing like the notes my dad had received. But did that mean she was a dead end? It was possible that she had disguised her writing or had someone else write the note.
Someone else.
Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner? Could two of the suspects have been working together?
I reviewed my list. First there was Jeri. She had admitted that her job was in jeopardy due to Chuck’s scheme. Yet, when Lance and I had talked to her, I had gotten the distinct impression that she had held a torch for Chuck. Unless they’d had some kind of lover’s quarrel that she hadn’t told us about, my instincts told me that she wasn’t a killer.
Pat Sr. was a possibility. He had sought legal advice. If he had been unhappy that there was no course of action against Chuck, could he have exacted his own revenge? But, again, why? It wouldn’t have served a purpose. He wouldn’t have been financially compensated with Chuck dead. If he had hoped to get any of his money back, then having Chuck alive would have been paramount. Not to mention that Pat was dead. If he was the killer, then justice would never be served.
I moved on to Stewart. He too had financial motive. Why would a prominent theater owner kill his rising star? It didn’t make sense. And my impression of Stewart had been grandfatherly. He had sounded sad about the circumstances surrounding Chuck’s death, not like he was harboring an old grudge.
My two top suspects were Shelly and Chef Ronald. Could they have been working together?
Ronald’s handwriting was the best match. As if to prove my thought process, I held it up next to the notes. It needed proper analyzing, but with my untrained eye I could see similarities in the style and force.
What I couldn’t figure out was Ronald’s motive. Why kill Chuck?
They had fought, but it seemed like a huge risk for Ronald to take the drastic step of murder. Unless he was lying. Maybe he and Chuck had been dealing at Rumors. He had admitted to having a drug problem and sobering up. Chuck had plenty of other schemes, what if dealing drugs was one of them? If he and Ronald had had a falling out over profits, that could be a motive for murder.
Last was Shelly. Something about her felt off to me. Why didn’t she want Amanda to pass on the archive materials from the Cabaret? Plus her reaction to my comment about my parents having to scrape money together was odd. She had said the Cabaret had plenty of cash. How could that be? And was that why the Professor had raced over there?
I went through everything Amanda had copied again. This time, I studied every picture in detail. The very last photo made my skin tingle. It was a photo of the cast on opening night. Everyone was gathered onstage, hamming it up for the camera. Except for Chuck. He and Shelly stood off to the left of the stage.
I looked closer. Chuck was handing her something. A large envelope.
With what?
Money?
Were she and Chuck working together?
My mind worked overtime trying to connect the dots. Is that how Shelly had been able to buy the theater? Was she in on Chuck’s schemes? Or could she have been behind it? I frantically flipped through the donor statements that Amanda had copied for me. What if Shelly had been running the scam? Maybe Chuck was her pawn.
Could I have had it wrong all along? We had assumed that Chuck was pulling the strings of his scamming operations, but what if he had been the puppet?
I scoured every donor receipt. Names and dollar amounts had been written out by hand in a spiral notebook. I ran to the kitchen to find a calculator and began to tally up the amounts. It didn’t take a math whiz to quickly realize that something was very off. Large sums of money had come in for the Cabaret’s opening under the initials C. F.
As in Chuck Faraday?
The doorbell rang, giving me a start.
That must be Thomas and Detective Kerry.
I went to answer it, and immediately regretted my decision.
Shelly stood on my front porch, dressed in black from head to toe, and holding a gun. “Hello, Juliet.”
Stay calm, Jules. Stay calm.
I pressed my thumb and index fingers together as hard as I could, and willed myself to take a long, slow breath.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She lifted the gun, so it was level with my heart.
“Do I have another choice?” I moved to allow her entry.
“No. You had to snoop around. Like your father. Why couldn’t you leave things alone?”
I was wondering the same thing.
She pushed me toward the kitchen. “Let’s go. Get inside.”
I tried to think of a way to signal Thomas, but nothing came to mind. Instead I left the front door unlocked and walked to the
kitchen.
“I don’t understand, Shelly.”
“Right. I’m sure you don’t. You were born into an easy life. You’ve never known hard work and having to fight for every dime.”
What was she talking about? It was hardly as if my parents had been well-off. Far from it, but I let her talk.
“Your dad was so smug about the bakery and how wonderfully things were going. Well good for him, but he should have tried running a theater. Do you know how much money we were bleeding out? We were gushing blood. Gushing.”
I wasn’t sure I appreciated her metaphor, especially since she kept the gun pointed at my chest.
“There was no way we would have made it without my intervention. Stew was so stupid and naïve. He thought we were actually going to make enough to stay afloat with ticket sales. Idiot. I knew from the first dry run that we were going to have to find other revenue streams, and fast. We wouldn’t have even opened if it weren’t for me.”
As she spoke, I reviewed my options. Shelly was older than me by a couple decades, and smaller. I could probably take her. The only issue was the gun. What if she shot before I could take her down?
Thomas and Detective Kerry had said they would come by. When? They could be on their way now, or it could be another hour before they arrived. I didn’t have that much time. I was going to have to find a way to keep her talking until I could come up with a plan.
“Did you and Chuck work together?”
“Chuck was an actor,” she scoffed. “He did as he was directed. I was his director and I gave him specific directions about how and when he was going to get us the cash. It was easy. Like taking candy from a baby. People are so gullible. It helped that Chuck was devastatingly handsome. All he had to do was flash his pearly whites and the little old ladies would be running for their checkbooks.”
“I don’t understand. What exactly was your strategy?”
“Keep up.” She sounded disgusted. “It was as easy as pie, as your dad would have said. I came up with the targets, Chuck sweet-talked them, took their hard-earned cash, and we split the profits fifty-fifty. That is, until he decided to go and get morals.”
Nothing Bundt Trouble Page 21
