by J. R. Ripley
“I still believe the killer’s intended victim was Ava Turner,” I said stubbornly. “That means it wasn’t a stranger passing through town. It’s someone who knows her.”
Kim frowned. “Shouldn’t you leave this to Jerry?”
“Probably,” I said. “But Ms. Turner could be dead by the time he finds our killer.”
* * *
Ava Turner’s house was unlike any other in Ruby Lake. Even if you didn’t know she lived there, you would know somebody special did. The modern concrete and steel house sprawled atop a rounded hill set back from the road. A long, paved drive wound around and up. A pair of elaborately patterned steel gates hung open.
The grounds grew more controlled and elaborate as I neared the house, with untouched woods turning to fancy Italianate gardens with terraced Tennessee fieldstone walls, statuary, and a couple of matching four-tiered marble fountains at either end of a large reflecting pool.
The architect who had designed the estate had clearly meant for the house and yard to stand out rather than blend in with the surroundings. Floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows ran along the front, letting in all the sunshine in the world. I drove up the travertine circular drive, fully aware of how shabby my old van must look to anyone watching, and shut off the engine.
I grabbed my purse and the papers I’d brought with me, scooped up my nerve, and approached the door. There wasn’t a doorbell in sight, so I rapped on one of the two dark walnut doors that served as a focal point as much as they served as a point of entry. Those doors probably cost more money than I earned last year.
An elderly woman with white hair and an elven complexion answered. Her eyes were the palest blue I had ever seen. “Yes? May I help you?” A plain navy-blue dress fell straight from her shoulders to just below her knees.
“Hi. I’m Amy Simms,” I began. “I know I should have telephoned first, but I was hoping to have a word with Miss Turner?” Not calling had been a tactical decision. It would have been far easier for her to say no to me over the phone than in person.
“Miss Turner is on a call.” The woman looked down her nose at me, though she expressed no emotion. She held out a slender hand with prominent veins. “Do you have a card?”
My lip turned down. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. I have these though.” I held out a copy of my flyer and a brochure. She eyed them wordlessly from a distance.
“I could jot my name down on the back of one.” I cleared my throat. Why did this woman make me so uncomfortable? “If you like?”
She slowly drew the green flyer from my fingers. “That won’t be necessary.” The door closed quietly. I took that for a good sign. She hadn’t slammed it shut in my face.
I shifted from foot to foot and admired the garden in the center of the drive as I waited. A pair of goldfinches, the male bright yellow and his companion female a duller shade of yellow, hopped among a patch of thistle. Some minutes later, the woman returned.
“Miss Turner will entertain you in the conservatory.”
Entertain me? Would the former movie star be honoring me with a song and dance routine or perhaps a solo reenactment of one of her most famous film roles?
She waved me inside and I scurried in behind. The woman’s simple, unadorned low black heels made no sound as she led me to the conservatory.
The single-story house was vast and endless seeming. It was as quiet and imposing as a fortress and as pristine as a museum. The walls were white, the floors a medium-toned, narrow-planked hardwood. Subdued artwork hung on the walls, and relatively simple sculptures of stone and metal sat atop white plinths.
I caught a glimpse of myself in a passing silver-framed mirror and groaned. Why hadn’t I thought to change out of my Birds & Bees red V-neck T-shirt and slacks?
“Your guest, Miss Turner.”
“Thank you, Gail.” I felt the woman’s eyes crawl over me, assessing me carefully.
My guide bowed and retreated.
The great lady sat in a tall wingback chair in the far left corner of the conservatory. Not a hair on her head was out of place.
A glass of tea and a delicate teapot rested on a wood table beside her. Like everywhere else, the floor was narrow-planked hardwood. I hadn’t noticed a single rug. The walls on three sides were floor-to-ceiling plate glass, affording an incredible view of the western Carolina mountains rising in the distance.
A girl could get used to living like this. If a girl won the lottery . . . or was a famous movie star. Music spilled out from hidden speakers at a low volume. I recognized the song, “The World Belongs to the Young.” I pointed to where the sound seemed to be emanating from. “It’s from Coco, isn’t it?”
“Yes. The story of Coco Chanel.” She paused and smiled. “As imagined by Andre Previn and Alan Jay Lerner, that is to say.
“Katharine Hepburn won a Tony for that,” the actress added as the song wound down. “I starred in a West End production some years later.” Miss Turner motioned for me to sit in her chair’s companion. She set down her tea and laid her hands delicately in her lap. “Miss Simpson, is it?” She wore a snow-white dressing gown over a fuchsia pant and shirt. Her feet were coddled in thick wool socks.
“Simms,” I replied. “Amy Simms.” I noticed my flyer on the tray beside the teapot. “Thank you for seeing me.” When she made no reply, I grasped for something to say. “We’re doing Annie Get Your Gun together.” I laughed nervously. “Well, not together, of course.” I ran a hand through my hair and glanced at the green mountains. “You’re the star. I’ve only got the teeniest part.” I held my thumb and index finger out in a pinch formation. In fact, my character had not even made it into the movie version of the musical.
Those intelligent brilliant green eyes followed me like a pair of stage lights. Miss Turner batted a pair of thick, perfectly shaped eyelashes. “You were at the coffee shop the other night.”
I had the impression that she was not nearly as dull or uninformed as she appeared.
“The Coffee and Tea House on the Square.” I nodded. “That’s right.” That she remembered, but she couldn’t seem to remember that I was performing in a Broadway musical with her? Nonetheless, I took this as the opening I’d been looking for—an opening that might not soon come again. “It was the night Patsy Klein was murdered.”
“Did you know I once played Eliza in My Fair Lady?”
“Um, no.” My brow formed a V. “I didn’t.” Nor did I know what that little non sequitur was supposed to mean.
Miss Turner nodded slowly. “ ‘I Could Have Danced All Night.’ ” She looked at me as if I should know what she meant. I didn’t.
“That was my favorite song in the show.” She smiled for the first time. “I was in love with him, you know.”
“Who?” I was surprised to notice that my voice had come out a whisper.
“Rex,” she answered. “Rex Richardson.”
That was a name I hadn’t heard since I was a child. He’d been a famous star of stage and screen himself. “Miss Turner,” I said, shifting in my chair to face her more directly, “if you don’t mind my asking, have you given any more thought to what I asked you the other night?”
“What was that, my dear?”
“If you could think of anyone who might—” I struggled. “How can I put this?”
“Want me dead?” she said with a wan smile.
I nodded.
“As I told you the other night, as I explained to the police as well, there is no one.”
“I can’t help thinking you are mistaken, Miss Turner,” I said, shaking my head. I explained my theory of Patsy Klein being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The actress didn’t argue with me. “So?”
“Don’t you see?” I argued. “That means you were the intended victim.”
“Oh, dear.” Ava Turner stood and walked slowly to the window. She stared out quietly, hands folded behind her back. I caught a faint scent of floral bouquet. “I assure you, I am perfectly safe here.”
> “Were you and Miss Klein friends?”
“Not in the least.” The words spilled out like venom.
“And yet, she was assisting you at the theater—”
“And doing a very poor job of it,” Ava Turner said with unmasked derision.
“Then why would you—” My phone rang. “Sorry.” I pulled it from my pocket. I recognized the number. Derek Harlan. Whatever he wanted would have to wait.
The actress pulled open the drawer of a side table and bid me to look inside. “Regarding my safety, I assure you, I am perfectly safe here.” Inside was a black gun.
“I hope so,” I said in earnest, though the nearness of the gun creeped me out a little. Her house did seem to be secure enough. But it was isolated. Far from help. Did she even know how to shoot that thing? No, wait. From what I’d heard, she’d shot a man once before. A chill swept over me, and I fought it down.
“Don’t forget,” I said, distancing myself from the weapon, though she had shut the drawer, removing it from sight. “Someone attacked you the other day in the theater. With a dozen or more people around.”
“What?” Her head turned my way.
I patted the side of my skull. “When you got struck in the head by that board with the nail in it.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Of course.”
“Are you certain you didn’t see or hear anyone before it happened?”
The actress lowered her eyes. “No. Chief Kennedy asked me that very question. I’m afraid I didn’t see or hear anything. In fact,” she added, “I’m beginning to wonder if it was an accident, after all. Perhaps I bumped into the shelf. I have been rather clumsy lately.” Ava smiled apologetically. “So it could have been an accident, like that nice young man suggested.”
“Aaron,” I filled in. “He’s wrong.” I gripped her hand for a moment. “Maybe you could ask Chief Kennedy for police protection?” It was a big house. Plenty of room for a killer to get in without being seen.
“There is a state-of-the-art alarm system all throughout the house,” she replied as if reading my mind. The actress turned toward me. “And I am not alone. I have Gail.”
Gail? The sweet if stolid woman who had shown me in? A poodle would provide more protection.
And speak of the devil, the woman appeared out of nowhere. “Miss Turner, that policeman is here to see you.”
“Chief Kennedy?” asked the actress.
Gail nodded. “That’s the one.” She looked at me. “Should I show him in?”
“Yes, of course, Gail.”
Like a great horned owl caught in the beam of a flashlight, I stood by, nervously awaiting Jerry Kennedy’s entrance. He was not going to like finding me in Ava Turner’s house, butting into his police investigation.
The surprised, ugly look on his face told me I was right.
“Simms?” Chief Kennedy stomped toward me, his boots banging loud and clear on the hardwood, upsetting the tranquility of the space. “What on earth are you doing here?”
I struggled for words. “I—that is, Miss Turner and I were discussing Annie.” I threw Ava a rescue me look.
“That is correct,” the actress replied with authority. “Amy and I were discussing acting techniques.” She squeezed my arm. “Don’t worry, dear. I have confidence in your performance.” Ava held me in her gaze. “Don’t worry,” she insisted. “Everything will be just fine.”
I nodded.
“Yeah, well, if you ladies don’t mind,” Chief Kennedy grumbled, his angry eyes fixed on me, “I would like a word with you, Miss Turner. If it’s no inconvenience?”
“Certainly not.” Miss Turner waved to the sofa, and the chief parked himself in the center.
“I’ll be off then.” I slid past Gail. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Turner.” I half bowed. Why, I didn’t know. It seemed the thing to do.
“You must call me Ava.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Ava.”
The actress settled into her chair. “Can we get you some refreshments, Chief Kennedy?” I heard her ask Jerry as I backed out of the room.
“I could go for some sweet tea.”
“Oh, Amy!”
I stopped and turned. “Yes, Miss Turner?” She tilted her head. “I mean, Ava.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”
“Your money?”
“Money?” I pulled at my chin.
She lifted my flyer from the table and held it toward me.
“Of course. How silly of me.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea.” The actress told the confused-looking chief about my plans to provide bird feeders and seed to senior centers. He didn’t appear impressed.
“Gail has prepared a check for you.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Thank you very much.”
Gail walked me to the door. From a silver salver on a small oval table beside the door, she silently lifted a folded pink check and handed it to me.
“Thank you.”
She closed the door behind me without a sound. The woman could give church mice lessons.
On the way to the van, I unfolded the check. It was made out in my name for five hundred dollars.
16
Eli Wallace dwelled on a pleasant, nondescript middle-class street about a mile from the town center. I didn’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t the modest yellow bungalow with the detached garage out back. I’d been imagining something more eldritch, less Middle America.
A small wood sign planted in the grassy swale was the only indication that the house did double duty as a business. The sign read: E. WALLACE, PRESERVATION SPECIALIST. Very quaint.
I pulled into the gravel drive and gathered my courage and patience. I figured I was going to need both to deal with Eli Wallace and his ego.
“You came,” Eli said, opening the front door to me. A black T-shirt hung loose over his blue jeans, but its sleeves clung tightly to his muscular upper arms. He looked me over like I might be his next project. His eyes were so dark that on first glance I’d thought they were black. A German shepherd nuzzled his leg. “Easy, Tramp.” He patted the dog’s snout. “Come on in.”
“Wow,” I said, my eyes darting around the small living room. Dead animals were everywhere. Hung on the walls, sitting on tables, standing on the mantel. A large stuffed beaver posed with its upper legs braced against a short, thick river maple branch. Together they held up a glass top, forming an odd side table in the corner between the brown sofa and chair.
I crossed to the fireplace, where the cold ashes of a fire lay beneath the grate. Atop the solid mahogany mantel, a row of stuffed birds stood like silent soldiers. There was a cardinal, a crow, a blue jay, and a screech owl. I picked up the owl by its wooden base.
“That owl’s one of my favorite birds,” Eli said, coming closer.
“It’s a screech owl,” I explained.
“An eastern red screech owl.”
I turned in surprise. “You know your birds.”
“I know my animals.” He threw out his hands. “Animals are my business, after all.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “A couple of children dropped an injured towhee off at my store the other day.”
“Bring it by. I’ll preserve it for you.” He took the owl from my hand. “My treat.”
“The bird’s still alive. I took it to a wildlife rehabber.”
“Well, if the bird doesn’t make it, bring it to me. I can memorialize it in any pose you like.” He rubbed his fingers over the screech owl’s wing feathers. “You could give it to the kids as a gift.”
I forced myself to nod rather than wince.
Eli placed the stuffed bird back on the mantel. “Come on, let me show you around.”
I listened dutifully as the taxidermist took me through to the back of his house, which he’d turned into his preservation studio, as he liked to call it.
I learned more about taxidermy than I’d though
t possible and far more than I wish I did know.
“So, that’s the lot.” Eli thrust his hands in his jeans, looking smug and handsome and knowing it. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I do have a couple of larger pieces, brown bears, out in the garage, if you’re interested.”
“It’s all very fascinating,” I said, following the taxidermist to his kitchen in the back. “Tell me, what was it that Patsy Klein wanted memorialized?”
He poured water in Tramp’s steel dish near the back door and offered me a beer from the fridge. I declined. “She never did say.”
“Just that it was something big,” I reminded him.
“So she said.” He chugged, and I watched his Adam’s apple bounce up and down. “She might have just been leading me on.”
“Leading you on?” Patsy Klein had sounded like a strange bird, but who leads on a taxidermist?
“You know.” He glanced toward his loins. “Trying to get in my pants.”
“Did she succeed?”
His smile filled his face. “A gentleman never tells. Besides, she isn’t—wasn’t really my type.” The mouth of the bottle tipped my way. “You are.”
“What’s your opinion of Ava Turner?”
“She’s a little old for me.”
“But what do you think of her?”
“She’s okay, I guess. A little full of herself.” He sipped. “The great actress. Doing the folks of Ruby Lake a big favor by agreeing to appear in our little production.” He ran the back of his arm over his full lips. “I’d like to stuff her sometime,” he grunted with unexpected viciousness.
“You are not a fan, I take it?”
His face clouded. “The old hag tried to get me fired.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Why?”
“She said I couldn’t act.” He knotted his arms over his chest. “Can you believe it? I’ve been acting in community theater for more than ten years. I’ve got good reviews from the Weekender,” he boasted. “I can show them to you. You want to see? They’re in my desk.”
“I believe you,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’ve watched you in rehearsal. You’re good.” Placating the taxidermist seemed critical. Eli seemed ready to boil over. Had he boiled over the night Patsy died? Had she paid the price intended for Miss Turner?
