by Sharon Pape
“Yes, I couldn’t help but hear—you know, the old grapevine. How’s it going?”
“Investigations are kind of funny that way. You can’t always tell how they’re going until they’re over.”
“Sounds a lot like acting.” She laughed. “No matter how much work you do beforehand, there’s no way to be sure how it will turn out until the curtain comes down opening night. Can I be of any help?”
“Just making the time to see me today is great. What I’m looking for are any insights you might have into Brian and his relationships with the other Players who were there the day he died.”
“Such a horrible day,” Dorothy said with a little shudder. “It still doesn’t seem completely real to me. I guess when your time is up, it’s up. What else can you say when an old lady like me makes it out in almost one piece while a strong, young man like Brian drowns?”
“Then you think Brian’s death was a matter of fate, not murder?”
“I know Clarissa thinks he was murdered, but doesn’t a flash flood sound more like fate to you? Not that the two have to be mutually exclusive, I suppose,” Dorothy said, pausing as if to consider her own words. “I mean what if fate sent the flood that made the murder possible?”
The waitress arrived with their breakfast, and Rory waited until she’d set everything down and walked away before speaking. “That’s certainly one way of looking at it.” She added milk to her coffee and spread strawberry jam on her English muffin. “But getting back to basics, how would you say Brian got along with the rest of the troupe?”
Dorothy had cut her carrot muffin in half and was spreading each side with orange marmalade. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. “I don’t think I have the kind of insights into Brian that you’re hoping to hear,” she said after swallowing. “I had very little personal interaction with him.”
“Whatever you can tell me is probably more than I know.”
“Well, he could be…what’s the word…charismatic, that’s it. Like the cult leaders you hear about on the news from time to time. I think it was easy to be drawn in by him.”
“Slick?” Rory offered, quoting the others she’d interviewed.
Working on another mouthful, Dorothy just nodded.
“Do you think all the Players were taken with him?”
Dorothy sipped her coffee. “To one degree or another. Unfortunately, for a few it was hook, line and sinker.” Her lips tipped up in a nostalgic smile. “My late husband liked that expression, used it all the time. I guess that’s because he loved to fish. Isn’t it strange the things that stay with you after you lose someone?”
Rory could certainly have empathized if she’d had the time for that. But the half hour was flying by, and soon Dorothy would be off to her quilting class.
“Charlie, that was my husband, he always wanted me to go fishing with him,” Dorothy said with a soft chuckle. “But the very first time I did, the boat capsized. It’s funny now in the retelling, but it wasn’t at all funny back then, because I’m not much of a swimmer. It’s like another time when we were up in Montreal….”
Rory was waiting for the right moment to interrupt, but Dorothy was on a roll, barely coming up for air. One story segued into another. She seemed to be enjoying her memories so much that Rory hated to spoil her fun. She promised herself she’d get the conversation back on track at the end of the current story no matter what. But she never had the opportunity. She was reaching for her coffee cup when her hand somehow clipped the glass of orange juice. It toppled over, splashing juice across the table and onto her lap. She quickly slid out of the booth, but the damage was done. The lap of her jeans was soaked through. She excused herself and hurried off to the ladies’ room to try to clean up the mess.
As soon as the bathroom door closed behind her, the fluorescent lights blinked and Zeke appeared, arms folded over his chest like a principal about to lecture a delinquent student.
Although words were piling up in her mouth, Rory didn’t say anything until she’d checked the two stalls to make sure they were empty. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t just pop up in a ladies’ room. What if someone else was in here?”
“I checked it out myself,” he said, “before I—”
“Before you knocked over the juice,” she said, the truth dawning on her. “I didn’t think my hand was close enough to have done it. Good job! Look at me—I’m dripping wet!” Her voice was getting louder by the second, and she didn’t even try to rein it in.
“What was going on out there?” Zeke asked, clearly trying to contain his own irritation. “How much longer were you goin’ to let her ramble on like that? This is an investigation, not a tea party.”
“I was just about to stop her when you butted in. Talk about wasting time.” She pulled a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser beside the sink and started blotting at her jeans.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said, finally sounding a bit contrite. “I was aimin’ to knock the little jam container on to you to get your attention, but I used too much power. I didn’t exactly have time to practice, you know.”
Rory wasn’t in any mood for lame excuses. She balled up the wet towels, threw them into the wastebasket, then pulled down another bunch. The juice had soaked through the jeans into her underwear, making her even more uncomfortable. “We’ll talk about this later,” she snapped, tossing away the rest of the towels and storming out of the bathroom directly into Dorothy, who was about to walk in.
“Is everything okay in there?” the older woman asked, craning her neck to see over Rory’s shoulder as the door swung closed behind her.
Rory held her breath for a second, praying Dorothy hadn’t caught a glimpse of the marshal. When the concern on the older woman’s face didn’t change to shock, Rory knew she’d dodged the bullet. A man in the ladies’ room would be hard enough to explain, much less a man straight out of the nineteenth century, complete with badge and gun. Zeke hadn’t bothered to change into modern clothing, having assumed he’d be staying out of sight.
“I couldn’t help but overhear—it sounded like you were yelling at someone. Is there a man in there?”
“No, no, everything’s fine. I was on the phone. I accidentally had it on speaker at one point, that’s probably what you heard. A repairman was supposed to come later today to fix my TV, and he called to say he can’t be there until tomorrow. I guess I lost my temper.”
Dorothy didn’t seem completely convinced. “Well,…as long as everything’s okay,” she murmured. “I’ll just be a minute. Too much coffee this morning.” She limped into the restroom leaning on her cane, her left foot still encased in an orthopedic boot.
When Rory returned to the table, the spill had already been cleaned up. She sat down and finished half of her English muffin while she waited for Dorothy to return. When the actress hobbled back, Rory glanced at her watch. Only ten minutes left.
“To get back to Brian,” she said as soon as Dorothy settled herself. “Did you have the feeling he was going to be trouble from the start?”
“No, and I’m embarrassed to admit that,” Dorothy said sheepishly. “I’ve always considered myself to be a good judge of character. But like everyone else in the troupe, I thought Brian was an all-around great guy in the beginning. He was charming, well-mannered, always quick with a compliment; he’d bring in treats for everyone, roses for all the ladies on Valentine’s Day and so forth. But then I started to hear about some of the things he was pulling on the others.”
“That’s when you stopped baking him cookies?” Rory asked bluntly, hoping to catch an unvarnished reaction.
Dorothy’s brows bunched together like little fists. “Who told you about that?” she asked sharply, surprise and irritation seasoning her tone. Rory had never seen this side of the troupe matriarch before, but then she barely knew the woman. When you watched actors perform, it was easy to fall under the assumption that you knew them, knew their character, the
ir weaknesses and strengths, even their moral code. A risky assumption if you were an investigator working on a murder case.
“Forgive me,” Dorothy sighed. “That didn’t come out at all how I meant it. It’s just that I don’t like people telling tales or sticking their noses into my business. But we are only talking about cookies here. My daughter tells me I need to lighten up. She’s probably right.”
“Did Brian ever try to involve you in a scam or anything shady?” Rory asked. The clock was ticking, and she didn’t have the time to nudge the conversation back onto the right track in a more subtle fashion.
Dorothy didn’t seem to mind. “No, I don’t have the kind of money that would have interested him, and he certainly wasn’t after my body,” she added with a self-deprecating laugh. “Even in my prime, I wasn’t the type to catch the eye of a man like him. And I was probably better off for it.” She paused for a moment and looked up at the clock hanging on the wall behind the counter. “Oops. I hope you’ll excuse me, Rory,” she said as she waved her hand, trying to catch the waitress’s eye. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for my class.”
“That’s okay—you go ahead,” Rory told her. “Breakfast is on me.” As soon as she heard her own words, she started laughing. “Literally as well as figuratively, you might say.”
Dorothy, who was sliding out of the booth, dissolved into laughter too. It was the kind of full, well-used laughter that Rory thought of as jolly. The actress rose to her feet, holding onto the table until she found her balance with the boot and cane. “Thanks for breakfast, and give me a call if you have any more questions,” she said, still chuckling as she headed to the door.
Chapter 19
Clarissa Carpenter had gone with friends to an upstate spa for some R&R after the stress of settling her son’s affairs. It was only for a few days, but from Rory’s perspective, it was the epitome of bad timing. Of course, Clarissa had no way of knowing that the investigation was about to uncover the big, fifty-thousand-dollar question.
Rory had considered calling her cell, but since the information they needed wasn’t going to vanish, and there was nothing Clarissa could accomplish while she was away, there was no point in interrupting her vacation. Instead, Rory left a message on her home phone. With her usual “get it done yesterday” ethic, Clarissa called back within minutes of arriving home and listening to her voice mail.
“I thought I’d heard it all when it came to Brian,” she said after Rory laid out the theory of blackmail to explain the sudden infusion of funds in his account. “But even dead and gone, he’s still managing to surprise me.”
She didn’t sound at all surprised to Rory. Her tone was businesslike, devoid of emotional distress, the words a simple statement of fact. Rory struggled with her response. It seemed like she should offer a comment, something supportive that wasn’t trite or sappy. While she was digging around in her etiquette file, Clarissa took charge.
“We have to find out who gave Brian that money.”
“As his next of kin, you’re the only one who can access his records,” Rory said, glad to be moving on.
“But I’ve already closed out all his accounts.”
“No problem. Banks are required to keep records for years after an account is closed. According to the statement we saw, the fifty thousand was deposited in the form of a check. All we need is a copy of that check to tell us who gave him the money and we may just have the name of his killer.”
“I’ll be at the bank when it opens tomorrow.”
Rory’s eyes popped open at five a.m. with no intentions of closing again anytime soon. After fifteen minutes of concentrated effort she gave up and accepted the fact that she wasn’t going to fall back to sleep. She crawled out of bed in need of a strong cup of coffee. If she had to be awake, she should at least feel awake.
Hobo followed her downstairs and went straight to the back door to be let out. Either he was feeling her restlessness or his bladder was demanding attention. By the time he returned, she was sipping her coffee and trying to decide what to do with this unexpected, and largely unwelcome, bonus chunk of time. Watching an old Clark Gable movie was a heavy favorite, but paying the bills before finance charges were tacked on won in the end. Having fewer options to consider, Hobo curled into a tight circle and promptly fell back asleep.
After emptying her checking account, Rory cleaned the house and did the laundry. When she looked at her watch, it was 8:45—another fifteen minutes before the bank would even open. She peered out the living-room window. The street was wet, but from what she could see, it didn’t appear to still be raining. She’d treat Hobo to a nice long walk. She pulled a Windbreaker over her sweatshirt and jeans, hooked Hobo’s leash to his collar and tucked her cell phone into her pocket.
As soon as they stepped outside Rory realized that the view from the window had been deceiving. The air was so laden with moisture that it actually seemed to be raining in slow motion, the droplets of water moseying through the air as if they lacked the energy or ambition to do the job properly. But since rain of any speed was still wet, it was only a matter of time before it worked its mischief. Before they’d reached the end of the third block Rory’s hair was plastered to her head and Hobo was a bedraggled mess. Every few steps he looked up at her with eyes that clearly begged for a return to sanity.
Wet and miserable herself, Rory gave in and was heading home when Clarissa finally called. She sounded winded, her words jammed together between quick intakes of air. Rory had to ask her to slow down and repeat what she was saying.
“Brett,” she said, enunciating more carefully. “The check was signed by Brett Campbell.”
Back in the house, she toweled herself and Hobo as dry as she could, given that both of them had limited patience with such activities. Then she changed into dry clothing. Her hair was once again on its own, since she hadn’t yet replaced the defunct dryer.
On a whim, she went from room to room calling Zeke’s name in the hope that one place in the house might be closer to the plane he inhabited than another. No response. Apparently his dead zone wasn’t as quirky as the ones that plagued cell-phone systems. They really had to work out a way for her to contact him, if that was even possible. Since the last room in her grand tour happened to be the study, she sank into the chair behind her desk and tried to decide what to do next.
As much as she wanted to tell someone about the amazing turn of events in the case, with Zeke out of range, there wasn’t anyone she could tell. Leah didn’t know any of the pertinent details about the case or the people involved in it, and during a workday she definitely didn’t have the time to be brought up to speed. The rest of Rory’s friends were busy with careers of their own or young families or both. Their socializing had been whittled down to postings on Facebook and the occasional phone call. Getting together was a biannual event. The only person in the loop was her aunt Helene, and Rory knew it wasn’t a good idea to let on how close she was to solving the case. Her aunt not only loved counting chickens before they hatched, but was also known for helping them incubate. Rory couldn’t take the chance that she might say the wrong thing to the wrong person. On the other hand, she needed to speak to Helene to gather some background information on Brett before interviewing him. Since he was now the star suspect, she wanted to be as prepared as possible. That would have to satisfy her for now.
“He’s a sweet boy,” Helene said when Rory called and asked about Brett. “And easy on the eyes.”
Rory laughed. “Aunt Helene, don’t tell me you’re turning into a cougar.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun? If only I weren’t all bark and no bite,” she added with a sigh. “Seriously, though, I think Brett’s a gifted actor. He has great presence on the stage. But offstage, he’s kind of shy.”
“Did he have any issues with Brian?” Rory asked, grabbing a pen and legal pad from the top of the desk.
“None that I’m aware of.” Helene paused for a moment as if the hard drive in her head had s
pit out another byte for her to consider. “But now that I think about it, he did seem to be steering clear of Brian lately. I don’t know if that was based on intuition or because bad blood had developed between them. Brett is certainly from the opposite end of the personality spectrum.”
“Do you know what Brett does for a living?”
“Here’s the thing,” Helene said. “In the spirit of full disclosure, you should be aware that most of what I know about Brett I got from Jessica. He’s probably closer to her than to anyone else in the troupe. Now, it may all be 100 percent accurate, but I can’t actually vouch for any of it.”
“Duly noted,” Rory said. She didn’t like getting information through a second party, let alone a third, but she wasn’t in any position to be picky. If need be, she could always try to corroborate the facts later. In a surprising about-face, she caught herself wishing Zeke would hurry up with his recharging so she could get his take on things.
“Brett works for a nonprofit animal shelter,” Helene went on. “But he mostly lives off a big, juicy trust fund. His folks are loaded. The father owns a company somewhere on the Island. I forget what kind. Anyway, one of the conditions of the trust is that Brett be gainfully employed. At first, his father wanted Brett to work for him. The two of them fought about it for a couple of years. In the end, the old man sucked it up and agreed his son could work wherever he chose to as long as the work was legitimate and he lived responsibly. If not he could kiss the trust fund good-bye. Jessica thinks he was worried Brett would turn into one of those jet-setting good-for-nothings who are always popping up in the news. According to her, if the man had worked less and spent more time getting to know his son, he would have realized Brett was the least likely candidate for that kind of lifestyle.”
“Wow.” Rory laughed. “Here I was hoping for some crumbs and you handed me nearly the whole cake.”
“Crumb cake—mmm,” Helene murmured. “I can’t remember the last time I had it. You know, if I leave right away, I’ll have time to swing by the bakery and pick some up before my Zumba class.”
