by Leslie Caine
“We’ve been uncovering all kinds of things lately.” Helen’s smile was sheepish.
Oblivious to the domestic drama surrounding her, Audrey had sunk onto the piano bench, with the scrapbook Kay had given her, and was oohing and ahhing as she flipped through the album. “That’s a terrific suggestion, Kay,” she exclaimed. “In fact, the timing is absolutely brilliant! A guest I’m supposed to tape tomorrow morning had a schedule conflict and recently canceled on me. Not to mention that I’d love to get into scrapbooking myself, now that my first grandchild is on the way. What do you say, Helen? Will you appear on my show to talk about scrapbooks?”
Helen was already shaking her head, but Audrey was never one to take no for an answer. She coaxed, “You’d be helping me out immensely. It’s only a six-minute segment. All you’ll have to do is answer my questions about your techniques and follow my lead. Please?”
“Oh, yes,” Kay cried. She seemed to have regained her composure. “That would be so much fun, Helen! You’d be striking a blow for us over-seventy crowd, proving we still have talents to offer the world.”
“That’s being so grandiose. They’re just picture albums. I’m hardly Joan of Arc.”
“Granted, this won’t qualify you for sainthood,” Audrey said, rising and handing the scrapbook to Helen as though it was solid gold, “but you would be paving the way for our less-courageous friend Erin, here. She’s too scared of the camera to appear on my show.”
Helen looked at me in surprise. Then, resolved, she said, “Okay, Audrey. I suppose I could manage. Erin, do you think you could please come with me and sit in the audience?”
“I’d really rather—”
“Please? Helen insisted. “I’d feel better with you there.”
Audrey was grinning at me, and I could see the wheels turning in her head; she was thinking she had just killed two birds with one stone. And maybe she had. I sighed. “Can I give you a ride, Helen?”
“Actually, Helen,” Audrey quickly interjected, “you and I need to be in Denver about two hours in advance of the show. I could give you a ride, so that Erin can come later. Then she can give you a ride home right afterwards.”
Kay said, “You can give me a ride both ways, Erin.”
We set times for our early departure, Kay deciding she’d take a bus to Helen’s home at the crack of dawn so that she could help Helen get ready, but that she’d “only be in the way” at the studio, so she’d “keep Ella and Vator company” till I arrived.
Helen seemed to have become more comfortable in her house now that she had Kay’s and her cats’ company, and so I suspect that, like me, Audrey no longer felt guilty at leaving her there. On our way back home, Audrey released a sigh of satisfaction. “Well, Erin, that worked out quite nicely. Remember how much I was complaining to you about my guest canceling?”
“Yes, I sure do.”
“It’s like they say...‘Ask and thou shalt receive.’” She shot me a sideways glance. “Except when it comes to asking you to be my on my show, that is. You might even be more stubborn than I am.” She paused. “On second thought, the smart money’s on me getting my way, sooner or later.”
Too true, I mused to myself. If only the “smart money” were on the police realizing that Jack’s death was indeed murder, so that Helen and everyone else could get through this unharmed.
Chapter 12
“Do you have any plans tonight?” Audrey asked as I came trotting downstairs, having gotten off the phone in my room from chatting with a friend. (The friend had sympathized at gratifying length about my fear over Helen’s staying alone in her house, and had agreed that Steve Sullivan was impossible to deal with, which had made me feel immeasurably better.) I gave Audrey a wary look. She was jingling her car keys and was wearing a gray CU jogging suit, with the hood pulled up over her head. With her normally impeccable fashion sense—not to mention her strong distaste for jogging—this was akin to spotting the Queen of England in hot pants and a halter top.
“Just a Pilates class. Why? Did you want to join me?”
“Heavens no. You can do that another night, though, can’t you?”
“I suppose so. Is there something you want me to do with you?”
“I thought you’d never ask. I need you to come with me to a class in Westminster.” She put on a pair of sunglasses, despite the fact that it was nearly sunset and we were indoors. “It starts in half an hour, so we’ve got to leave right now. I’ll buy you dinner afterwards. Let’s go.”
“Okay.” I grabbed my purse and followed her out the door. “But is there a reason you’re dressed like the Unabomber?”
“Of course.”
I waited, but she didn’t continue. “You don’t want to be recognized?” I suggested.
“Precisely. You’re driving. My vanity plates are a dead giveaway.”
Her plates read: DOMBLSS. I’d always thought that they could too easily be misinterpreted into “Dumb Lass” (by someone who couldn’t spell the word “dumb”), but that was not the kind of observation I cared to share with Audrey. Mostly because she’d take my head off. She led the way to my van, which was parked near the front walkway. “Is this ‘class’ going to be something I can look back on someday with pride?” I asked. “Or should I put on a disguise, too?”
She clicked her tongue. “It’s just research for my segment with Helen tomorrow. I’ve been woefully bad at staying up to date with scrapbooking techniques. It’s embarrassing. Here I am, doing all these shows on arts and crafts, and Helen uses all these stenciling and embellishing techniques I’ve never even seen before. I’m taking a crash course, rather than risk making a fool of myself tomorrow.”
“That’s admirable. But, really, your show covers the gamut from makeup tips to designing koi ponds. It’s not like the public at large expects you to be current on all arts and crafts at all times.”
“True, but when it comes to hobbyists, scrapbooking is right up there with needlepoint these days. This would be like your attending a class on furniture placement, side by side with your prospective clients. Besides, I’d like to get an album started for David and his wife and the new arrival.”
“Fine, Audrey. If it doesn’t bother you wearing sunglasses indoors and a hood, it doesn’t bother me to be seen with you. Even if it does make you totally stick out like a sore thumb...in a gray fleece Band-aid.”
“I’m claiming that I have allergies. And I’m dabbing blusher on my nose, and I’ll sniffle a few times. Just remember that, for tonight, no matter what, my name is Alexandria Parker.”
“Pleased to meet you, Alexandria. My name is Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.”
We arrived at the shop in Westminster and joined two dozen other women, seated in workstations around four large tables in a brightly lit room. The air bore traces of the paint-and-paper scents unique to art studios, instantly transporting me to my college days at Parsons in Manhattan. Counters rimmed the room with various die-cutting presses and cutting boards, and the walls were decorated in primary-colored cutouts, all labeled to allow us to quickly locate the corresponding template.
Our instructor, a thirtyish former cheerleader sort, asked if we could each introduce ourselves to everyone and state why we were here, and started with Audrey. “My name is Alexandria Parker,” my devious landlady declared smoothly, and I have allergies, hence the sunglasses. I have my very first grandchild on the way, and I want to be prepared to immortalize the occasion in proper style.”
“Wonderful!” the instructor gushed, then looked expectantly at me.
“My name is Erin, and I’m here to support my friend...Alex.” Although her dark glasses dulled the effect, I was certain by the pursed lips that Audrey gave me a withering glare.
While the others were giving their introductions, Audrey produced a dozen photographs from her purse, all of them of her eldest son and his pregnant wife. She slid half of them to me and murmured, “Play along.”
We listened as the instructor gave a lecture on the
dos and don’ts of scrapbooking (do annotate your scrapbook pages; don’t use products that are corrosive for photographs), and demonstrated how to use the various items in the kits in front of her. There was an impressive array of adhesives, pens, and cutting tools. The miniature paper trimmers were especially appealing, and I made a mental note to purchase one in the near future. While the instructor was talking, Audrey unobtrusively grabbed the products she needed and went to work. Not even five minutes into the task, she’d removed her dark glasses to select from the rainbow of colored paper, which included sparkling metallic and glittery sheets. The textures were impressive, with the fuzzy mulberry papers for layering and the sheer vellum for overlays to enhance the cardstock.
By the time our instructor was asking if we had any final questions and were ready to begin, Audrey was putting the final touches on a two-page spread that was almost at the astonishing level of Helen Walker’s work. The instructor wandered over to Audrey, saying, “One of tonight’s students has been hard at work already. Alexandria, did you want to ask me about some of the more advanced...” She froze as she looked at Audrey’s imaginative display. “Oh, my gosh. I’ve never seen anyone do such a good job!”
“Thank you.”
“Wow!” the woman directly across from Audrey exclaimed as she stood to get a better view of Audrey’s work. “Look, everybody!”
Drinking in the praise of our classmates, Audrey spent the next hour working side-by-side with the instructor on everyone else’s layouts, especially mine. She was unwilling to accept my “competent-but-altogether-too-common-place” presentation I was creating for her son’s photos, and, infuriatingly, used it for a “don’t” demonstration to our classmates.
By then, we’d gone into overtime and my stomach was growling, but still nobody was leaving; Audrey was firmly entrenched as Belle of the Bookers’ Ball. Finally, the store manager appeared, and Audrey critiqued a presentation board that the instructor had been using. The manager offered her a job on the spot, and Audrey said she couldn’t possibly accept, announcing, “I have a confession to make. I’ve come here incognito. I’m actually Audrey Munroe, of the television show: Domestic Bliss with Audrey Munroe.”
“Oh, my gosh! Are you serious?” the instructor shrieked happily. “Is she serious?” she asked, turning to me for verification.
I shook my head sadly and gathered up Audrey’s and my scrapbook pages. “It’s time to go home now, Alexandria.” In a stage whisper to the instructor and manager, I said, “The resemblance is remarkable, isn’t it? But I’ve met Audrey Munroe and, for one thing, she’s a much snappier dresser.”
Chapter 13
Early the next morning, Kay and I got stuck in a traffic jam on the Interstate and arrived at the studio in the nick of time. Helen was already on stage, seated next to Audrey in one of the lovely indigo Bergère guest chairs that I’d helped Audrey select for her show’s pseudo living room.
Kay and I whispered “Excuse me” a half-dozen times as we brushed past audience members to the only two vacant seats—upholstered in rich red velvet—at the far wall. I was getting my bearings among the fifty-or-so auditorium-style filled seats when Kay gasped, then elbowed me and pointed behind us. Rachel Schwartz stood at the back of the auditorium, just inside the doors. The usher was trying to convince her to leave with him quietly.
Rachel must have followed us here! She had somehow gotten past the ticket taker, and now she made a show of looking for the ticket stub in her purse.
My imagination ran wild as I worried about what she might do. Surely, though, if she had a handgun in her purse, she’d have produced it by now. The usher would be able to handle her, I hoped, though it was unfortunate that Rachel towered over the young man. Meanwhile, Audrey and Helen had launched into their staged conversation.
“—used bleach on ink before, of course,” Audrey was saying by the time I relaxed enough to listen, “but never with these amazing results. The delicacy and accuracy is simply stunning. Let’s move the camera in really close, so the television viewers can see how remarkable these details truly are.” As the big screen above our heads in the studio showed us Helen’s remarkable work, the oohs and ahhs were audible, and we all applauded.
“Stop this charade right this minute!” Rachel cried. She was pushing her way past the usher to race down the aisle toward the stage. “I taught those bleach-and-ink techniques to you!”
Her accusing finger was pointed straight at Helen. Helen, shading her eyes from the bright stage lights, looked up at Rachel in shock.
Rachel glared at Helen on the small stage with that same look of abject hatred that I’d seen flash across her features when Jack was installing the doorbell for Helen. Rachel swatted at the usher as he tried to get between her and the stage. “I showed you how to do it! You’re taking credit for my signature techniques!”
“Balderdash!” Helen retorted. “I’m the one who taught those techniques to you, Rachel, and you know it!”
“That’s not true! Helen Walker is a husband-stealer, a murderer, and a scrapbook plagiarist!”
A second usher rushed toward Rachel, and the two men grabbed her arms and dragged her back up the aisle and through the doors. The entire audience was murmuring and shifting uneasily in their seats. Audrey’s theme music began to play, and a voice over the speaker system asked us to pardon the interruption and stated that the show would resume momentarily.
Kay turned to me. “What on earth was Rachel thinking? Good Lord! I hope they wring her neck!”
“No kidding.” My heart was thumping, and I was relieved that Rachel hadn’t become violent. “Her husband died the night before last. Yet here she’s tailing us to Denver, just to harass Helen.” That was quite the suspicious connection.
Kay frowned and fidgeted in her seat. “I never should have let her know where we were going. She was watching through her window at six o’clock this morning when Audrey picked up Helen. Rachel raced over right after they left to pump me for information. I never dreamed she’d do something like this, though.” She shook her head and released a sigh. The corners of her mouth were slightly upturned, however, and there was a glint in her eye like a highly polished black onyx. “Poor Helen.”
Below us on the stage, Audrey quietly conferred with her guest, presumably giving Helen the choice between delaying her segment or proceeding now. Helen kept nodding and saying, “I’m fine.” Minutes later, Audrey began the show again as if nothing had happened, and the two women carried off their interview just fine, although during the commercial break immediately afterwards, Helen unexpectedly asked if it would be all right if she left for home. Then she rose and scanned the audience for Kay and me—her transportation.
We shared an unspoken agreement not to risk mentioning Rachel’s name until we were safely distanced from the TV station, but when I merged the van onto the Interstate to head north for Crestview, I said, “Helen, I’m so sorry about Rachel’s outburst. I had no idea she was following us to the studio this morning.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, mustering a tentative smile. “That was just her grief talking, I’m sure.”
“That’s magnanimous of you,” Kay replied from behind me. She’d insisted on letting Helen have the front seat. “It’s just a good thing that the show is taped. If that had been a live telecast, you’d have been well within your rights to sue her for slander. In fact, I’d have insisted.”
Helen gave a slight shrug. “Well, she was right about the technique we were showing on camera not being my own private discovery. Remember how you and I experimented and discovered the right mix of bleach and ink together?”
“Yes, of course I remember. Though I have to admit that I was starting to wonder if you remembered.”
“I’m sorry about that, Kay. I was just about to mention your name, when Rachel interrupted me. After watching the security guard haul her out of the studio, I just didn’t have the energy to go back into the whole topic a second time.”
“Oh, it’
s no problem.”
Kay’s tone, though, didn’t sound like it was “no problem.” I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She was glaring out the window. It wasn’t my place to question a sixty-year friendship, yet the hints of friction between the two women worried me. Helen had trusted Kay with the fact that she was monitoring whether or not her house had been surreptitiously entered in her absence. I couldn’t help but wonder if Helen could be absolutely certain that Kay wasn’t the culprit who’d been entering uninvited. After all, even though she was aware of Helen’s monitoring system, Kay couldn’t replace the telltale hairs and still get outside, except by darting beneath the garage door as it was shutting on her.
“You’re a big scrapbooking hobbyist as well, Kay?” I asked.
She smiled at my reflection in the mirror. “I used to be. After a while, I realized there wasn’t much point in keeping a record of everything. So few things actually happen to me. I don’t have a family, and I retired more than a decade ago.”
“What did you used to do for a living?”
“I worked in a bank. Again, nothing interesting ever happened. I dealt with more than a few cranky customers over the years, but no bank robbers.”
“Kay’s just being modest, Erin,” Helen interjected with a chuckle. “She travels all the time. She belongs to a book group that goes all over the world.”
“That’s true. Every year we pick the setting of a book we’ve read where we most want to visit ourselves, and off we go.”
“And so, every year she has some wonderful scrapbooks that she puts together for her whole club to enjoy.”
Kay cleared her throat, and there was an awkward pause. “Actually, Helen, I must have forgotten to keep you up to date. Rachel Schwartz joined the group a few months ago, and she took over my position on the Keepsake Committee.”
“Oh, Kay! Why? You loved that job! You originated it, even! Why did you let Rachel do that to you?”
