by Lillian Bell
Jasmine stretched. “I have clients who go into full-blown panic attacks at the first sight of Santa.”
“Because he’s terrifying.” I didn’t know who thought little children would want to hear stories about an old man who broke into their house in the middle of the night.
“You’re weird.” Carlotta moved her chair a little away from me and, not coincidentally, closer to Jasmine. Carlotta’s hand found Jasmine’s and they interlaced their fingers.
I shrugged. She might be right. I might be weird, but not because Santa gave me the heebie-jeebies. “So everybody freaks out when they know Christmas is coming.”
“Pretty much. Everybody realizes that they’re going to have to see those same relatives at Thanksgiving and Christmas or Hanukkah or whatever that they saw last year and that they still haven’t dealt with any of the issues that got brought up then.”
“Fun.”
She smiled. “Actually, it kind of is. Every once in a while, I get someone to look at something in a different way and instead of dreading being with their family, they can at least go in feeling at peace with themselves. Or even better, I manage to give them some kind of coping strategy that works. Families are hard.”
“Speaking of family,” I said. “Have you ever used one of those genetic testing sites?”
“For what?” Jasmine turned back to me.
“Oh, you know. People do them now to see what their ancestry is or if they’re prone to have some kind of disease, but you can click a button to see if you have any relatives around.” It was too bad Violet hadn’t been able to contact any of those relatives while she was alive. Maybe she’d have had something to do besides take photos of people in compromising positions.
Jasmine’s brows went up. “I pretty much know most of my relatives.”
“Me, too. I’m living with most of them,” I said.
“Besides, you might not always want to find relatives you didn’t know you had.” Jasmine took another sip of coffee. “There have been some cases where people have found out things they didn’t want to know.”
“Like what?” Carlotta asked.
“Like their dad isn’t really their dad or that kid in the next town is really their half brother. Like that.” Jasmine shook her head.
“That would shake a person up,” I said. I thought about that little girl, the one that my father was smiling at in the photo. Did she look like Donna or me? Was there something about the shape of her ears? Or her eyes? Did I have a half sister? Would doing a DNA test help me find out?
“Worse even than a giant blowup Santa at Costco in October,” Jasmine said.
Carlotta’s radio buzzed. She stepped away from the table to check in.
“I have something I need to show you,” I whispered to her.
“What?” Jasmine leaned in, brown eyes wide.
I pointed my chin at Carlotta. “Later. Not in front of the fuzz.”
Jasmine’s eyebrows went up. “Seriously?”
Carlotta came back, gave Jasmine a quick kiss on the cheek, and said, “Gotta go. They need me down at the station.”
“Big trouble?” Jasmine asked.
“No. But they need another pair of hands.” She waved as she walked away.
“So spill,” Jasmine said as she pulled a small pot of lip gloss out of her bag and reapplied it.
I pulled out the printout I’d made of the photo of my father and set it on the table. A range of emotions moved across Jasmine’s face. Confusion. Concern. Consternation. I’d been through pretty much the same set so I recognized them. “When do you think this was taken?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I’m not sure. There’s nothing really to indicate the date.”
“Who do you think the girl is?” She lifted up the photo.
“Not a clue.” I paused. “Do you think her ears look like mine?”
“Her ears? Why her ears?” She picked up the photo as if she might be able to see the girl’s ears more clearly.
“Something Olive said to me about my ears looking like Donna’s ears.”
“You think if her ears are like yours, she could be your sister?”
“Half sister?”
“Your dad never even dated, although I think there were quite a few ladies who tried. Remember how Chrissy Rinehart was always bringing over casseroles?” she asked.
“I do.” I had a lifelong aversion to tuna casserole because of it. Dad had never asked Chrissy Rinehart out that I knew of. He hadn’t ever dated that I knew about. I’d never really thought about it. We had been a unit.
“So what does all this mean?” Jasmine set the photo down.
I drummed my fingers on the table. “I’m not sure, but I think I’ve gone from finding out that a lot of people didn’t like Violet to finding out that a lot of people might have had reasons to murder her, but I told Donna and Uncle Joey I’d drop it.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to let it go?”
“I told them that before I found the photo of Dad. There’s some connection there. I don’t know what, but I feel like I have to find out.”I leaned back in my chair, suddenly cold, rubbing my arms. “This isn’t just about Violet anymore.”
*
I had a few hours before I needed to meet Rachel. Orion and I walked back to Turner’s. We were barely in the door when the doorbell rang. Orion and I answered it to find Zenia Morrow back. She had on another power suit. It looked like might have missed a button on her blouse, though. It seemed to be unbuttoned a bit lower than the other times I’d seen her. She seemed a little out of breath, too. I guessed even the Zenias of the world had the occasional bad day. “Zenia, I didn’t know you were coming back today.” I opened the door wider to let her in.
“Who’s this?” she asked, looking down at Orion, who did his standard handshake routine. Before she could say anything about how adorable my dog was, Uncle Joey came jogging down the stairs. “Zenia, come in.”
There was something funny in his voice. Something I hadn’t heard before. He looked okay. In fact, he looked a little better than normal. He’d trimmed his beard and his hair was combed. He was wearing a blue sweater that made his bright blue eyes pop.
“Joseph.” She nodded her head and licked her lips. “Thank you for letting me know you were ready for reinspection.”
“My pleasure,” he said, come this way.
“Would you like a glass of water or some coffee?” I asked as they walked away from me.
“Not necessary, Desiree,” Uncle Joey said over his shoulder. “I’ve got this.”
I went upstairs to tell Donna that Zenia was back.
“That’s fast,” she said. She was on the couch with her feet up and her laptop open.
“I know. She said Uncle Joey had called her to let her know that we were ready for her to come back.” I sat down on the floor and Orion snuggled into my lap.
“You haven’t run an ad for that dog yet,” she said, barely looking up from her keyboard.
“His name is Orion and do I have to?” I asked. He looked up at her, too, head cocked to one side as if he knew now was the time to be the cutest ever.
She glanced around her screen. “I know he’s cute, but a dog, Desiree? That’s a lot of work.”
“I think he could be a real plus here, Donna. I think he has a future as a therapy dog.”
She snorted. “Just because you like to sit with him when you’re sad doesn’t mean he’s a therapy dog.”
I didn’t push any further. I’d figure out how to win her over to my side. “I wonder what’s going on downstairs. Do you think I should go peek?”
“Do you think you can without getting caught?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I could bring her a glass of water. She looked thirsty when she came in.” She’d licked her lips several times as if her mouth was dry.
Donna nodded her approval. “Solid plan. Go give her a glass of water and then come up and report back.”
I got a glass of ice water and made my way
down the two flights of stairs to the main floor and then headed for the last flight down to the office and embalming area. I could hear their voices, soft and murmuring. Then I heard a little gasp. What had gone wrong? I hurried down the last few steps and turned the corner into the office.
Zenia was half on top of Uncle Joey’s desk. Her hair had been released from its tight ponytail and her glasses had been flung aside. I was right. She was seriously gorgeous. Uncle Joey held her, half-inclined, their bodies pressed together in a tight embrace and their lips pressed together in what looked like a seriously passionate kiss. I withdrew back around the corner, hoping that they hadn’t heard me. I peeked back around. If they had heard me, it certainly wasn’t slowing them down one bit.
I retreated back up the stairs, careful to avoid the squeaky step second from the top. Then I scampered as fast as I could back up to the third floor. I was panting as I skidded into the family room.
Donna looked up from her laptop. “What? She didn’t want the water?”
I looked down at the glass still in my hand. “I saw … I saw …” I couldn’t seem to come up with the right words to say next.
“Something nasty in the woodshed?” Donna laughed.
I shook my head hard. “No. Not that. Uncle Joey and Zenia.”
“Yes. That’s pretty much what you went to see. What were they doing? Going through files? Checking behind the cabinets?”
I drained the glass of water. “They were making out.”
*
I decided to make myself seriously scarce until I heard Zenia leave. I wasn’t sure how I felt about what I’d seen, except that I knew it could never ever be unseen. I couldn’t remember Uncle Joey ever dating anyone. Just like Dad. Surely he must have. He was a good looking man with a steady job plus he was actually nice. There really should have been ladies lining up out the door. It had never occurred to me that he would have a love life. Maybe he’d had a whole lot more going on than I knew about. Maybe the Turner men were better at keeping secrets than I’d ever known. What I’d thought was an open book was apparently a locked diary with secret compartments inside.
When it was time to meet Rachel, I let Donna know we were leaving and went out the back, got into the Element with Orion and left. Zenia’s car was still sitting in front.
Rachel was just pulling into her driveway in a green Toyota Corolla when I got there. Had she been the one cruising around Violet’s neighborhood? I told Orion to stay in the car and walked toward her.
“Hi, Desiree,” she said. She pointed at a Maple tree that had started turning red and gold. “Should we do the picture there?”
“That’s okay,” I said, holding up a printout of the photo I’d found on Violet’s thumb drive. “I already have one. Should we print this?”
Rachel stared at the photo in my hand and then lunged toward me, trying to grab it from my hand. I stepped back, wishing that I hadn’t left Orion in the car. Of course, who knew how he would react? Maybe he’d take the photo from me and deliver it to Rachel with a handshake. “Give it to me!”
I shrugged and handed it to her. “You can have it. It’s a copy.”
Her fist came back, once again making her sweater ride up and showing the bandage on her arm.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, unsure if Luke Butler would be any more help than Orion might be. “Should I call the police?”
Rachel froze. “No. Don’t do that. I’ll … I’ll explain it all.”
“Including how you cut your arm on Violet Daugherty’s back window? Greg said you were a fast learner. Clearly you are since you didn’t cut yourself when you tried to break in at Turner’s.”
Her hand went to the bandage. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. At least, not for sure. Now I do, though.”
She shoulders slumped like a wilted sunflower. “You might as well come inside. I’ll explain everything.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to end up like Violet.”
“What do you mean?” She set her groceries back down.
“I mean I don’t want someone to murder me for whatever this photo means.” I waved the printout again.
Rachel staggered back a step. “Murder? Violet died in a car accident.”
“A car accident caused by someone injecting her with insulin so she’d pass out behind the wheel.” I cocked my head to one side. “You’re diabetic, aren’t you? You’re why the office had sugar-free cake. It takes you a little longer to heal, too. You have access to insulin.”
Her hands went to her mouth. “This is crazy. Absolutely totally crazy. I did one little thing wrong. One tiny thing that I was going to make up for right away. But before I can do that, I get blackmailed and now I’m being accused of murder?” Her voice wobbled. She was about to cry.
Clearly, I was getting somewhere. “Why don’t you tell me about the tiny thing? The thing that started this all? What did you do, Rachel?”
Rachel smacked her head. “You don’t know? You don’t actually know anything?”
“Well, I know a little something now. I know Violet was blackmailing you. You might as well tell me the rest of the story.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
A single tear leaked out of Rachel’s eye and trickled down her cheek. Her mascara didn’t run. Aren’t pretty criers the worst? No mercy. “I only borrowed the money to get us through a really bad week,” she said.
“Where did you borrow the money from?” I asked.
“Petty cash. It was sitting there. No one was going to need it. It was Friday afternoon. Nearly everyone was gone. Jimmy was out of work then and we were barely scraping by. I didn’t think anyone would even notice if I took a few twenties so we could buy groceries and gas.” She stopped for a second, trying to compose herself.
That would take quite a few twenties, but I decided to keep my mouth shut about that. “So you stole the money from petty cash.”
“Borrowed,” she said. “Only borrowed. I was going to pay it back as soon as I got my next paycheck. Seriously.”
“So you left a note? An IOU?” If she had, why would Violet have anything to hold over her head?
She looked down at her feet. “Not exactly.”
“How did Violet find out?” I asked.
She looked back up at me with narrowed eyes. “Violet found out everything. If you made a typo on a letter, she’d find out and tell the whole office about it. If you were five minutes late, she’d notice and make sure everyone else did, too. If you forgot to file a piece of paperwork, she’d somehow know. I thought she’d already gone home like everybody else, but no, she was lurking around somewhere in back and saw the whole thing.”
“So she figured out that you had ‘borrowed’ money from the petty cash.” I made air quotes around borrowed. “But she didn’t tell everybody else? She only told you?”
Rachel nodded. Her chin trembled a bit. “She said that she’d gotten a kit from the Internet and taken fingerprints off the box, too. She said she’d be able to prove it was me and that I’d get fired and that I’d probably never get a decent job again because no one wants to hire a thief.”
Whoa. That seemed a pretty harsh way to deal with a coworker who was down on her luck. Stealing the money was wrong, but a person could have a little empathy. It did explain the fingerprint card in Violet’s receptacle of regret. It seemed a little far-fetched, though. “Wouldn’t lots of people’s fingerprints be on the petty cash box?”
“Maybe. I couldn’t take that chance. My paycheck was the only money coming into the house. We couldn’t both be out of work.” Another tear leaked down her cheek.
“What did Violet want from you?” It couldn’t have been money since Rachel clearly didn’t have any. If she had had some, she wouldn’t have needed to ‘borrow’ it from petty cash.
“She wanted my time.” She pressed her lips together. “Anytime Violet needed someone to cover the phones so she could go out, I had to say yes. Anytime someone needed to work on a
weekend to get a special project done, I had to volunteer. If she wanted to take a vacation day to turn a three-day weekend into a four-day weekend, I had to cover her desk.”
“Why didn’t you look for a different job?” I asked. It seemed the simplest way to deal with a bad situation with a coworker.
“She said she’d make sure that anyone thinking about hiring me would know about the petty cash, too.” She wiped her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve.
Something occurred to me. “You’ll be covering her desk permanently now, won’t you? You got promoted into her spot.”
A small smile played over Rachel’s lips. “Yes. I did. Turns out everyone noticed how I was always the first to volunteer to help out and the first to stay late or take over a last-minute project. Greg said I was a team player and that I was the kind of person they wanted to promote.”
I shook my head. “So Violet kind of did you a favor.” An echo of Not Vodka Mom’s comment played in my head. Was Violet the worst blackmailer ever? Or the best?
“Not that she meant to! Stupid cow.” Rachel kicked the tire of her car.
Most people stopped short of speaking ill of the dead. I’d seen plenty of funeral services where I knew the deceased was a miserable SOB, but everyone found something nice to say anyway. To actually name call the dead? That showed a pretty high level of hatred. Rachel could totally have done it. She could have administered the insulin somewhere, somehow. We’d definitely established motive and means. Now to nail down opportunity. “Did you see Violet at all on the day she died?”
“Of course. We worked in the same office.” There was an implied ‘duh’ in her tone that I didn’t care for.
“What would happen if you’d injected Violet with your insulin before she left work that day?” I asked.
Rachel reared back. “She’d have gone into shock almost right away. I use regular insulin. It works within minutes.”
I thought for a moment. Violet hadn’t crashed her car until seven-thirty PM. “When did you last see her that day?”
“You really expect me to remember that?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah. I do. Especially if you don’t want to be accused of murder.”
