Irene focused on the bar and ran her fingers along its edge. “We don’t always see eye to eye, but I haven’t forgotten that you helped Jeremy out last summer.” She raised her head. “I’m grateful that you’re willing to trust him now. You won’t be sorry.”
Her response gave Val hope that they could cooperate in the future, whatever their differences in the past. “I’m sure Jeremy will do a good job.” She liked the shy young man. His mother wanted him to succeed so much that she would spend the time working with him. “I’ll draw up contracts for each of you and have them ready later in the week. Let’s plan on switching to the extended café hours next week. That’ll give us time to get the word out.”
Val would have felt more confident about putting the café plans into action if she didn’t also have to cater at the Usher house, keep Granddad from further exploration of the burial mound there, and try to prove Gunner innocent of murder. The Codger’s Cookbook would have to go on the back burner for a while.
After Irene left, Val tuned the TV on the wall to the local station, hoping to hear the latest about Emmett Flint’s death. The subject came up toward the end of the noon news.
A spokesperson for the county sheriff made a brief announcement. “We are awaiting the final autopsy report and conducting a preliminary investigation, a standard practice when questions are raised about the cause of death. We have nothing further to report at this time.”
The newscaster announced that a reporter had interviewed the victim’s sister. The video cut to the interview outside Emmett Flint’s Bayport home.
A statuesque woman in her fifties, Amy Flint complained on camera about the lack of progress in the police investigation.
“For the last three days, the only things I’ve heard about my brother’s death are theories that have no basis in fact. I don’t see how he could have died from an overdose of blood pressure meds. He wouldn’t have committed suicide or taken too many pills by accident. It’s past time for the police to get to the bottom of this.”
As the reporter signed off, Val decided to cram one more task into her busy schedule. She whipped out her phone and searched for Emmett Flint’s address. On her way home, she would stop at the house in hopes that his sister hadn’t yet left town.
So far Val had heard about the victim from only one person—Gunnar, who hadn’t gotten along with him. Amy Flint would have a different view, possibly biased in the other direction, but any information was better than none. Val’s previous attempts to identify suspects in a murder had convinced her that understanding the victim’s character was essential to solving the crime. Though she hated to intrude on someone in mourning, she also didn’t want to pass up a chance to find out more about the man Gunnar might be accused of murdering.
At the café’s closing time, she stacked a paper plate with brownies and pecan mini-muffins. But what if Flint’s sister didn’t have a sweet tooth? Val added cheddar cheese cookies to the plate. She served them with vegetable soup at the café, but they made a good snack too.
* * *
Fifteen minutes after leaving the club, Val drove down the street where Emmett Flint had lived. His house, a square two-story cube clad in white vinyl siding, looked neither historic nor modern, just ugly. The few windows on the house, positioned asymmetrically, had black shutters, the single decorative touch on the house’s façade. A white picket fence surrounded a small yard without a single shrub or tree on it. The street’s other houses with their foundation plants blended better into the landscape.
A tan compact car sat at the curb in front of the house. Val parked across the street. She rang the doorbell with her plate of treats in hand.
A woman cracked the front door open. “Yes?”
Val saw enough of her to recognize the woman interviewed on TV. “Hello. I’m Val Deniston. I’m looking for Emmett Flint’s sister. I wanted to express my condolences.”
The woman glanced at the plate of cookies Val carried and opened the door wider. “I’m Amy Flint, his sister. Please come in.”
“I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all. I’m taking a break from sorting through Emmett’s books and papers.” She led Val into the living room decorated in black and white. The spines of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves created the only colorful touch in the room. On the floor near the shelves were paper grocery bags, a few filled with books, but most of them empty. Amy would have a big job emptying those shelves.
Val held out the plate. “I brought you some sweets and savories.”
“Thank you. You’re my first visitor.” Amy set the plate on the coffee table next to an open bottle of wine and a stemmed glass with an inch of red wine left in it. She gestured toward a black leather sofa. “Please sit down. Would you like something to drink? Emmett had expensive wine tastes. I just opened one of his reds, and I prefer not to drink alone. Or else I could make you tea. I used the last of his coffee this morning.” Her clear resonant voice broke.
“Don’t go to any trouble. A splash of wine sounds good. The cheddar cookies I brought would go well with it.”
“Wine and cheese,” Amy said in her low, vibrant voice. “Perfect. I’ll get you a glass.”
While she was in the kitchen, Val scanned the bookshelves. One section held books about the theater and acting editions of plays. The top shelves in another section were devoted to Poe. Below them were plays by and books about Tennessee Williams. The next shelf down held Rick Usher books. Black marble composition books were interspersed among the volumes on many of the shelves. Val remembered a teacher who’d mandated that type of stitched notebook because it would last longer than spiral or loose-leaf notebooks, as if anyone would consult their school notes years later.
Amy returned and sat on a white leather chair at right angles to the sofa. She poured Val more than a splash of wine and refilled her own glass. She leaned back in the chair. “Did you know Emmett well?”
“I saw him in a local theater production a few months ago, and I was at the mall when he collapsed on Saturday. I gave him CPR.”
Amy’s eyes glistened with tears. “Thank you for trying to save him . . . and for coming here. I appreciate the company.”
Val gazed into her wineglass, feeling guilty about visiting with an ulterior motive. Then she reminded herself that her goal matched Amy’s. They both wanted to know the truth about Emmett’s death. And Amy, who’d had no visitors offering condolences, probably needed to talk about her brother. “I was looking at Emmett’s book collection. He must have been quite a fan of Edgar Allan Poe.”
“He played Poe and some of Poe’s characters in a one-man show.” Amy held up her glass as if toasting. “Here’s to Edgar and Emmett.”
Val raised her glass a few inches. She’d drink to Edgar but not to Emmett. “A one-man show must be a huge challenge for any actor. You’re on the stage the whole time.”
Amy took a cheddar cheese cookie from the plate. “That type of role suited him.”
Because other actors irritated him? Because he wanted to be center stage the whole time? Because as writer, director, and actor, he could control everything? Was Emmett a loner, a narcissist, a control freak, or all of the above? Val sipped her wine. “Was his one-man show a hit?”
“He was booked solid in 2009, Poe’s two hundredth birthday, and has gotten some mileage out of the show since then, despite fierce competition. You wouldn’t believe how many Poe performers are out there. There’s a Poe museum, house, or memorial in every big city from Boston to Richmond, and Emmett performed his show in all those cities.” Amy brushed crumbs from her lap. “These cheese things are delicious.”
“Thank you.” Val couldn’t keep her eyes from straying toward the shelf with Rick Usher’s books. Should she ask about them? Not yet. Better to talk about another writer first so her interest in Usher would be less obvious. “Your brother collected a lot of books on Tennessee Williams. Plays, stories, and memoirs. Not as extensive as the set of Poe books, but close.”
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br /> “Emmett had parts in Tennessee Williams’s plays over the years and was rehearsing a play that parodied three of them. It’s scheduled to open next week.” She sighed and drank some wine. “He steeped himself in any role he was playing and in the author who created the character. See all the composition books on the shelves? Emmett took extensive notes to prepare for each role.”
Val counted four such notebooks on the Poe shelf, two near the Williams plays, and one near the Usher novels. Rick Usher books on a side table or a nightstand would suggest pleasure reading. Emmett had shelved them amid volumes related to his work as an actor, perhaps because he’d played the role of Usher, but not on a stage. “Did your brother have another one-man show in the offing?”
“He was working on a two-person show and wanted me to play all the female parts. I’ve never done anything like that, so it would have been a challenge. I studied drama and did some acting when I was younger, off-Broadway and on TV. Voice-overs and audiobooks are my bread and butter now.”
“I can understand that. You have a wonderful voice.” And she was using it to raise questions about her brother’s death out of loyalty to him, not because she craved camera time, as the chief had implied. Val sipped her wine. “Do you live in New York?”
“In Washington. Emmett was on his way to my house when he died. He was going to perform the first scene of the two-person play for me. He was convinced that once I saw it, I’d agree to be in it.”
The drive from here to Washington would have taken Emmett right by the outlet mall. He must have pulled off the road when he started feeling bad. “What was the subject of his new play?”
“He was going to tell me all about it on Saturday over dinner.” Amy added wine to her nearly empty glass. “The police said he had theatrical makeup on when he died. I assume he planned to give me the full effect of the scene he’d written by appearing as he would on stage.”
Was Emmett going to play a character based on Rick Usher? That would explain why he’d had Usher’s signature tinted glasses and hat with him on Saturday. Maybe Emmett mentioned Rick Usher to his sister. Val put her glass down, walked toward the bookshelves, and pulled a copy of The Murders in the Rue Cler from the shelf. “Your brother must have liked Rick Usher’s novels. Here’s the latest one.”
“I’m not familiar with him.” Amy joined Val at the bookcase and peered at the shelf with Usher’s books on it. “Have you read any of his books?”
“I’m reading one now. I’d like to read more.”
“I don’t have room for Emmett’s books in my apartment. You’re welcome to take everything on that shelf.”
“That’s very generous.”
“Fair trade for the cookies. Fill a bag or two with books.” Amy returned to the coffee table and downed the rest of her wine.
Val loaded the Usher books into one paper bag. She hesitated before putting the composition book in the bag, but only for a moment. Amy had told her to take everything on that shelf.
She walked Val to the door. “I’m glad you stopped by.”
“It was good to meet you, Amy. Once again, I’m sorry for your loss. And thank you for the books.”
Val crossed the street to her Saturn. She stowed the bag of books in the backseat, closed the rear door, and was about to climb into the car when a sheriff’s department patrol car drove slowly down the street in her direction. It veered slightly left, blocking the middle of the narrow street, and stopped abruptly. The driver’s window rolled down to reveal the doughy face and narrowed eyes of Deputy Holtzman.
Val’s stomach churned. She was never glad to see the obnoxious deputy, but better now than thirty seconds ago. If he’d caught her carrying a bag from Emmett Flint’s house, he would have confiscated it and probably even accused her of tampering with evidence. Having made that wild accusation in the past, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
Chapter 13
Deputy Holtzman leaned out the window of his patrol car. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you here, Ms. Deniston. You’ve gotten involved in every suspicious death in this area since you moved here. What are you doing parked near the deceased’s house?”
It’s a free country and I can go where I like. Val bit back the sassy reply. She should try to make nice with him, even though he wouldn’t appreciate it. “I came to offer my condolences to the victim’s sister.”
“Personal friend of yours? Did you suggest she complain to the media about the pace of the investigation?”
Val raised her hand as if taking an oath. “Not guilty. I talked to her for the first time half an hour ago.” The media campaign apparently bothered Holtzman. If he tried to bully Amy into giving it up, he wouldn’t succeed. She cared about her brother and wanted justice for him.
The deputy fixed Val with his bulging eyes. “I’m aware you have a personal reason for interfering in the investigation.”
A personal reason named Gunnar. “I’m not interfering with your investigation.” I’m just carrying on a parallel one. Her previous interference had saved Holtzman from arresting the wrong person. She was still waiting for him to thank her for that.
“If you have something to report, bring it to me, not Chief Yardley.”
Then Holtzman could once again sneer at her for playing Nancy Drew. The chief at least took what Val said seriously enough to argue against it. “Nothing to report now, but I’ll keep that in mind.” She opened her car door, climbed in, and turned her key in the ignition.
He took his time before driving on, showing her who was boss. She pulled out as soon as he stopped blocking her and watched in the rearview mirror as he made a U-turn and parked in the space she’d vacated. He climbed out and crossed the street to Emmett Flint’s house.
She imagined Deputy Holtzman warning Amy not to share information with Val, and Amy admitting she’d given Val her brother’s notes. The deputy might then demand the notebook from Val. She’d better make copies of its pages fast, but not at home because Holtzman knew where she lived. He’d gone there last summer to intimidate Granddad.
She drove to the small print shop on a side street in Bayport and used the high-speed copier to duplicate the twenty-odd pages in Emmett’s notebook that had writing on them. While there, she told the printer she would e-mail the text for her café flyers and surveys. He promised a fast turnaround on them.
Back at home, she hid the copy of Emmett’s notes in a folder of recipes. Then she flipped through the notebook itself. It contained a list of sources about Rick Usher, including online videos featuring him. Based on those, Emmett described Usher’s physical traits, typical gestures, and manner of speaking. A year-by-year record of Usher’s professional life included where he’d lived, studied, and taught, along with the books he’d published and the speeches he’d given.
Nothing in Emmett’s notes suggested he’d met Rick Usher or posed as him. Yet Val wasn’t ready to admit she’d reached the wrong conclusion. Simone remained the best hope of connecting the dead actor to the impersonation hoax. She might be able to identify Emmett as the imposter if Val showed her a photo of him in the role of an older man.
Val searched online for images of Emmett Flint and found only flattering pictures that made him look twenty years younger than he really was. Either the photos were taken years ago, or Emmett had hired a photographer who knew his way around Photoshop. She needed a photographer who could add, rather than subtract, wrinkles to make Emmett look as old as Rick Usher. She sat up straighter. Her cousin could do it, but was Monique back from Florida yet?
Val speed-dialed Monique and was thrilled when she reached something other than voice mail. “You’re back!”
“Just walked in the door. We’re exhausted. The kids loved the theme parks and wore us out.” Monique talked over the voices of her two preschoolers clamoring for a treat.
Val raised her voice. “I want to hear more about your trip when you’re less busy, but now I have a favor to ask. If I e-mail you a headshot of a man, can you make him look
twenty years older?”
“I have software that does that. All it takes is a click to age a photo. Hold on, Val. The kids won’t quiet down without a snack.”
While waiting for her cousin to come back on the line, Val came up with a better way to find out if Simone could identify the man she’d seen posing as Usher. If it was easy to age a photo, Val might as well show Simone headshots of more than one man and ask if any of them resembled the impersonator. It would be like a police lineup, less biased than presenting a picture of just one man.
“I’m back,” Monique said. “Send me the photo you want aged.”
“You said it just took only a click to age someone. So may I send you photos of three men?” Val didn’t wait for a response. “Besides aging them, could you put tinted glasses and a gray beard on them?”
“That will take longer. To speed up the process, send me a picture of a man with the type of glasses and beard you want me to superimpose on the other photos. Try to find photos of the other men in similar poses. The kids are squabbling.” Monique told her children to stop fighting and came back on the line. “The last time you asked me to do something like this, you were trying to identify a murderer.”
“That’s not the purpose this time.”
“I’ll work on the photos in the morning and bring them to the café. Then you can tell me what’s going on.”
“I really appreciate this. See you tomorrow.”
Val brought up Rick Usher’s Web site on her computer. The site’s media page included two pictures of him, the headshot that was usually on the cover of his book and a photo of him standing next to Poe’s grave. She copied the close-up. Then she found half a dozen headshots on Emmett Flint’s Web site and copied the one most similar to Usher’s. Now for the two more headshots.
Val searched through photos on her computer and found one of her ex-fiancé, Tony, in a formal pose, a picture taken shortly after he joined his law firm. Too bad she didn’t have a suitable picture of Gunnar. His acting career hadn’t progressed far enough for him to bother with publicity shots, but she could take a picture of him in the right pose.
The Tell-Tale Tarte Page 11
