by Gail Oust
CHAPTER 13
“LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION,” I repeated the real estate agent’s mantra. I parked under the porte cochere—la-di-da—and stared out the car window at Shirley Randolph’s regal Victorian, a throwback to a bygone era. The home was located in Brandywine Creek’s prestigious historical district, an area where antebellum, Victorian, and Colonial-style homes comingle. Some of the homes are listed on the National Register of Historic Places while others cry out in desperate need of TLC.
“So this is the place Clay’s been ravin’ about,” Reba Mae said in an awe-tinged voice.
Shirley’s recent purchase was an imposing three-story edifice complete with fanciful gingerbread trim, scalloped shingles, and a wraparound porch that practically begged for white wicker rockers and Boston ferns. The exterior of the house was painted in vibrant earth tones that managed to appear true to the period yet modern.
“I thought this place would be smothered in crime scene tape,” I commented.
“Bet it would’ve been with Wyatt in charge. Beau must not be considerin’ this as a crime scene.” Reba Mae pointed at an ivy-covered turret with a steep pointed roof at one end of the house. “Well, don’t that beat all? Shirley even had her very own tower.”
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair.” I slid out of the driver’s seat. “Shirley must’ve felt like a fairy-tale princess living here. For some reason, though, the house seems out of sync with the impression I had of Shirley. She always struck me as the sleek and modern type.”
“Location, location, location,” Reba Mae singsonged, climbing of the car out to join me on the cracked concrete drive.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” I extracted the house key from my purse and went up the front walk. “As long as we’re here, why don’t we check the fridge? There might be perishables that need to be tossed out before they spoil.”
“Do you think Shirley intended to keep this place for herself once it was renovated or sell it for a tidy profit?”
“Guess with Shirley gone, we’ll never know.” A fanlight fitted with leaded-glass panes crowned a heavy wood door with an ornate brass knocker. The key slid smoothly into a lock that looked relatively new, and the door swung open. “C’mon, let’s take a look-see. You must be at least a little curious.”
“Maybe … just a bit,” Reba Mae admitted grudgingly. “Bein’ in a dead woman’s house gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
We entered a large entryway. On our right, a steep flight of stairs led to the second level. We followed a hallway past a series of rooms: parlor, library, dining room, and kitchen. We poked our heads into each one but were disappointed to find them sparsely furnished.
Reba Mae ran a finger over an oak credenza in the dining room. “Hardly any furniture, but it sure makes dustin’ quick and easy. Maybe I oughta give it a try.”
I headed for the kitchen at the rear of the house.
Suddenly Reba Mae grabbed the sleeve of my sweater. “Wait up,” she whispered. “Think I heard somethin’.”
I strained to listen but didn’t hear a thing other than the sounds old houses sometimes make. An occasional groan, a mysterious grunt, an unexplained click or thud. “The house is old, Reba Mae. If we live to the same ripe old age, our joints are going to be creaking, too. Don’t be such a baby.”
The kitchen, I discovered, was spacious but in serious need of updating. The appliances, while functional, were old and yellowed. With a generous budget coupled with the genius of a HGTV decorator, it had the potential to be a showplace.
“Shirley wasn’t big on cooking,” Reba Mae said from behind me. “She was more into creature comforts and insisted the master bedroom and en suite be done first. Said the kitchen could wait.”
I opened the freezer section of the fridge. “Nothing here except for a half-dozen Lean Cuisines and a bag of frozen peas.” The lower section revealed a jar of dill pickles, wilted lettuce, an unopened bottle of Chardonnay, several cans of ginger ale, and two knobby rhizomes of ginger.
Reba Mae peeked over my shoulder at the contents. “What’s the deal with the ginger? Shirley some kind of health nut?”
I closed the fridge. “Ginger has been used for medicinal purposes for centuries. It’s thought to boost the immune system and decrease inflammation. Many use it to relieve indigestion.”
“Shirley had indigestion?”
“The last time she came into my shop she complained of occasional upsets and bought some ginger to make tea.” I shut the refrigerator door.
Reba Mae examined the contents of the cupboards but, other than the usual kitchen paraphernalia, didn’t find anything of interest. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to take a gander at her clothes closet.”
“Sure,” I said. I’d turned to go when I noticed the back door wasn’t shut tight so I pushed on it until I heard the lock mechanism click into place. “Looks like we could have got in even without a key.”
We traipsed up the stairs, several of which creaked. At the top of the landing, I paused to get my bearings. “Where do we start?”
“Clay told me that there are four bedrooms, but plans call for combinin’ two of ’em into a master suite. The en suite is the next project on the renovation list. Until then, Shirley had to make do with the original bathroom.”
We peeked into a guest room with a single bed that appeared too neat and pristine to ever have been slept in. Next to it was a room designated as a home office. An ergonomically designed chair sat in front of a sleek desk. A metal four-drawer file cabinet stood in one corner. As I stepped farther inside, I noticed a network of fine scratches surrounding the lock. Had someone tried to break into the file cabinet? Pry the drawer open? I’m not a great believer in coincidence, but could it have been the same person, or persons, who attempted to break into Creekside Realty?
I summoned Reba Mae for a second opinion. “What do you make of this?”
Reba Mae grasped the handle, tugged hard, and the drawer rolled out. “Empty!” she exclaimed. “Why have an empty file cabinet?”
The other drawers, as we soon discovered, were empty as well. I crossed to the desk only to find that the drawers there had suffered a similar fate. “Who do you suppose did this?”
“Beats me.” Reba Mae shrugged. “Maybe Shirley emptied the drawers herself. Decided to do some spring-cleanin’.”
“Either that or someone was looking for something.” I placed my hands on my hips and surveyed the home office. Aside from a framed picture of a much younger Shirley standing next to a boy who bore a striking resemblance, the desktop was clear. It occurred to me that there was no sign of Shirley’s pricy computer. Vicki had referred to it as her “lifeline.” Was that what a thief had been after? Definitely food for thought.
“C’mon, girlfriend,” Reba Mae urged. “Let’s do what we came here for and blow this pop stand.”
“Fine by me.”
Shoving open a set of double doors, Reba Mae let out a low whistle. “Wowee kazowee!”
“Double wowee kazowee,” I echoed. “Looks like we saved the best for last.”
I felt like we’d just wandered into fantasyland. The master bedroom revealed an entirely different side of Shirley Randolph. For a woman who had been as romantic as a piranha when it came to business, her bedroom was feminine, luxurious, and downright gorgeous. Violet wallpaper with tiny white flowers and touches of greenery covered the walls. White sheers on the windows puddled on the floor to add to the romantic decor. A queen-size bed, nearly buried beneath mounds of pillows and covered with a fluffy white duvet, invited the occupant to curl up and cuddle. A perfect spot to snuggle on a rainy day with a good book and a cup of tea.
“I think I died and went to heaven,” Reba Mae sighed. “Clay said the en suite would be even better when finished. Walk-in shower, soaker tub, double sinks. Lots of fancy tile and marble.”
I gave myself a mental shake. “Well, we need to get down to business. We’re not here to give an award for the most beautiful bedroom
in Brandywine Creek. Let’s check the closet and see what we can find in the way of an outfit suitable for Shirley’s viewing.”
Unlike many homes of that era, Shirley’s boasted a rather large closet—probably one of the features that sold her on the property. One side of the closet was crammed with clothing; the opposite side held shelves and cubbyholes filled with shoes and handbags. Shirley’s favorite scent lingered there. It wafted out, a bouquet of fragrance both fruity and flowery as exotic as the woman herself.
“I can smell her perfume,” Reba Mae fussed. “This place is givin’ me the willies again. Just grab an outfit, and let’s hit the road.”
“Don’t be a ninny. We might never have a more a legitimate excuse than now to poke around.”
“All right,” she conceded, albeit reluctantly. “I feel like I’m in a boutique.” Her eyes sparkled and her squeamishness rapidly faded at the sight of all those shoe boxes. “I bet Imelda Marcos would envy Shirley’s shoe collection. Too bad they’re not my size,” she said after examining a shoe box. “Shirley wore a seven and a half N.”
“Reba Mae Johnson!” I scolded. “Why would you want to walk in a dead woman’s shoes?”
“Seems a shame all these shoes could end up at thrift store.” Ignoring me, she lifted the lid on a box and admired a pair of spike-heeled pumps. “I bet she paid a couple hundred bucks for these babies. I can tell from the label they’re the real McCoy and not some cheap knockoffs. Must be good money to be made in real estate.”
I left Reba Mae to feast on designer footwear while I flipped through the hangers. Dresses, suits, jackets, slacks, blouses. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for but hoped I’d know when I found it.
“Lookin for anythin’ in particular?” Reba Mae asked.
“When Hoyt stopped by Spice It Up! yesterday, he mentioned running into Shirley at the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Savannah. He said she was acting weird. He got the impression she was with someone but didn’t want him to see who it was.”
“Do you think her mystery man is the one who stole her files?” Reba Mae replaced a strappy pair of sandals in their box.
“Could be,” I said.
“So what are you doin’, looking for clues? Think whoever it was might be her killer?”
“It’s possible.”
Reba Mae went back to examining shoes. “What do you expect to find—a pair of men’s boxers?”
“Something along those lines.”
I was beginning to fear I was on a fool’s mission. Then I found it. A man’s charcoal gray terry-cloth robe relegated to a spot at the end of the rod. It stood out like a sore thumb among all the feminine attire. I held it up for Reba Mae’s inspection. “What do you think?”
“Personally, I prefer sweats when relaxin’.” After eyeing the robe, she became distracted by Shirley’s assortment of purses. “Breakin’ news! Michael Kors is keepin’ company with Kate Spade. Who knew?”
“Reba Mae, you’re not taking this seriously enough. This robe most likely belongs to Shirley’s lover.”
“Unlike some of us—whose names I won’t mention—Shirley at least had a love life.”
“Haven’t you told me that the significant other—husband, fiancé, or boyfriend—is usually the murderer?”
“Well, yeah. That’s how it goes on TV.”
“It’s a man’s size Large.”
“Large would fit half the men in town.”
Frustrated, I yanked a navy blue dress with crisp white trim that I’d seen Shirley wear on several occasions off a hanger. “I found a dress. You find the shoes.”
While Reba Mae rummaged in the closet for appropriate footwear, I decided to make a quick search of Shirley’s nightstand. I couldn’t help myself. I was genetically predisposed to snoop. Tissues, a couple books, both nonfiction bestsellers—and a box of condoms. All the proof I needed that Shirley, indeed, had a man in her life.
Find him, find answers. Find her killer?
CHAPTER 14
A MAN’S BATHROBE and a box of condoms. What next? I couldn’t wait to find out. “Time to check out the bathroom.”
“Deliver me out of temptation, girlfriend.” Reba Mae reluctantly left the plethora of shoes behind and joined me on my journey to discovery.
While Shirley’s house had plenty of curb appeal, except for the master bedroom, the inside was a work in progress. Even from the point of view of an amateur, such as moi, the bathroom was in dire need of improvement. An old-fashioned claw-foot tub, pedestal sink, and black and white hexagonal floor tiles gave off Victorian vibes. A small, modern-looking cabinet with lots of drawers that had been stuck in a corner looked out of place. It held a makeup mirror and jars of beauty products. A medicine cabinet, another add-on, hung over the sink.
“Clay said the bathroom was still untouched. It was scheduled to be the next major project, but Shirley temporarily postponed renovations.”
“Why do you suppose she did that?”
“According to Clay, she wanted to consult a different contractor before goin’ ahead with plans.” Reba Mae began to examine the lotions and creams. “Wrinkles and fine lines didn’t stand a fightin’ chance against all this artillery.”
I opened the medicine cabinet. Besides a lineup of the usual suspects—toothbrush, toothpaste, painkillers, Band-Aids—there were two containers of prescription drugs. I read the labels. The first was a generic I was unfamiliar with. The second prescription was for a popular brand of birth control pills—further proof Shirley had a lover. Judging from the date, the latter hadn’t been refilled recently. I left the birth control pills where they were but tucked the vial of the generic pills into my pocket to Google later. That wasn’t really stealing, was it? It wasn’t as though Shirley would be needing her medication anytime soon. The only other item of significance was a huge bottle of antacids.
“Find anything of interest?” I asked Reba Mae when I finished searching the medicine cabinet.
Reba Mae seemed lost in thought, so I repeated my question. I glanced over my shoulder to see her wearing a frown. Her prolonged silence was more unnerving than her constant chatter. “Anything wrong? You’re not sick, are you?”
“Somethin’s buggin’ me,” she muttered. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Doesn’t appear there is anything out of the ordinary.” Perching on the rim of the bathtub, I swept my gaze over the room. “This place is immaculate. Not a single water spot in the sink. No soap scum around the tub. Nothing is out of place. It’s ready for the white-glove test.”
“I can’t imagine Shirley doing her own housework.”
“Me neither. Lord forbid she chip her nail polish.”
Reba Mae didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. While I waited, I absently ran my hand along the inner rim of the tub and felt something rough and uneven beneath my fingertips. Leaning back, I craned my neck for a better look. I was surprised at what I found. Because of the angle, I hadn’t noticed the vertical black blemish about three inches long and a half inch wide. Whatever the cause, it had been powerful enough to pierce the tub’s enamel finish to the cast iron underneath. When I studied it closer, it appeared more of a deep scar rather than surface blemish. A burn?
Suddenly Reba Mae snapped her fingers, making me jump. “Got it!”
“Good grief, woman.” I pressed my hand to my chest to still my racing heart. “What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”
“I just figured out what’s missin’.” To demonstrate, she pulled out a cabinet drawer that housed an assortment of brushes, combs, curling irons, and a flatiron. “Lookee here,” she said, brandishing a hair dryer in triumph.
“Honey,” I said as kindly as I could, “you’ve been sniffing too many hair dye chemicals. It’s affected your brain. That’s a simple hair dryer, not the key to Fort Knox.”
“No, don’t you see?” she said, her voice animated. “Take a closer look.”
I stared at the object she held until my eyes almost crossed
but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “It’s like a million other hair dryers. Walmart must sell them by the truckload.”
“Exactly!” She grinned at me like a proud teacher to an exceptionally slow student.
I rose from the tub and took the hair dryer from her for a better look. “I still don’t get it. It’s not much different from the one I own.”
“Now you’re cookin’ with gas. This one’s probably the same kind half the ladies in town use—but not Shirley. Shirley wanted only the best hair dryer money could buy. Demanded top of the line, the newest technology.”
“And you know this how?” I handed her back the hair dryer.
“Because Shirley asked for my recommendation on what to buy. She claimed she didn’t care how much it cost—then asked if I could use my beautician’s license for a discount.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you. The hair dryer you’re holding is your basic, big-box store model, inexpensive, not state of the art.”
“I personally ordered, then hand delivered to Shirley at her office an ionic tourmaline ceramic turbo model twenty-one-hundred-watt hair dryer. At Melly’s shower, Shirley made a point to tell me how much she loved it. Said it’s all she ever used.”
“Where are you going with this?” I asked, but I already thought I knew.
“The new one is missin’—and this old clunker left in its place.”
The tiny hairs on my arms stood at attention. The puzzle pieces were slowly starting to click into place. First, the blemish on the bathtub that on closer inspection resembled a burn. Now, according to Reba Mae, Shirley’s new, high-powered hair dryer had vanished. Did one and one equal two? “I know this sounds like a long shot, but—” I moistened my dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “—I think I know how Shirley died. Hear me out. Do you think it possible Shirley might have been killed right here? In her very own bathtub? What if someone threw that fancy hair dryer into the tub—while she was in it? What if she was electrocuted?”
The hair dryer in Reba Mae’s hand clattered to the floor. “Don’t these things come with some kind of doohickey to shut off automatically?”
