by Jane Tesh
Kary looked perfect, as always, in a black dress with little lacy sleeves, her hair up in a sleek bun. One hour is Camden’s limit for neatness. His jacket and shoes were off, his tie undone, shirtsleeves rolled up. He was unraveling even as we spoke.
I sat down in another rocking chair. “Sorry I missed the funeral.”
“It was the perfect service for Fred,” Kary said. “All of his friends from the park showed up, even Oscar. Pastor Mark took care of everything. Our church sent flowers, and Mimosa played hymns I think Fred would’ve liked. ‘The Old Rugged Cross.’ ‘Abide With Me.’”
Camden looked out across the front lawn, past the trees, and way beyond. “Before I found Grace Street, when I was wandering aimlessly across America, trying to make sense of this talent of mine, I often told myself I wanted a home and a family. I didn’t care where or what kind, but I was going to stay in one place and always have them around.” His gaze came back to me. “Doesn’t work that way, does it?”
“Nope.” I had no problem relating to this. “I’m afraid not.”
He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I want everything to stay the way it is. That’s selfish. I know it is.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “Too many things changing too fast.”
We sat for a while in silence, listening to the birds in the trees, the faint hum of traffic from Food Row, the slight creak of the porch swing. Kary reached up to undo her hair. “What did you find out about George?”
“Looks like he really did try to swallow a shotgun. There’s a relative nearby I’m going to talk to. Did you get a chance to talk to Millicent?”
“She came to Viola’s memorial service, and I got to speak to her for a few minutes. She said Viola didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“She had at least one. No big blowouts back stage? No one angry that she got the part in My Fair Lady?”
She shook her head, and that glorious hair spilled over her shoulders. “Not that Millicent could recall. I’m not sure she’s going to be a reliable source. She told me the same story three times about how she and Viola got rave reviews for their performance in The Cherry Orchard years ago.”
“When was the last time she saw Viola?”
“She was the one who gave Viola a ride home Wednesday night after rehearsal, and I did overhear that, as we suspected, there was poison in the wine.”
“A gift from a friend.”
“Maybe the friend didn’t know it was poisoned.”
“There still isn’t a motive.” And what was the motive behind George McMillan’s death? I took out my phone. “I need to call Folly and tell her the grim news.”
Camden took a deep breath. “I’m going to clean out Fred’s room.” He started to get out of the swing, but Kary stood and motioned him to sit back down. “I’ll take care of it, Cam.”
Not fifteen minutes after I called Folly, her peach-colored Cadillac screeched to a halt in our driveway. Folly hopped out of her car. As she came around in front, it began to roll toward her. In her agitation, she must have forgotten to put it in park.
I started down the steps. “Hey, look out!”
The car stopped just shy of grazing her leg. She did a little side step and stared at the Cadillac as if it were a stray dog trying to sniff up her skirt. I glanced at Camden. His eyes were on the car, his jaw set.
“One second, Folly.” I went out to her car. As I thought, it was in neutral and quivering like a racehorse ready for the starting gun. I put it in park, turned it off, and saw Camden relax his grip on the porch railing.
“Is something wrong with my car?” Folly asked when I returned to the porch.
“You forgot to put it in park. It’s okay now. Come have a seat. There’s bad news about George’s death.”
She sat down in one of the rocking chairs and looked up at me anxiously.
“Folly, it looks like he committed suicide.” As I told her the details, her peach complexion slowly drained to white. She reached into her purse and brought out a letter.
“Mr. Randall, this came for me today, from George. I didn’t want to read it by myself. Would you mind?”
I took the letter, opened it, and took out one sheet of paper. A quick glance told me this was a suicide note. “Do you want me to read it out loud?” She nodded. “‘Dear Folly, by the time you receive this, I’ll be dead. I can’t bear the shame of what I’ve done. I took our formula for the new skin cream and planned to sell it to Perfecto Face.’”
Here, Folly gave a little gasp.
“‘But at the last moment, I couldn’t go through with it. I can’t come back to BeautiQueen and to our partnership, not after my traitorous actions. You’ll never be able to trust me again. I can’t even trust myself. It’s better this way. Your money is safely back in our account. Forgive me. George.’”
I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “I’m really sorry, Folly.”
She took a peach-colored handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes. “Selling our formula to the competition is a terrible thing, but not terrible enough to die for. I wish he’d come home. I would’ve forgiven him.” She fixed me with an intense stare. “I don’t believe George was the type of person who would kill himself. I want you to continue the investigation. I want you to find out what really happened to him.”
“The Tampa police told me his cousin Lucy Warner identified the body. Could she be the relative in town?”
“I suppose so. I never met any of George’s family.” She dug into her purse. “I want you to find out who killed George.”
I was beginning to wonder how dangerous the cosmetics business could be. “Would someone murder George for this formula?”
“Entirely possible. You have no idea what women will pay for younger, smoother skin.” She wrote another check and handed it to me. “Up until he stole that money, he was a good employee and, as I’ve said, like a son to me. Please find out all you can.” She then turned her sorrowful face to Camden and held out her hand. “I need some very lucky numbers today, Cam.”
He took her hand. In a few moments, he said, “Twenty-eight, six, fifteen, three, and sixty-two.”
“Thank you so much, dear.”
He patted her hand. “Let me get you a drink. Would you like iced tea? Coke?”
She dabbed her eyes. “Tea would be fine.”
He went into the house. Folly wiped more tears away. “David, I suppose I should call this Lucy Warner and offer to help. I feel terrible about this. Maybe if I hadn’t made such a fuss about George taking the money, this never would’ve happened.”
“Don’t start talking like that,” I said. “I’m going to find out what’s going on.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I’d like to visit your company and talk to George’s coworkers.”
“How about nine tomorrow? Everyone will be there.”
“That’s fine. And let me talk to Lucy Warner first and see if she has any more information about what happened to George.”
Camden brought her a glass of tea, and they sat for a while, sympathizing with each other over their recent losses. After Folly left, I went to my office and accessed my phone directory. When Lucy Warner answered the phone, her voice sounded hoarse, as if she had been crying.
“Yes? Who’s calling, please?”
“Mrs. Warner, my name is David Randall, and I’ve been hired by Folly Harper to investigate the death of your cousin, George MacMillan. I realize this might not be a good time. My sympathies on your loss.”
“Thank you. How very kind of Folly, but there’s really nothing to investigate.”
“I’d still like to talk with you.”
“All right. I live on Marshall Street. Four ninety-four. If you’d like to come now, I could spare a few minutes.”
Wait—what? Four ninety-four Marshall Street? That was Viola’s addres
s. “Excuse me, Mrs. Warner, did you just move into that house?”
“How in the world did you know that?”
“I knew the woman who lived there.”
“Tragic, wasn’t it? I suppose some people might be afraid to move into a house where the owner had been murdered, but I don’t have that kind of imagination. The house is exactly what I’ve been looking for, and I love the neighborhood.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, do you know what happened to Mrs. Mitchell’s pets?”
“Oh, I decided to keep them. I love animals. They all get along extremely well with George’s dog, even the lizard. Come on now, if you like.”
I thanked her and went back to the porch. Cindy had joined Camden on the swing, probably offering her condolences. “How’s this for an odd coincidence? Lucy Warner bought Viola’s house and is looking after all her animals.”
Camden stopped swinging. “That’s really odd. Does she know what happened to Viola?”
“Doesn’t seem to bother her. Oh, by the way, nice trick with the car. You’re improving.”
He looked depressed. “Improving. Do you know how much effort it took to hold that car? None.”
“Great. Soon you’ll be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
He slumped in the swing. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I’m going to have to tell Ellie the wedding’s off.”
“Okay. Who’s going to pay for your funeral?”
“If I knew what was going to happen next, maybe I could manage, but this talent is so unpredictable.”
“What’s the worst thing that could happen? You grow a big head and an extra finger? Come on! You’ve managed so far, haven’t you?”
He gave me the Deep Look. “You want to marry Kary, and she wants lots of children. Have you decided how you’re going to manage?”
He had me there. Despite having made my peace with Lindsey, I could still feel the tightness in my throat, the raw ache, the hole in my life that would never be filled. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Tell Ellin what’s going on. She’ll be thrilled to have psychic children.”
Camden shook his head. “An entire family of psychics, except for Mom? I don’t think she’ll be thrilled at all.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “She’s coming by in a little while. I’ll have to tell her something.”
“Escape with me to Viola’s house.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t put this off too much longer. And some people from the church called and said they wanted to visit. They’re on their way.”
“How am I going to know what the cats are saying? They might have already solved the murder. I hear cats can do that, right, Cindy? Have you figured it out?” The cat looked at me intently. “What’s she saying now?”
“‘Who are you?’”
“Seriously.”
“She saying you’re on your own.”
Chapter Twelve
“Just you wait!”
At Viola’s house, I parked in the driveway behind a light blue minivan. I walked up the short paved walk to the front door of the small brick house. I rang the doorbell. Deep barks from inside told me Danger was on the job. Lucy Warner came to the door. She looked like any one of a million middle-aged women—short dark curly hair streaked with gray, a yellow tee shirt with a collar and matching slacks, glasses, and one of those grandchild necklaces, the kind with little photos of the kids. She reminded me of my high school tennis coach, a square-shaped woman with wide shoulders and sturdy legs. She had on a thick layer of the famous peach BeautiQueen makeup.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Lucy Warner?” I showed her my ID. “I’m David Randall. We spoke on the phone a few minutes ago. I wanted to ask you a few more questions about George McMillan, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, of course. Come in.”
The place still reeked of animals. The birds all squawked and whistled from their cages. The cats wound about the well-chewed furniture. The loud deep barks continued to echo from another room.
“I keep Danger in the kitchen,” Lucy Warner said. “He’s still very nervous. He’s usually a good dog, but this whole thing has upset him dreadfully. Have a seat.”
I looked to see if there was a spot not covered in pet hair and decided on a chair near the love seat occupied by the other cats. A small round table next to the chair held a collection of pet photos and an ashtray shaped like a bone. Another look at her necklace, and I could see the little photos were of dogs and cats, not kids. “You’re certainly the animal lover, Mrs. Warner, to take on all these pets.”
“You probably think I’m a little crazy, but the fact that the former owner had all these pets was a big selling point for me.” She sat down on the sofa and was immediately engulfed by the cats. “I came right away when I heard about George. I knew no one would think of Danger, and the poor thing might be taken to the pound if she wasn’t claimed.” She reached into the lizard’s cage, picked it up and set it on her shoulder where it drooped lethargically. “A terrible thing, simply terrible.”
I couldn’t tell if she meant George’s suicide or the abandoned dog.
“Folly Harper is convinced George was murdered. Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would have a grudge against him? Did he owe anyone money?”
Another cat decided my leg would make an excellent scratching post.
Mrs. Warner shook her finger at the cat. “Bootsy, stop that.” The cat looked insulted and moved away. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know much about George at all.” She coughed. “Excuse me, please. I think I’m allergic to something.”
Can’t imagine what. I could feel animal hairs clogging my pores.
Lucy Warner rearranged the lizard. “He was my second cousin. I know he worked for that crazy woman, selling cosmetics of all things. Folly Harper doesn’t make a move unless she’s consulted her lucky numbers. From what I hear, she’s involved in some very strange things.”
“What do you mean, strange?”
She stroked the nearest cat. “Alpha-hydroxy.”
For a minute, I thought she was speaking a bizarre cat language to the two in her lap. “Alpha what?”
“Everyone knows that lipids are the only way to go. Alpha hydroxy can be very damaging to the skin, especially in the summer.”
Now I understood. “You’re talking about cosmetics.”
She looked at me as if I’d dropped a half-eaten mole on the carpet. “Didn’t I just say Folly Harper was crazy? Still, I shouldn’t complain. George gets me lots of free samples—excuse me, George used to get me free samples.” She sniffed sadly. “I don’t mean to sound heartless. I didn’t really know him too well.”
I made an attempt to get the conversation back on course. “George was traveling with a large sum of money Mrs. Harper said he stole from her. He wrote Mrs. Harper a letter saying he was going to sell their secret skin care formula to a rival company, but then he had second thoughts. Do you know anything about that?”
“I can’t imagine George going over to another company. He was always ridiculously loyal to BeautiQueen, even when that Folly woman made disastrous decisions.”
“Such as?”
“I’d call putting out a spring line in nothing but peach a disaster. Not everyone looks good in peach, although this does suit me well enough.”
She had on enough, that’s for sure. “It seems an odd reason to commit suicide over.”
One cat yowled, so she set it down. “Poor George was probably trying to protect her. From what I hear, BeautiQueen may be in financial trouble.”
I made a mental note to check the finances of both Beauti-
Queen and Perfecto Face. “When was the last time you saw George?”
“At a family reunion this past Christmas. That’s when he told me about her peculiar habits.”
“Besides George,
who else works for Folly?”
“Hundreds of people. Anybody can have a makeup show in her house and become a BeautiQueen salesperson. But at the top level, I’d have to say Folly and George ran the show. After all, BeautiQueen isn’t some big famous cosmetics company like Mary Kay or Clinique.”
I started to ask if Folly Harper had enemies in the other local cosmetic camps when Danger managed to get out of the kitchen and headed for me as if I were the last bag of Doberman Chow in the grocery store. The cats and the lizard scattered.
“Danger!” Lucy Warner said sharply and the dog skidded to a stop. It came to her, little stub of a tail wagging furiously.
I was glad to be intact. “The dog certainly likes you.”
She rubbed Danger behind the ears. “Oh, yes, Danger and I are old friends. She was mine at first, before George decided to take her. Poor thing. If only she could speak, maybe she could tell us what in the world happened to George.”
The dog looked perfectly content to be with Lucy Warner. She even let me give her a pat on the head. So much for loyal Fido howling at his master’s grave. I didn’t need Camden to tell me what was on Danger’s mind—I love whoever feeds me.
“I’m sure George would be glad to know his dog is taken care of.”
“Well, I love all kinds of animals. I’m so glad I could take care of that poor woman’s pets. I certainly hope they catch whoever killed her.”
“How did you hear about this house?”
“Several weeks ago, I made an offer the owner was considering. Of course, the realtor called and explained all about the murder, and said she’d understand if I wanted to withdraw, but with Danger here, I don’t think I have to worry. As soon as the police did whatever they needed to do and the people from Goodwill cleared out the woman’s personal effects, I was told I could move in.” She peered at me over her glasses. “I hope you don’t think that’s too ghoulish, Mr. Randall.”
“No. A little unusual, maybe. Mrs. Mitchell was murdered, and there’s a possibility your cousin George was murdered, too.”
