Death of a Hot Chick

by Norma Huss

  “Yeah. You’re condescending as hell.”

  My face fiery, I said, “Hey, that’s what big sisters do. It’s a law of nature.”

  “That’s a good one,” Finley said with an uproarious laugh. “Yeah, Cyd, you know how to stop a fight before it starts. You always did.”

  I had forgotten Finley’s quick temper and even quicker apologies that she passed off with a joke. Used to make me uncomfortable. Still did.

  But Kaye, not one who easily changed emotions, only glared before she said, “Are we now ready to start a civil discussion, without personal attacks?”

  “Yeah. Hey, forgive me my big mouth. It’s always getting me into trouble,” Finley said. “So you say, if we can understand each of our suspects, we will understand their motives. Cyd, you think maybe we’ll even understand their lack of logic?”

  Kaye sighed and allowed the ice to melt. “I suggest we tell each other what we know of her life. From the beginning, which means you start, Finley.”

  I sipped my tea. “Maybe we can skip a few years.” Finley’s story of Nicole from infancy could go on forever.

  “Sure. But I’ve got to say that Nicole was always shy,” Finley said. “Like a shadow that wasn’t really there. Well, not quite, because she was my shadow. I couldn’t get rid of the kid. Yeah, Kaye, I probably acted like a know-it-all big sister. Actually, I ignored her until I turned twelve.”

  Kaye bit her lip, but didn’t say anything.

  “So I was part of the problem, like they say, but then my mother invited her to visit us for a few days. First she sat me down and told me a lot of things I didn’t understand at the time, especially since she tried not to really say what she meant. You know?”

  I nodded. I knew what she meant. As the youngest in my family, things had often made no sense whatsoever.

  Finley continued. “Eventually I realized Nicole’s father was a nut job. Didn’t understand anything about kids, and evidently he wasn’t terribly consistent, at least in a child’s eyes. Nicole was in grade school and she was this scaredy-cat little kid. Jump if you say, ‘Boo.’ I figured out later, she never knew when he’d lash out at her—mostly for being a child, according to my mother.”

  “That’s it exactly,” Kaye said.

  “Yeah, he expected his kid to be perfect. And Aunt Betty was a basket case. She never stood up for Nicole.”

  Kaye nodded. “Nicole started at John Hanson Academy as a timid high school graduate, listening, taking it all in, but never venturing an opinion. Never sure if she was right with an answer, but she always was. Over the four years I encouraged her to speak, to stand up. And, eventually, she did.”

  Finley replied, “I didn’t know why it was happening, but I sure noticed. I was out-of-my-mind happy.”

  “In fact, perhaps she went too far,” Kaye said. “She planned to ruin her father. She was sure he was cheating all those charities his management company runs. She wanted to see the financial records from the charities, but she knew he’d never give them to her. Actually, she’d asked me to work with him, to be her eyes inside his operation.”

  “Really?” Finley asked.

  “He must have found out. She planned to confront him eventually. It’s possible she may have already,” Kaye continued. “And he killed her. That’s it. One hates to think a father would kill his own daughter.”

  “Not that I believe he did it,” I said, “but how about that shadow man. What was his name? You know, the one who came to Mr. Joline’s meeting with him.”

  “Rolf?” Kaye said. “I’ve never seen him actually do anything.”

  “Is that creep still around?” Finley said. “For a while there Nicole figured her dad was grooming him as his second-in-command, possibly as his son-in-law. But that wasn’t going to happen.”

  “Let’s get back to Mr. Joline,” Kaye said. “If Rolf were the killer, he murdered on orders from Mr. Joline. Anyone who would treat a daughter as he did is cruel.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Clueless, anyway. And with a super ego,” Finley continued. “But he didn’t kill Nicole. Nah. We’re telling all, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. For the last couple of years Nicole’s been buying up her dad’s stock in secret. It took a while and a whole lot of deception. The stockholders were all family or friends. But she left the voting rights with the original owners so Uncle Ed wouldn’t find out until she had controlling interest. And Brandon Bates’ stock almost put her over the top.”

  “And you think he killed her,” Kaye said.

  “Why?” I asked. “I mean, if he sold the stock to her, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Y-ea-h. Well...buying the stock took a lot of acting. Like, she wanted to be a part of her daddy’s life, or she wanted to apologize to him in a way that would prove she was a loyal daughter. She had a story for everyone, according to if they knew she hated his guts—or not.”

  “And Brandon didn’t believe her? Or what?”

  “Brandon got another story.” Finley screwed up her face, seemingly unable to voice something against her cousin.

  I said, “Brandon thought they were engaged. Is that it?”

  “You got it. Nicole was playing with fire. He exploded. He came to my apartment looking for her, so I heard the whole thing. And, Nicole, being Nicole, didn’t let him down easy. Gotta admit, she was downright nasty.”

  “So that’s why you think Brandon killed her.”

  “Slam dunk.”

  “Nobody’s mentioned Snapdragon,” I said. “The boat is key to the whole thing. Chester owned the boat and he didn’t have enough sense to take care of her. So Nicole had me cleaning her up. Now Chester is trying all kinds of tricks to get inside the boat. He wants her back, and he killed to get her.”

  “Her?” Kaye said. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The boat!” I yelled. “You’ve lived in Smith Harbor all your life and you still don’t know that a boat is a ‘her,’ not an ‘it’?”

  “Semantics,” Kaye said which was one of her favorite words. She waved her hand a bit too regally, and Finley grinned. Kaye said, “That’s what Nicole said—about the boat needing work. She—meaning Nicole, not a boat—got your name from me—and I think you all know exactly whom I mean with that pronoun.”

  “You two are a barrel of monkeys,” Finley said after she put on a straight face and wiped her eyes. “Hey, she even checked you out through me, Cyd. She had no clue that we were big-time commercial boating friends.”

  “You’ve got to admit Chester didn’t expect Nicole to actually end up with his boat. What did you say, Kaye? She loaned him money?”

  Kaye nodded, but Finley shook her head and said, “Getting that boat was a big mistake. I could have told her investing in a run-down boat was no way to make money.”

  I flashed a thumb’s up signal. “So Chester killed Nicole. He killed her then came to sneak away with the boat, and there I was, sitting on the deck. That boat would have been out of the marina and far away from Smith Harbor before sun-up.”

  Kaye jumped up. “See why I want you off that boat and staying with me?”

  “Oh, you’re admitting Chester is guilty?”

  “Absolutely not. The killer is Mr. Joline.”

  “Brandon,” Finley said. “Glad we cleared that up.”

  Kaye sat down, gathered her arms to her chest, straightened her back, and said, “Whomever the killer is, he is dangerous. Besides, Chester is dead. You do realize that he died in that fiery wreck that’s all the news today. In fact, Cyd, you were the one who found that out. You think a dead person did it?”

  “Really? He’s dead?” Finley asked.

  “No, he’s not,” I said. “Chester made his living setting fires. No way he’d die in one.”

  “Whoa! You have some mob connection? Exactly what have you been doing since we captained boats together?”

  “No mob, it’s a boat connection,” I said and explained what Slim had told me about Pop’s burn-baby. “But h
e’s not dead. Teddy heard there was no body in the car. And the latest news is some weasely cop-talk about refusing to admit or deny there was a body in the car. But, even if he is dead now, he could have killed Nicole,” I added. “He was the one who tossed my boat. Then he tried to talk his way inside, but the dope gave me his real name, which I had on the title.”

  “It’s her father,” Kaye insisted. “That’s only logical.”

  “And I say Chester did it,” I countered. “And, of course, it’s not logical. That guy is crazy. And, since when are crooks logical?”

  Finley said, “You didn’t see Brandon. I did. He raved on and on, that nobody could turn him down. He was ready to kill right then. I tell you, he was livid. Raving, lunatic livid.”

  The argument went round and round, with none of us willing to give an inch—until someone mentioned setting a trap that the killer would go for.

  Kaye tapped the table with a very strong fingernail. “Suggestion,” she said. “We all, each one separately, plan how to do that very thing, and report back here tomorrow.”

  “No, that’s my class. Day after tomorrow.”

  “Right. Sorry. With complete information, we can then determine what to do.”

  Kaye, the school teacher had to be the director. But that was all right. I knew I had trouble directing a crew of one—myself. And, Finley was aces-high on the water, but if I remembered correctly, people control was not her thing. “Okay,” I said.

  “I guess I can think of some way to trap a killer. No I can’t. How can I trap my own uncle? Or anyone else?”

  “Building on Cyd’s idea, here’s my suggestion,” Kaye said. “We each make three plans, one for each of our suspects. When we get together, we decide which is better. Or, out of three, I should say, which is best. And, it may be another plan entirely that we construct from all the plans.”

  Finley said. “But I think we ought to concentrate on the real guilty party. Brandon Bates.”

  “Humor us, will you?” I asked.

  “Remember we are all just as certain of our opinions as you are,” Kaye added. “Three plans each. With nine trap plans we’ll have something to work with.”

  We really should have The Kaye and Cyd Show, I thought. Sometimes sisters did get along reasonably well.

  “Okay,” Finley said. “Friday. My apartment. Pizza. Same time. Kaye, you sure bake a hell of a cookie. They’re great. Coming Cyd?”

  “She’s staying here,” Kaye said.

  “No I’m not.”

  “Cyd, listen to reason. You’ve had break-ins, killings. That boat is not safe.”

  “One killing. One fake killing. There was no body in Chester’s car. Didn’t you hear me?”

  After I got in the car, Finley said, “Sure seems like a waste of time worrying about anyone but Brandon.”

  Not willing to agree—or disagree, I changed the subject. “If Teddy had come, she’d have instructed us all in secret writing. At least we didn’t get into that.”

  Finley stopped at our only red light. “Secret writing? And why?”

  “She was very into that when we were kids. Well, so was Kaye. Me too. Okay, all three of us. We kept up our neighborhood detective agency for a couple of years after Doug Yarnell dropped it. We sent messages to each other. Lemon juice.”

  “Lemon juice?” Finley asked as the light turned green and she stepped on the gas.

  “Yeah. You write with a toothpick dipped in lemon juice and it dries mostly clear. Then you hold the paper against a light bulb and the juice gets brown. And there’s your message.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, not paying the least bit of attention as she made the next turn.

  My thoughts went back to our traps. What if none of them worked? What if we couldn’t even figure out any traps? What if there were someone else, a killer we didn’t even suspect? What then?

  ~ ~

  I pulled out the settee and straightened the sheets on my now visible bed.

  “Nicole, did you ever stay overnight on Snapdragon?”

  No answer. Not surprising. I plumped the pillow and dug out the book I was reading. Could Nicole help set a trap for her killer? How would she do that? If she had stayed overnight, was this the pillow she used? Perhaps Chester used the pillow. Or even Pop. But, judging from the mess in the V-berth, no one had used the boat for anything but a dumping ground.

  The book didn’t hold my interest. I turned out the light and snuggled into the pillow.

  “Nicole, who killed you,” I murmured.

  So sleepy.

  Nicole, her silk blouse shimmering brilliantly, walked through the boat. A light from behind blazed, leaving her features in the dark, barely seen.

  She spoke. “Did you find my killer?”

  “No, Nicole.”

  “What will you do about it?”

  “A trap. We’ll set traps.”

  “Rat traps? I like that.”

  Nicole sat at my feet, running her hands through her hair. Strands clung to her fingers. She held her finger out and plucked strands away. The strands flew, thick in the air. “She saw me, you know.”

  The light shimmered, changed, lifted overhead. Nicole raised her hands and held the sun. The light changed again, turned black. A bubbling, florescent glow covered Nicole as she sank.

  “Remember. You owe me.”

  Chapter 14

  Thursday morning, July 27

  Crazy dream, but somehow, the memory wouldn’t go away. I’d jogged, done a grocery store run, and breakfasted royally on Grape Nuts Flakes and sliced banana. Still, the dream lingered as I smoothed the blue sheets over the mattress, then reached down to flip the bed into position up against the bulkhead. I saw something shiny. A trick of light? No, a long, nearly white strand of hair—lying across the sheet.

  Nicole’s hair.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  I knelt on the floor, picked up the strand, and coiled it in my hand. Carefully, I placed the strand of hair in a plastic bag, then into my pocket. It had to be only a dream. The hair was Nicole’s, but she certainly left it there before she died. A ghost can’t leave parts of herself behind. Can she?

  Okay, so I’m a bit nutty, collecting conduits to a ghost. I gathered my supplies and left for Bayside Marina and another day’s work.

  ~ ~

  “Ready for a lunch break?” I asked Slim. When he nodded, I added, “I spent every penny I earned yesterday on groceries.” I plunked my rags and wax into the bucket. “I really splurged. Lettuce and tomato for a sandwich with a tall glass of cold milk. Be back in half an hour.”

  “You go for all that healthy stuff,” Slim said. “Me, I’ve got something better.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said and stepped over the life line and onto the ladder. He thrived on donuts, cold hot dogs, Tastykakes, and yesterday’s pizza. I headed for Snapdragon with visions of washing my hands with hot water and soap. I almost made it to my finger pier.

  I heard the car door slam, then Mom rushed me from the City Marina parking lot. “Good. We found you,” she said.

  Kaye trailed her with an expression that either meant, “Mom’s on a mission,” or, “So what could I do?” Or both.

  “Would you like some lunch?” I asked, with the absurd hope that I could step aboard Snapdragon and forestall way too much helpful advice.

  “We’ll stop for lunch on the way. You girls must come with me for a family intervention. Your father is absolutely no help,” Mom said. “Granny wants to go to clown school. She’s actually sent her application into some...some... some school for a thirty week course.”

  “Granny going to clown school? Is that what this is all about?” Kaye asked.

  “That’s great. Maybe she’d like to be a sailing clown.” I could picture the two of us, headed south in my boat, which had become a yellow sailboat, stopping along the way.

  But Mom wasn’t listening to me, or Kaye. She sputtered, “And your father! He suggested she take a one-week course instead at some other school.” />
  “Mother, you know Granny will do whatever she wants to do,” Kaye said.

  “No, you don’t realize it, but you can convince her otherwise. After all, she’s doing this for you girls. Call me crazy, but how else can you explain it? You’ve got to convince her that you are actually fulfilling her prophesy.”

  I looked at Kaye. She shrugged. I said, “Mom, you mean because of our names? Because I’m named for a dancer and Kaye is named for a singer?”

  “Kaye, didn’t you join a church chorus once? And Cyd, I think aerobics for you. That’s really modern dance. You could both tell her you’ve been practicing secretly and you see real progress. At least, Cyd, you could. Actually, she doesn’t hold out much hope for Kaye because we misspelled her name. How did I know some old singer was named Kay Starr? I blame myself for giving in to Granny over your names in the first place, but they just seemed to fit.”

  “At least that lets me off the hook,” Kaye said with a sly gleam in my direction.

  “Won’t work, Mom,” I said, and reached for the edge of the pilot house door. “Granny came to all the recitals and she knows I’m not the next Cyd Charisse no matter how long my legs are.”

  And, being Mom, she jumped to another pitch. “I worry about your grandmother,” she said. “Think of the way she drives. And going off to some school, she’d have no family, no support system. What if she had a stroke or a heart attack? What if she is developing Alzheimer’s and got lost? That happens to people more than you think.”

  “She’ll be a great clown. She could entertain kids at birthday parties.”

  “Or, maybe she won’t even be accepted,” Kaye added. “Did you ever think of that?”

  “At least give her a call. Cyd, especially you. She has a special concern for you, as the baby of the family. And aerobics is healthy. There’s a class forming tomorrow.”

  “I get enough exercise without aerobics,” I said.

  “But you will come with me and plead with Granny?” We both shook our heads. “Then, at least call. Or, may I relay a message?” she added with sudden inspiration.