“Be right there,” my dad called back. “Ellie, is there anything else I can tell you?”
“Not that I can think of. That information about the land is news, though. Um,” I said. “Tango lessons?”
He laughed. “Wynn does keep things interesting.”
I smiled. “I’m glad, Dad. I love you. Good-bye.”
CHAPTER 7
I CLOSED Scents & Nonsense a few minutes before six, taking the chance that I might lose one last sale. It seemed more important to track down Cynthia Beck to find out what she could tell me about Blake Sontag. A telephone call didn’t seem right for that. On one hand it seemed kind of cold, and on the other, I wanted to be able to see her face—and feel whatever I could feel on an empathic level—when we spoke.
As I was shutting the sliding door in back, I saw Dash and Nabby enjoying the shade cast by the mosaic retaining wall in the garden. That spot stayed damp and cool all day, no matter the August heat. The corgi was sprawled on his back, paws in the air and eyes squeezed shut in slumber, and Nabby had stretched out to his full length beside him. I left them to their peaceful snoozing and headed out to Corona Street and Foxy Locksies Hair Studio.
The boardwalk was packed with the dinnertime crowds, from those seeking a quick sandwich from Kneadful Things to those going to the opposite end of the street for a meal of barbecue brisket, tender rotisserie chicken, or baby back ribs from the Roux Grill. For a year after our divorce, I’d avoided going into the Roux, but now I went in regularly. It was, after all, some of the best food in town, even if I did say so myself. And not least because of my ex. He might be a passive-aggressive philanderer, but he was also a really good cook.
Thoughts of that chicken reminded me that, once again, I’d neglected to eat much during the day. Sometimes I thought if Astrid didn’t supply the shop with cookies every morning, I’d starve to death.
So: Talk to Cynthia first, and stop in at the Roux for a to-go order of chicken after. With garlic and olive oil smashed potatoes, roasted green beans with bacon and almonds, and maybe, just maybe, a slice of pineapple cheesecake for later.
What could I say? It had been a rough day. The only thing that would be better than sitting down to that meal in the Enchanted Garden would be if Colby and Larken joined me.
Well, that and if whoever had killed Blake Sontag dropped by the police station and confessed.
I paused on the boardwalk, stepping out of the stream of traffic and barely avoiding a double stroller, and texted my brother with the dinner offer. They should have returned from their hike by then, though it was possible Colby had dragged Larken all the way to the top of Kestrel Peak.
The distinctive smell of “salon” hit me the second I opened the door to Foxy Locksies, a combination of perm solution, coloring chemicals, and expensive beauty products. All four chairs were occupied, but no one was behind the reception desk. One of the newer stylists looked up from where she was blow-drying the blue-streaked hair of a sixty-something woman. She held up her index finger in a just a second motion. Before she could turn away, I pointed toward Cynthia’s office in the back of the building with raised eyebrows.
She gave a small shake of her head and turned back to her task. A minute later, she shut off the hair dryer, fluffed the woman’s do with an expert gesture, and gave her a hand mirror before twirling the chair around. As her customer inspected the back of her head, she stepped over to where I stood.
“You’re looking for Cynthia?”
“I am. Is she—”
“Not here, I’m afraid. She’ll probably stop by little before eight when we close, though. At least she usually does.”
I thanked her and went back outside. It was possible my fellow Greenstocking was at home mourning the sudden death of her former fiancé, but it was an even bet she’d be at the office she’d recently rented. Cynthia always had big moneymaking plans and had determined that it would appear more professional if potential investors could meet her in an office that wasn’t in the back of a hair salon. Her latest venture had been purchasing the Stop N Go franchise from Lani Taylor, who was moving to San Diego. It was a lucrative concern, and I had no doubt Cynthia would only improve it.
While I’d been in the salon, Colby had texted back. He and Larken would happily join me for dinner in an hour or so.
Smiling to myself, I walked the three blocks off Corona to Cooperhawk Court. As I passed down the tree-lined streets, I reflected that it was just as well that Astrid hadn’t been able to come with me. My friend always referred to Cynthia simply as “the mantrap.” I got along with Cynthia well enough, and had been flattered when she invited me to join the Greenstockings. Over the course of our meetings, though, I’d learned she could be quite mercenary in her relentless striving for business success. On the other hand, her ideas usually benefited the whole town, so it was hard to complain. The woman was super intense, though. Too long in her presence sometimes made me a little twitchy. Thinking back, it was actually surprising how much Blake’s negative personality had overshadowed her usual verve.
The office building was a converted two-story house with a wide, welcoming porch. It was painted sky blue with white trim, a combination that made me think of a man’s dress shirt. Three cars were diagonally parked on the street in front, and I recognized one of them as Cynthia’s silver Lexus. A low wooden fence surrounded the manicured yard, and a sign on the lawn listed Beck Enterprises, an accountant, an attorney, a massage therapist, and in the largest print, Gold Rush Realty. The Realtors took up the entire first floor, and the front window was plastered with sales flyers. As I approached the entrance, I saw a blond woman putting up another one. She waved, and I waved back.
Inside, an enclosed foyer led to the stairway to the second-floor offices. The blue-and-green-paisley-print carpet gave off the subtle aroma of recent shampooing. At the top of the stairs, I found a wide hallway with an open window at the end. The anticipatory fragrance of coals burning in someone’s backyard grill wafted through the screen on the sounds of children playing.
All the doors except one were closed. Cynthia’s Chanel No. 5 signaled to me that she was in her office before I reached the threshold. She looked up with a startled expression, which quickly relaxed into a smile.
“Ellie.” She stood and gestured to an uncomfortable-looking Scandinavian chair. “Welcome to my new lair.”
Scanning the rest of the room, I sat. The chair was more comfortable than it appeared. The other chairs, desk, and bookshelves boasted the same clean lines, all in light wood. Bright red blinds cut the glare of the oblique sunlight from the west, but were open at the top to allow light into the room even so. Her lemon yellow wrap dress fit in so well with her surroundings that I wondered whether she’d donned it with that intention.
“This is nice,” I said. “Are you happy with it?”
“Absolutely!” She sat back down behind the kidney-shaped desk. “What can I do for you?”
I played it by ear. “Well, first off, I wanted to see how you’re doing after the tragedy this morning.”
She blinked.
Oh. Oh dear. She must know, right? A sick feeling chased away my formerly raging appetite.
“You mean Blake, of course,” she said, rubbing delicately at her temples. “I still can’t believe it.”
My stomach unclenched, and a sigh of relief escaped my lips. “Yes. How did you hear?”
She looked wry. “I own a hair salon. More information goes through there than through the NSA.”
“Oh. Right. So how are you doing?”
“Well, it’s certainly sad for a man to die when he’s so young and all.” She looked thoughtful. “But to be honest, I hadn’t seen him for years. And he wasn’t like I remembered. When I heard he was coming back to town, I’d hoped . . .” She trailed off, staring into the past for a few seconds. Then she shook her head. “I mean, you saw him last night.” She s
ighed. “Still, it’s a tragic thing.”
She didn’t sound all that broken up about it.
“I’m glad to know you’re okay. I’d heard you two were engaged at one time, and I thought perhaps you were still close.”
Cynthia steepled her vermillion-tipped fingers on the desk in front of her and sighed. “Oh, gosh. That engagement. It didn’t last long, believe me. Blake was not what you’d call a one-woman kind of guy.” She made a face. “He used to be so much nicer, though. He grew so cynical over the years.” She shook her head. “I wonder how he died.”
I was silent.
It took her a few seconds to notice, but then she focused on my face. “I assumed it was a heart attack, or . . .” Her gaze sharpened. “Ellie? You know something.”
Deep breath. “Gosh, Cynthia. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the police are investigating his death as a possible homicide.” I swallowed. “It looks like he might have been poisoned.”
She stood abruptly, crossed to the window, and opened the blinds. Stripes of light fell across the room as she stared through the slats. “Damn,” she said under her breath. After a few seconds of silence, she squared her shoulders and whirled to face me. “That’s the last thing we need in this town. Another murder. Are you sure?”
Carefully, I nodded. “Pretty sure.”
Cynthia frowned. “Well, that rinky-dink police department better solve this fast.” Then she looked thoughtful. “I wonder if they have a suspect.”
I licked my lips.
“Aha!” She lifted one eyebrow. “Is that why you’re here? You’re helping the police again?”
“Well, I really was concerned about you,” I began. And my brother’s girlfriend is the prime suspect.
She looked rueful. “I’m sorry he’s dead—both because he was, you know, a human being and even if he wasn’t a great human being, I wouldn’t wish him dead, but also because Poppyville’s sweet-little-town image will be tarnished by two murders in one year.”
Well, at least she was honest.
“So, do you . . .” I paused.
“Spit it out, Ellie. I’ll help any way I can.” She returned to her chair and leaned her elbows on the desk.
“Okay. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Blake dead?”
“Pretty much anyone who spent five minutes with him,” she muttered. Then she squinted at the ceiling and started nodding slowly. “I wonder . . .”
I leaned forward. “What?”
“Mm. More like ‘who.’ Do you know Felicity Donovan?”
“The manager at the Hotel California,” I said.
Cynthia gave me a knowing look. “She is now. Before that she was the editor at the Poppyville Picayune.”
“I know.”
“A nice enough little weekly, but it doesn’t pay beans, even for an editor. So she quit and went to work for the hotel. But before the Picayune, she worked for the San Francisco Chronicle.” She paused and inclined her head. “Blake Sontag ruined her career.”
“Really? What happened?
Cynthia sat back and crossed her legs, ready to impart gossip. I sat back, too, ready to receive.
“She and Blake dated back in high school. Nothing too serious—Blake was rarely serious about women, as I learned for myself—but they kept in touch when they went off to college. He went east to Princeton, and she went west to a university in Hawaii. Both studied journalism, but she had an uncle with connections and ended up as an investigative journalist at the Chronicle, while Blake freelanced for a while after he graduated. He got tired of it, though, and wanted to work for a real paper. So Felicity got him a job in the features department at her paper.”
“Did they start dating again?”
“Probably,” Cynthia said. “But I don’t really know. He was a real charmer then, though. But she’s not upset about a broken heart. That would be the least of her worries.”
“Why?”
“Because Blake stole a big story right out from under Felicity. And I mean big. You remember when Senator Callon was caught using federal funds earmarked for the cleanup of superfund sites to pay for his yacht?”
“Vaguely. The political scandals tend to run together, but he had to leave office, didn’t he?”
She nodded. “Indeed. And Blake wrote that story.”
I whistled. “Interesting. An environmentalist even back then, in a way.”
“Not exactly. He earned a reputation with that story, and soon was getting other nature-oriented assignments. That’s how he ended up in that niche. The superfund story made his whole career.”
“So he’s not a true environmental advocate. That explains why he was so cynical about Ritter’s work and Larken’s dream of farming,” I said. “And I can see how Felicity would be upset.”
“She wasn’t just upset,” Cynthia said, arching a brow. “She was livid. When I said he stole the story, I wasn’t kidding. He was a features writer. She was the investigative reporter, and she did all the work. She cracked that story and was getting ready to write it when it showed up in the paper under his name.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes. He’d stolen her notes and even taken an early draft she’d been working on, and claimed it all as his own.”
“Didn’t she protest?”
“Of course! Only instead of vindicating her, telling her editor the truth resulted in being assigned to work on terrible stories. At the same time, Blake’s career rocketed.”
“That’s terrible. Sexism?” I wondered.
“Maybe. But apparently Felicity’s editor had it in for her from the beginning because her uncle got her the job at the Chronicle in the first place. He eventually made her job so unpleasant that she left and came here to run the Picayune.
“So it was the editor’s fault she left, really,” I said.
“But if she’d been the one to write that story about Senator Callon, her career would have soared instead of Blake’s.”
I wrinkled my nose. “And you dated that guy?” I wanted to suck the words back in as soon as they came out.
Cynthia just laughed. “I know, right? But so did Felicity. As you well know, we all make mistakes.”
Touché.
“So how do you know all of this?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Felicity used to be in the Greenstockings. Before your time, of course, and she dropped out when she left her job at the paper. I’ve tried to talk her into joining us again, now that she’s running the hotel, but she hasn’t bitten.”
“Huh,” I said, thinking. The manager of the hotel would have more access to the rooms than almost anyone else. Sontag had died sometime during the night—I’d have to check with Lupe and see if she knew anything more specific about the time of death.
Ugh.
I stood. “Anything else you can think of?”
Cynthia rose as well. “Not off the top of my head. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything, though. You might check with his sister.”
I nodded. “Astrid and I are going to visit her tomorrow. Today was too soon. Heck, tomorrow is probably too soon.” I couldn’t begin to imagine how I’d feel if my brother had been poisoned.
She tipped her head to one side. “She and Blake weren’t close, but he was her family. And honestly, she’s going to be a pain whether you wait or not, so you might as well tackle her soon.” Her eyes bored into mine. “It’s imperative that Blake’s killer is brought to justice as soon as possible, and the story fades from the headlines.”
Yes, I liked Cynthia. But Lordy, she could be obsessed when it came to anything related to tourism in Poppyville.
And, of course, I had to admit that she wasn’t wrong. I just hoped Max wouldn’t throw Larken under the bus to hurry along a conviction.
Downstairs, I let myself out of the building. The brightly colored
flyers in Gold Rush’s window caught my eye, and I paused to take a look. Housing prices seemed to have increased significantly since I’d been in the market for a place to live. The selection didn’t look extensive, either. A tight market, then.
And then I saw the ad the woman had been taping up as I’d come in.
Pristine Property!
The heading screamed above a photo of verdant hills studded with wildflowers, a shallow red cliff to one side, and Kestrel Peak in the background.
Just ten minutes from downtown Poppyville, this undeveloped 30 acres on River Road is ripe with possibility! Water rights included in price!
Views of Kestrel Peak! Bordered by Clary State Park!
Build your dream home!
OR a prime spot for platting and development!
The possibilities are endless!
It was the parcel of land Dad had described to me on the phone that afternoon.
The old Sontag place.
I guess that answered the question of whether Blake had any children. The land was all Joyous’ now.
At least until she sold it.
CHAPTER 8
AS I made my way to the Roux Grill, I debated whether or not to call Lupe Garcia. Even with a possible suspect in Larken, surely she and Max would have looked into Blake’s assets and checked in with his next of kin. So maybe she already knew about the thirty acres of land Joyous had inherited. But what about the information Cynthia had given me about Felicity Donovan’s possible motive for murdering the man who had ruined her career?
By the time I passed between the big petunia planters that flanked the door of the restaurant I’d formerly owned with Harris, I’d decided to hold off on calling. Larken was in a jam, but the police would at least need an autopsy in hand before Max could go around making arrests. If I was going to take information to Lupe, I’d like to give her more than what I had so far.
The smell of the bite-size garlic rolls on every table hit my nose first, then the enticing aromas of roasting and grilling meats. Back in the kitchen, the brisket had slow-roasted overnight, the baby back ribs were fall-off-the-bone tender, and dry-aged steaks were ready to be seared to perfection. I still craved the rotisserie chicken, potatoes, green beans, and cheesecake, though. Maggie was tending bar and took my family-size to-go order between mixing drinks. At the last moment, I remembered Larken had ordered a Greek salad at the restaurant the night before, and might be a vegetarian. The Roux had a few options in that department, but they weren’t exactly light fare. The macaroni and cheese was to die for, there was a vegetable version of the lasagna, and the Caesar salad with grilled romaine and house-made dressing was out of this world. I thought about texting Colby, but decided to go ahead and add the lasagna and salad to the order just in case.
Nightshade for Warning Page 8
