by Mary Kennedy
“But this could be significant,” Mom insisted, “because Marisol secretly wanted to avenge the death of her brother, Don Carlo, and had added some poisoned shrimp to the paella.”
“Lola, for heaven’s sake,” Vera Mae interjected, “Greg Towner wasn’t poisoned.” She gave a little shudder at the memory. “It looked like his chest had been skewered on a shish-kebab.”
“Appearances aren’t always what they seem,” Mom said huffily. “Señor Mendez didn’t die because of the shrimp, it turns out that Sofia Santiago, his former mistress, had added some ground glass to the rice. It was a lover’s triangle; she discovered he’d been cheating on her with the daughter of a fish monger. So you see, you just never know,” she said, nodding her head for emphasis.
Opie cleared his throat. “Uh, should I be writing all this down?” His eyes were nearly popping out of his head at Mom’s dramatic rendition.
Rafe waved his hand. “Let’s jump ahead to when you found the body. I know there were three of you in the cellar and I’ve already taken Nick’s statement.” He paused. “You go first, Maggie. What did you see?”
I took a deep breath. I could still remember the shock of seeing Greg Towner lying on the cold stone floor, the dark blood spilling out of his chest. At the memory, the hair rose on the back of my neck.
“We went into the storeroom, or whatever it was, quite by accident,” I began.
“It was because of that line of dust you spotted,” Vera Mae chimed in. “She’s got a good eye, this one,” she added.
“Dust? Tell me more about it.” Rafe is a great listener. He leaned forward, his dark eyes never leaving my face and I knew I had his full attention.
I gave a wan smile. “Yes, I noticed there were smudge marks on the floor, right in front of a section of paneling. I wondered how dirt could have gotten in there, because I couldn’t see anything on the rest of the cellar floor.”
“And just as Nick started to tease her about a secret door, he pushed the paneling, and sure enough it swung open,” Vera said.
Rafe raised his eyebrows. “What’s the first thing you noticed? Who stepped inside?”
“That would be Nick,” Vera Mae said. “We brought up the rear.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s not a sight I’ll soon forget. It was dark and musty, lined with shelves.”
“But you knew it was Greg Towner lying on the floor?”
I nodded. “I recognized the designer shirt he was wearing. It was blue and white stripes with a white collar and cuffs. Very distinctive.” I paused. “Did they find a murder weapon?”
Rafe looked around and lowered his voice. “The ME is still down there but it looks like he was stabbed with a corkscrew.”
I gave a little shudder remembering the wooden object sticking out of his chest. “A crime of opportunity?” I asked. “No one would bring a corkscrew to an event if they planned to kill someone.”
“Possibly.” Rafe heaved a sigh. “Right now we’ve got zilch. A fancy party, a ton of guests, and no motives.” He glanced at Vera Mae. “You’ve lived in Cypress Grove a long time, do you know most of these people?”
Vera Mae smiled. “Only from what I read in the society column,” she told him. “We don’t travel in the same circles. They’re the upper crust, you know, they stick to themselves.”
“Except for Roger Nelson, “I offered. “Maybe he has some personal association with one of the organizers.”
“Roger Nelson?” Rafe scribbled the name on a pad.
“He runs the local hardware store,” I explained. “He’s not one of the society people.” I remembered how Mom had dashed off to meet him, hoping to get a connection with his daughter in New York. “He wouldn’t have any connection with the case,” I offered.
“Except for—” Vera Mae began and then stopped. Rafe raised his eyebrows questioningly and she continued, “There was a rumor going around town that Greg Towner was dating Roger’s daughter, before he took up with Shari Phillips.” She gave a little flutter of her hands. “Of course, this is a gossipy town and who knows if it’s true. Arabelle, the daughter, left abruptly for New York and the word on the street is that Greg had dumped her and she was heartbroken. She was a real Daddy’s girl and Roger was furious over the whole thing. Arabelle is an only child and he never thought she’d leave Cypress Grove.”
“I’ll look into it,” Rafe said, getting up. “If you can think of anything else, just let me know.” He started to move away and then paused. He glanced into the living room through the open kitchen door. “Who are the two women sitting by the piano?” He tilted his chin at two blondes in their forties wearing nearly identical Lilly Pulitzers. “They could be twins.”
“Not twins, but sisters,” Vera Mae said promptly. “Claudia and Celine. They’re Christopher Morgan’s daughters. They hardly ever come back to town. I don’t think they had a close relationship with their father. I saw them at his funeral and that’s it.”
“They don’t look too upset at being involved in a crime scene,” I said, noticing their bored expressions. One sister was glancing at her watch and the other was scrolling through her messages.
“Well, there was no love lost between the Morgan sisters and the Preservation Committee,” Vera Mae said. “And I suppose that includes Greg Towner.” She paused. “After all, they probably expected the mansion would go to them. They wouldn’t have lived in it, of course, but they could have sold it to a developer and made a pretty penny off it.”
An interesting point but not a motive for murder. Greg Towner was just an architect and could hardly be blamed for their lost inheritance.
Rafe was about to leave when Mom put her hand on his arm. “Rafe, wait. I have to tell you something,” she said. She looked at me and I nodded for her to go ahead. “About a conversation I overheard tonight…”
CHAPTER FOUR
It was nearly ten o’clock before the last guest was interviewed and we could all go home. Rafe headed back to the station, and after dropping Vera Mae off at her house, Mom and I headed for my apartment.
“What a night,” she said wearily, as we made our way into the living room. Pugsley, my beloved pup, was thrilled to see us and barreled off the sofa, throwing himself at us with doggie delight. Pugsley is a rescue and seems eternally grateful that he will never have to spend another night on the tough streets of Miami. He’s found his forever home.
I put the kettle on, while Mom eyed the wine cabinet. “Chamomile tea or Cabernet Sauvignon?” I asked.
“Better make it tea,” Mom said with a sigh. “I’m going to have a killer headache tomorrow and I don’t want to add to it.” She kicked off her shoes and a wriggling Pugsley jumped into her lap for some cuddling. “I have no idea what happened tonight, do you?”
“Not a clue,” I told her. Even though I’ve been in Cypress Grove for over a year now, I really don’t have much contact with society types. Vera Mae occasionally meets with socialites at fund-raisers and media events. Even though WYME is a small radio station, it’s the only game in town, so if a local charity or non-profit wants some air time, they have to go through Vera Mae, who handles all the bookings.
“Did the hardware guy, Roger Nelson, have anything to say about his daughter?” I asked, suddenly remembering how Lola had hot-footed over to meet him.
“He was useless, worse than useless,” she sighed. “It seems his daughter isn’t working for a television network after all. She’s working for a drugstore! He hinted that she went to Manhattan because she wanted a change.”
“It could be that she went there to lick her wounds after being dumped by Greg Towner,” I said, repeating what Vera Mae had suggested.
“Possibly. That guy seemed to get around didn’t he?” She thought for a moment. “Are those two sisters the only heirs to Christopher Morgan’s estate? I know he left the mansion to the Preservation Committee, but were there any assets left over?”
“I don’t really know much about the family,” I said. “I suppose we could re
ad his obituary; he died a couple of months ago. We could look into his will, I suppose.”
“I’m on it,” Mom said, unceremoniously moving Pugsley off her lap so she could open my laptop on the coffee table. “Amazing what you can find online these days,” she said. Her fingers flew over the keys and she announced triumphantly, “He had a nephew named Kyle, his late brother’s son.”
“So there’s another possible heir,” I said thoughtfully, “not just his two daughters. I’ll have to get Vera Mae to check it out.
“Maybe a disgruntled heir,” Mom said archly. “No one wants to lose out on their inheritance, even for a good cause.” She paused, scanning the screen. “He’s not local,” she added. “Lives in South Carolina. I wonder if he was close to his uncle and if he got back here for family events?” She closed the screen and looked at me. “Maybe he was at Mayfair House last night?
“We could get a guest list from Molly,” I suggested.
“Good thinking.”
We mulled over the murder while we sipped another cup of tea and then decided to call it a night. Lark, my roommate, was out of town for the week, so it was just Mom and me in the condo. It was a perfect Florida evening, soft and balmy with a full moon. I flung open the French doors and sat on the balcony for a few minutes, enjoying the delicious scent of night-blooming jasmine in the garden. I do some of my best thinking out here. I kicked off my sandals and had just put my bare feet up on the wrought iron railing when I heard a friendly shout from Ted Rollins, who manages the Seabreeze Inn next door.
“Feel like a nightcap?” he offered.
I hesitated and then decided that a drink with easy-going Ted was just what I needed right now. Ted is the proverbial nice guy, the kind your mom and all your friends wish you would marry. He’s tall and ruggedly handsome, with sandy brown hair and a terrific smile.
“Be right down,” I called out, heading for the stairs.
Ted has been asking me out ever since I moved to Cypress Grove, and I’ve always turned him down. What can I say? I always pick bad boys, the kind the nuns warned me about. You know, the guys who don’t call, trample on your heart and wreak havoc with your emotions. Which probably explains why I’m still single at thirty-two and why Ted and I will never be more than good friends.
“I heard about the murder at Mayfair House on the news,” he said somberly a few minutes later. We were seated on the porch with white wine and the Seabreeze’s famous parmesan crisps. “It must have been awful for you.”
“I never met Greg Towner but it was still shocking,” I said, mulling over the strange events of the evening. “It was horrible, finding the body.” I thought of Rafe’s comment about a house full of party guests and no clear motive. This might be one of those cases that would stump the Cypress Grove police for years.
“If I hadn’t been tied up with late arrivals, I would have been at the party tonight,” he said. He nodded to a middle-aged couple heading up the stairs. “The Evans,” he said under his breath. “They’ve been coming here for twenty years. Their flight from Atlanta was delayed and I promised I’d be here to check them in. When they finally arrived an hour ago, I nearly drove over to Mayfair House.” He frowned. “Then I heard the WYME report.”
“Good thing you stayed home,” I said, remembering the party guests being held for questioning. “What a night,” I murmured. I rubbed my neck, feeling a tension headache coming on. It started in my back and was creeping along the sides of my jaw into my forehead.
“You need to lean back and relax,” Ted said, squeezing my shoulder in a brotherly way, his brown eyes warm with concern.
I smiled at him and let myself ease back into the cushion. The wrap-around porch of the Seabreeze is pure bliss and could be on the cover of Southern Living. White wicker gliders, cushy rocking chairs, the perfect place to kick back and let your mind roll downstream. Baskets of ferns hang from the rafters and porcelain pots of primroses are artfully arranged on the wide planked floor. With its stately palms and cascading bougainvillea, it looks more like a luxurious private estate than a B & B.
But I couldn’t let myself relax, my mind was buzzing with thoughts about Greg Towner’s murder. A little shiver went through me when I remembered the scene in the basement. Had the murderer been down there the whole time we’d been involved with the scavenger hunt?
And what about the person who’d crept down the stairs, given a little cat-like sneeze and then scurried away? For some reason, I thought it had been a woman. But I have no idea why. I made a mental note-to-self to ask Vera Mae if she had the same impression.
“A lovely Sauvignon,” I murmured, feeling a warm haze slip over me.
Ted swirled the wine in his glass. “I’m trying a new distributor,” he said. “Gavin Benson in town. He really knows his stuff and he has a nice range of hard-to-find-vintages.” He motioned to a green wooden box sitting by the front door with the single word Bacchus painted in a fancy font on the lid. “I started a weekly delivery from Gavin. Did you happen to meet him at the party tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so. What’s his connection with Mayfair House?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
“Nothing really, except that it’s good business to support local charities and community events. I figured he’d be there. He’s read up on the wine collection that’s supposed to be hidden on the estate.”
“There’s a hidden wine collection?” My mind immediately jumped to the speakeasy. Were there some treasures mixed in with those dusty bottles over the bar? Mom had said that vintage bottles could go for tens of thousands of dollars.
Ted laughed. “I’m not sure if it’s fact or fiction but the collection is supposed to be worth a fortune.” Ted shrugged and drained his glass. “But who knows, it might not be true. These old Florida mansions have a lot of history and myths built up around them. It might just be wishful thinking. Everybody loves a treasure story. “
“But wouldn’t the Preservation Committee hold an auction and sell the wine collection to raise money for the renovations?”
“I suppose they would if they could find where the stash is hidden.”
If they could find the stash. The architect Greg Towner was going to do major modifications on the mansion and had probably inspected every square inch of it. If anyone could find a treasure trove of wine bottles, it would be him. Is that what led to his death? What was he doing down in the cellar that night? Having a secret meeting with another party-goer? Or surprising someone in the middle of a heist?
Another thought crept into my brain. Maybe the murder was more personal and had nothing to do with vintage wine or money. Could there be an irate husband in the picture? Did Shari Phillips have a spouse or an ex who was understandably outraged when Greg Towner stole her away? I didn’t hear any mention of a husband but I’m not up on the latest gossip. I heaved a little sigh and nestled back into the comfy chair, my thoughts whirring like gerbils on an exercise wheel. There was too much to think about and my head was throbbing.
We sat quietly, enjoying the night until a guest rang the bell at the front desk. “Duty calls,” Ted said, leaning down to wrap me in a brief hug. “Take the Sauvignon home with you, if you like.”
“Thanks, I’ve had enough. I’ll be sleepwalking my way next door.”
“Get some rest, Maggie,” he ordered before disappearing into the foyer of the Seabreeze.
* * *
The condo was quiet when I tumbled out of bed at seven the next morning. I spotted Mom sitting on the balcony, sipping coffee and looking down into our little garden. I was lucky enough to find a three-bedroom condo on a leafy street in a quiet, residential neighborhood that’s carpeted by banyan trees. Quite a change from my shoebox-sized Manhattan apartment and I’m eternally grateful that I made the move to south Florida. Mom keeps her own place, close to Miami, but she likes spending the occasional evening or weekend with me here in Cypress Grove.
Today Mom was wearing a Japanese kimono with giant red peonies plastered on it and read
ing The Hollywood Reporter, one of her favorite trade magazines. Even though Mom’s acting gigs are spotty to say the least, she’s still waiting for her big break and frequently goes on auditions for commercials or B-list films. South Florida—especially Miami and South Beach—has become something of a hub for the film world and a lot of production companies have opened branches here. It’s not easy for women “of a certain age,” to find acting roles and Mom always tries to hide the fact that she’s in her late fifties. I think she lists her age as thirty-eight on the resume that’s stapled to the back of her headshot. She’s been known to introduce me as her sister, and I tease her that pretty soon I’ll be older than she is.
“Where’s Lark?” she asked.
“She’s spending a week at a holistic health convention,” I told her. I helped myself to some coffee and snared a croissant. Mom had brewed a pot of hazelnut for us and placed it on a glass table next to our chairs.
“A holistic health convention.” Mom tossed me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.
“Yes, holistic health. You know, crystals, chakras, karma, auras and I-Ching.” My roommate, Lark, is into anything New Age, and once was considered a suspect in the death of Sanjay, a smarmy—yet popular—guru who was a guest on my radio show. He’d made a clumsy pass at the lovely, trusting Lark and she’d fled from his room at the Seabreeze Inn next door. It seems he’d been killed shortly afterwards. Lark found herself on Cypress Grove PD’s radar, and that’s how I first met Detective Rafe Martino.
Mom nodded. “Lark talked to me about karma once,” she said thoughtfully.
“She’s a firm believer in it. If you do good, the universe tilts your way. If you do evil, well, the universe works against you.”
Mom smiled. “She believes that because she’s young. If only life were that simple.” She gave a little sigh and went back to the trades. Hope springs eternal. “I wonder what Greg Towner’s karma was trying to teach him,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Leaving his wife and children for that hussy,” she said, tsk-tsking. “Maybe the universe had a lesson for him.”
