Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky

by Sharon Love Cook

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Sorry for getting so excited. You want to talk to Brandi now?”

  When I nodded, she moved to the end of the counter. Hands on hips, she leaned back and yelled “Brand!” in a voice so loud it made my ears tingle. The two men at the counter were either deaf or accustomed to it. They didn’t even look up.

  Moments later Brandi appeared in jeans and a blue flannel shirt. “I was feeding the chickens,” she said. “Hi, Rose. What’s up?”

  “Can we talk for a minute?”

  She glanced at Stella, who said, “Don’t worry about it. Take all the time you need.”

  “Let’s sit over here,” she said, moving to a table on the other side of the room near a window. She pulled out a chair. “It’s more private.”

  I sat across from her, close enough to see that her eyes were pink rimmed as if she’d been crying. Her blue shirt accentuated the pale skin and blonde hair, the latter secured with a wide barrette. Brandi had an elegant simplicity, a marked contrast to Pamela Bingham’s flashy looks. Despite her origins, Brandi was the true aristocrat. “Did you go to Dr. Klinger’s wake?” I asked.

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I’m handling it better today. Did Stella tell you I’d been seeing Dr. Klinger?”

  “No, not Stella. Doris Zack told me, privately, of course. She saw you in the parking lot the morning Dr. Klinger was discovered.”

  Brandi lowered her eyes. “Did she tell the police that?”

  “She didn’t think it was any of their business.” I paused, uncertain how to phrase it. “Why did you leave the parking lot?”

  She shrugged. “Obviously, your dealings with the police are different from mine. They’ve hounded my family for years. It goes back to when my dad was in grade school. Apparently, he used to beat up Chief Alfano. They were the same age.

  “I don’t know how much is true, but Alfano’s had a grudge against us. He harasses my brother, always pulling him over and searching his truck for drugs. The last time he found a joint, not even a half inch, in the ash tray. My brother didn’t even know it was there. Because he was already on probation, he got a year at Middleton Jail. He’s there now.” She glanced at me. “That’s why I run when I see the cops.”

  “Uh huh. I can understand that. Right now I don’t want to talk about the police. I want to talk about a story I’m doing on Dr. Klinger. It’s not just the newspaper coverage, it’s something bigger. I’ve gotten the attention of Back Bay Living, a very good periodical.

  “In any case, I don’t want to do a typical laudatory piece. I want something more focused. How could this accomplished woman wind up dead? Granted, we live in a society where violence is common, but that doesn’t explain her abrupt end.” I glanced at her. “I can’t seem to close the book on this, Brandi. I keep waiting for the next chapter.”

  She nodded, subdued. “I know what you mean. Dr. Klinger was so sure of herself. Even though she came from money, she understood what women like me go through. She had a way of listening. It was like you were being heard for the first time.” She covered her face with her hands. Sobbing, she said, “What’ll happen to me now?”

  I pulled napkins from the metal dispenser and pressed them into her hand. Soon she let out a sigh. She looked at me. Her eyes, washed by tears, were the color of the sea in June.

  “Are you okay now?” I asked.

  She nodded. “When I first heard about the murder, I wanted to get drunk or high. If I hadn’t been living with Stella, I probably would have done that.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” I said. “How did you meet Dr. Klinger, if you don’t mind talking about it?”

  “I don’t mind.” She gave me a weak smile. “It’s good therapy. I met Dr. Klinger after I was arrested. It was last winter, and I was in Boston in an alcoholic blackout. I don’t remember a thing. I’d been drinking for a couple days, staying with a guy in the North End. According to the police report, I went into Shreve, Crump & Low and attempted to steal a diamond ring.” She smiled again. “I’ve got class when I’m drunk.

  “Because it wasn’t my first arrest, I was looking at spending time at Framingham Women’s Prison. The judge at my arraignment mentioned a new program for women under twenty-five. Instead of doing time, those who qualify take part in therapy, vocational training or tutoring for the GED.

  “Through that program I met Dr. Klinger, my therapist. She was the first person who took me seriously. Before therapy, I was always filled with fear. I couldn’t even go into the grocery store without having a drink. She focused on my strengths, wanting to know why I allowed men to use me, to treat me badly.”

  “Like your father?”

  She nodded. “I found the courage to move out of his house. When he threatened me, Dr. Klinger helped me get a restraining order against him.”

  “How did he react to that?”

  “He hated losing control over me. Understand, my dad’s an alcoholic, a sick man. One night he called Dr. Klinger and said she’d better watch out before she became crab bait.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She reported it to the police, and they brought him in, gave him a warning. The cops know he’s basically harmless. He’s got emphysema and can’t walk to the mailbox without his oxygen. But it made me see that I had to move out, even if it meant living in a shelter.”

  I put my notepad away. “Brandi, we’ll talk later when you feel stronger.”

  “I’m getting better. I’m learning to trust. I’ve got Stella, the mom I never had.”

  I smiled. “I have a hunch you’re going to make it. You’re stronger than you know.”

  Her expression was wistful. “That’s what Dr. Klinger used to tell me.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’d better go. Stella claims she doesn’t need my help at the moment, but I know she does.”

  “I’ll come by in a couple of days. In the meantime, here’s my number.” I handed her a card. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

  She nodded. “When I didn’t get drunk after Dr. Klinger’s death, it wasn’t just because of Stella. I had another reason for staying sober. Fact is, if I got drunk I wouldn’t find out who killed Dr. Klinger. Believe me, Rose, I intend to find out.”

  “Maybe I can help you,” I found myself saying.

  I was pulling out of the parking lot when a police cruiser, Cal Devine at the wheel, pulled in next to me. I lowered my window. “How are things going?”

  “The same. Listen, I bought the fixings for a meat loaf. Do you want to come over tonight and sample some? I’ll get a nice Chianti.”

  I stared, my mind blank. My answer was lame. “I’m giving Chester a flea bath.”

  “Great. I lose out to a dog. By the way, I have some information that just came back from the medical examiner’s office. Dr. Klinger wasn’t a victim of sexual assault, and blood work showed she was taking birth control pills and had diazepam in her system.”

  “Dia—what?”

  “Commonly known as Valium. It was a big dose, forty milligrams.”

  “Valium? Why would Dr. Klinger need tranquilizers?”

  “Maybe she was nervous about someone stalking her.” He got out of the car.

  “Do you know if she was being stalked?”

  “Chief’s got a suspect. I can’t say anything right now.”

  I knew better than to press him. “Going in for coffee?” I asked.

  “Nope. I’ve gotta tell Stella the department’s official plan for protecting her pigs.”

  “Those pigs mean the world to her.”

  He leaned down and rested his elbows on my open window, his face inches from mine. “I am so aware of that. On the other hand, I got into police work to help people, not three little pigs.”

  I smiled. “That’s why you’re everyone’s favorite cop. You’re so versatile.”

  “Tell that to the guys at the station. You wouldn’t believe the ragging I’m getting.”

  “Don’t get so distracted you forg
et to track down the murderer,” I said.

  “Pretend to track down the murderer. Everyone knows if the perp isn’t caught within twenty-four hours, the trail gets so cold you can skate on it.”

  “You won’t give up, will you, Cal?”

  He leaned in closer and in a low voice said, “I never give up when I really want something.”

  I looked into his gray-green eyes. Suddenly it was very warm in the car. “Gotta get back to the office,” I whispered, turning to look out the rear window. Shifting into reverse, I backed the car up. Cal watched me drive away.

  After I regained my composure, I thought about my conversation with Brandi. While I sensed her determination, I didn’t know how well she’d hold up in the long run. She had a record of poverty, crime and abuse. Although she appeared strong, she was young and in early recovery.

  And what of Dr. Klinger, the mystery woman, a blank screen upon whom others had projected their images? My image had been based on assumption, not personal knowledge. Because she grew up in tony Chestnut Hill and attended exclusive schools, she was therefore elitist, a snob. Wasn’t I guilty of the same close-minded assumptions nurtured by many typical Granite Cove-ers?

  Conversely, Brandi, someone who’d grown up with nothing, didn’t begrudge Dr. Klinger’s privileged background, so why should I? And just because I wouldn’t have chosen her as my therapist doesn’t mean she wasn’t a crackerjack shrink. One had only to look at Brandi’s transformation to know that.

  My resistance to engaging Dr. Klinger’s services revolved around my personal quirks. Take the issue of grooming, for instance. Because I am someone who rubs cooking oil on her shoes, in a pinch, one could safely assume I’m not fastidious. Vivian Klinger, meanwhile, was immaculately groomed. Finding herself in a shelter following a nuclear disaster, she would not resort to cooking oil for a quick shine.

  Consequently, the cooking oil shortcut is the sort of guilty thing I’d love to confess to a therapist, just not Dr. Klinger.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Klinger? This is Rose McNichols from the Granite Cove Gazette. I spoke to you at the wake.”

  “Oh, yes, the reporter.”

  “Exactly. I hope you’re feeling a little better?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. You indicated you’d be willing to talk to me about the piece I’m writing for Back Bay Living. I was hoping we could set up an appointment.”

  “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

  “Well, you didn’t rule it out, and I know you’d want your daughter portrayed as accurately as possible. She was an invaluable member—”

  “Yes, Ms. Nicholson.”

  “Uh, McNichols. Rose McNichols.”

  “At the moment I’m in the middle of editing a poetry journal. My writing group elected me editor, no doubt to keep me occupied during this time.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Everyone says that, yet bother they do.”

  “Did you receive the Granite Cove Gazette story I sent you?”

  “I must have. I’m sure it’s on my desk somewhere.”

  “That piece was limited by the necessity of making it local for our Granite Cove readers. What I’m working on is something bigger, something that deals with professional city women and their difficult rise to the top. Dr. Klinger had associations all over Boston. Her roots were in Wellesley, Harvard, Mass General—”

  “Ms. Nicholson, I’m aware of my daughter’s resume.”

  “Then you’ll understand my need to talk to those who knew her best in order to balance the picture and provide a personal glimpse—”

  “How about Wednesday at two? Come for tea.”

  “Oh? Yes. Yes I will, Mrs. Klinger.”

  Dear Auntie Pearl:

  My boyfriend Roland is a rugged type guy who plays handball. It’s a solid relationship; lately, we’ve discussed marriage. Roland and I are so compatible, yet there’s a minor problem I can’t seem to overlook.

  I’ve discovered he’s been taking my pantyhose from the laundry hamper. This has happened on four occasions. For some reason I can’t bring myself to mention it. Outside of this tiny flaw, Roland is so right for me. Nonetheless, I can’t stop wondering what he’s doing with my pantyhose.

  Baffled in Boxford

  Dear Baffled:

  It’s no mystery to me what Roland is doing with your pantyhose. I’m willing to wager he’s discovered they make excellent ties for tomato plants. Simply cut them off below the crotch and then in 10” lengths. The nylon strips secure the plants firmly to the stakes with a flexibility that allows for growth. Furthermore, the ties can be used year after year.

  Instead of being wary, you should be grateful for such an industrious young man. Come August, he might even whip up a tasty batch of gazpacho. Carramba!

  Auntie Pearl

  Six

  Myrna Phipps’s directions to her house were as flighty as the lady herself:

  “Then you’ll come to a mailbox with a lovely clematis vine around the base.” It’s easier to find clams at high tide than a Hemlock Point address. For one thing the streets are unnamed. I guess it illustrates the old saying, if you have to ask…

  Still it was unnerving to navigate the main thoroughfare, a dusty, bumpy road that meandered past hidden driveways where great estates were tucked away. I was careful not to turn in at the wrong entrance. The sight of a battered, lime green Jetta would not be reassuring in that high rent district. It was a world far removed from downtown Granite Cove. I rolled down the window. Even the air smelled expensive.

  Finally, I was rewarded when the aforementioned mailbox appeared. Next to it sat a short wooden sign that read Marbella. I turned into the narrow lane, maneuvering the Jetta around the protruding shrubs lining the driveway. Upon reaching the end, the Phipps’s house appeared, a sprawling stucco affair nestled among wild beach roses and scrub pine and overlooking an expanse of sea and sky. Striped awnings shaded the windows and terrace while the bright cherry tiles on the roof bespoke the home of a tile mogul.

  At the front door a maid escorted me to what I assumed was the library, judging by the rows of old books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Myrna Phipps sat on a settee near a marble fireplace.

  “There you are, Miss McNichols. Come in, please.” Mrs. Phipps looked like the society lady in The Three Stooges. Her silver hair was worn in an upsweep and secured with combs. Her chest was like an upholstered shelf. To complete the overall impression, she carried a lacquered fan.

  After the greetings were out of the way, she instructed the maid to “fetch Raul from his nappy.” Then she led me to a broad window at the end of the room. Outside, a wide lawn ended at a thin crescent of sandy beach and beyond that, the ocean. It was a bewitching view. I stared longingly, careful not to press my nose against the glass.

  She hugged herself. “The ocean looks chilly today, doesn’t it?”

  “If I lived here (and if my aunt had balls she’d be my uncle, I thought to myself), I’d be in the water every day.”

  “My husband and I rarely swim nowadays. The water’s not as nice as when I was a girl.”

  While few things in life are as nice as they once were, having a private beach was a reasonable compensation. I sighed, reluctant to turn away from the window.

  While we waited, Mrs. Phipps and I made small talk, something I loathe. I told her about the paper’s circulation, the publisher, and my duties as reporter. All the while I was wondering what happened to the maid.

  Just as I was launching into an account of the Seniors’ Summer Picnic, minus any mention of the Salmonella, Mrs. Phipps patted my arm and got to her feet. I’m going up to see what’s keeping Raul. The little fellow sometimes gets cross when he awakens. He’s apt to nip.” She gestured to a tall glassed-in case against the far wall. “While I’m gone, take a peek at Raul’s awards. I’ll be right back.”

  I took her suggestion and checked out the various ribbons and engraved silver trophies inside th
e wooden case. As I was putting on my glasses to read an inscription, Mrs. Phipps returned. “We’re back,” she called.

  I turned and sucked in my breath. In her arms Mrs. Phipps carried the weirdest looking creature I’ve ever seen. It was small, shriveled, gray and hairless with big sad eyes and ears that stuck out like inverted ice cream cones. I hoped my face didn’t register the shock I felt. And to think the dog was worth thousands, thanks to its peerless, yet hairless, lineage.

  “Let’s sit here and get acquainted, shall we?” she said, lowering herself onto a sofa near the window. “We’ll take a moment to get used to each other first.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit here. You can pet Raul, but don’t try to kiss him.”

  Kissing Raul, who resembled a large rodent, was the last thing I had in mind. At the same time I didn’t want to offend Mrs. Phipps, patron saint of Yvonne, so I hesitantly touched the clammy skin, repressing a shudder. “He’s darling,” I lied, peering into the dog’s yellow eyes, “but his skin feels a little cold.”

  She cuddled him closer. “Hairless breeds are cold-blooded. Do you notice how warm this room is?”

  Did I notice? It was so warm the candles were in danger of melting.

  She continued, “Raul sleeps in a climate controlled room where the temperature never drops below seventy-five degrees. His little heart must work overtime providing heat for his body. That’s one reason why Lester and I drive to Florida every winter. We can’t risk taking him on a plane. Even in first class the temperature can drop.” She kissed the top of his wrinkled head. “Besides, it’s nice and cozy in the car.” She touched her nose to his wet, black snout. “Raul loves Palm Beach, don’t you, peaches?”

  Raul, in response, regarded her morosely.

  After recovering from my initial shock, I dug out my notebook and began the interview, asking questions concerning the dog’s lineage. When she said they went to Bristol, England, to get Raul, I made a feeble joke. “You mean, you didn’t drive?”