“I came early. Maybe this was a warning of sorts. Or your attacker was spooked by some nearby guests and didn't have time to finish the job.”
Griff stared at her. “I'm not even sure it was a he.”
“What about the voice?”
“No one I recognized, nor could I be clear on the gender.” His eyes, reflecting the lamplight, darkened. “Now that I think on it, the raspy tone sounded like a person who phoned me earlier.”
“Say again?”
“I got a call about covering another gig this afternoon. That was kinda weird, actually.”
“What do you mean?” Marla offered him a tissue and a squirt of hand sanitizer to clean his wound.
“Someone called to ask if my magazine would allow me to take photos at an event in Palm Beach tonight. When I said I was tied up, the person suggested I stop by if I was in the area. I replied that I couldn't; I'd be at the Venetian Pool in Coral Gables.”
Schlemiel, you told a perfect stranger where you were going. Recognition dawned on his face while she studied him with a smirk.
“Shit, I screwed myself, didn't I?”
“If it were me, I'd be concerned about someone bonking me on the head, especially coming on the heels of Torrie's death.”
Ducking under the arch, they emerged from the grotto. The moon had come up, spraying the water with sparkles of light.
Griff didn't choose to comment on her remark. “I need a drink or two,” he growled. “Are you still up for the Biltmore?”
“If you can make it. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No, thanks.”
“How about if I drive us to the hotel then? I'll give you a ride back here when we're done.”
“That'll work for me.”
She followed his instructions to Anastasia Avenue, where she spied the hotel's center tower rising above the trees. After parking in an adjacent lot, they entered the main building on the ground floor. Expensive furnishings graced the cool, refined interior. She heard the clacking noise of high heels on the marble floor along with the clash of silverware from a café overlooking the pool.
They veered left, past a clothing boutique and a gift shop, toward a bar with cozy armchairs and subdued lighting. The chatter of patrons competed with the ding, ding, ding for a bellboy from the front desk.
“Let's go upstairs,” Griff suggested. “There's a quieter lounge.”
Evidently, they'd been on the lower lobby level. She followed him up a flight of carpeted stairs into a cavernous hall with marble floors and columns, mahogany paneling, potted palms, a baby grand piano, and ornately decorated high ceilings.
Groupings of couches and armchairs ranged across the expanse. Glass cases held historical memorabilia such as postcards, porcelain china, old room keys, and silverware.
Here stands another monument to the 1920s, like Sugar Crest Plantation Resort on Florida's west coast, Marla thought.
Once they were settled in an intimate lounge, she waited until they'd received their drinks before introducing the reason for her interview.
“Speaking of Torrie's tragic end,” she said to provide a link to their prior conversation, “I paid a condolence call on Scott yesterday.”
“So?” Griff gulped down his beer. Some of the foam dribbled onto his mustache. He wiped it off with his sleeve.
“I presume you guys had met before through Torrie's work? Scott said he'd been to a couple of business affairs with her.”
“Torrie didn't like to bring her husband. The man would sit stiff as a log and rarely joined in conversations.” Griff plowed a hand through his tousled hair, wincing when his fingers touched the congealed wound. “Bumped my head,” he explained to a passing waiter who gave him a sharp look.
“How did the two of you get along?” Marla sipped her chardonnay.
“We didn't. That cold fish didn't even get along with his own wife.”
“Oh? What do you mean?”
“Scott probably found out Torrie planned to leave him.” Griff cast her a pained glance. “Don't you know? That's why he murdered her.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
Marla rushed through her Thursday morning appointments so she could keep the date she'd made with Hally. Perhaps Griff's colleague could shed light on his passionate declaration the day before. Did he really believe that Scott killed his own wife? The photographer had refused to elaborate, claiming it wouldn't be in his best interest to stoke the fire, whatever that meant.
Bursting with impatience, she yearned to tell Dalton about her interview. She hadn't had time last night, between driving to his house, where she stayed most of the time now, taking out the dogs, and catching up on Brie's news while he worked late.
She'd e-mailed Hally Leeds just before going to bed and had been surprised to find a response this morning. Certainly, Hally would be happy to mention the grand opening of Marla's day spa in her column, especially in conjunction with their fund-raiser for Locks of Love, the group that provides wigs for financially disadvantaged children who have lost their hair because of a medical condition. She meant to fill Dalton in later. In between snipping and coloring her clients' hair, running over to the day spa to consult with the new massage therapist, and fielding a call from her mother about the wedding, Marla barely had time to breathe.
“I hope you can fix this,” her next customer said, plopping into the salon chair after a shampoo.
“What were you thinking?” Marla riffled through the woman's damp strands. Her ash-blond hair looked as though a weed whacker had attacked her head.
Lynn, a regular client, gave a sheepish grin. “The ends were getting long, so I thought I'd save time and trim them myself.”
Looks like it, too. Marla fastened a drape around her. “I can do some layers, bring it up here, and that should complement your bone structure. It'll be flattering but shorter than your usual cut.”
“Go for it, hon. Whatever you do will be better than this.”
“At least you didn't dye your hair eggplant purple like my last client.” Marla grimaced. “People find that home remedies cost more in the long run because then they need to come in for corrective treatments.”
“I've learned my lesson.” Lynn gave her a smile fraught with curiosity. “How are your wedding plans coming?”
Marla picked up her comb and shears. “We still have so much to do.” Just thinking about her mental list made her shoulders sag. “We've got the basics covered, but the details are overwhelming. My mother and Dalton's mom keep adding people to the guest list.”
“It's late for that, isn't it? Didn't your invitations already go out?”
She separated a section of hair and fastened it aside with a clip. “Yes, but they figured most of the out-of-town relatives wouldn't come. They were wrong. Jill and Arnie didn't have so much grief.” Lynn frequented Arnie's deli next door.
“Didn't you find someone stabbed with a cake knife at his affair?”
Marla paused, hand in midair. “Where did you hear that?”
“I read it in the newspaper.”
“Oh, joy.” She'd made headlines again. Maybe that's why the phone kept ringing up front. Thank goodness Luis fielded all their calls, when he wasn't flirting with their clients.
“Hey, girlfriend, isn't that gal's funeral on Friday?” Nicole called, eavesdropping from the next station. Wearing a glove, she applied a relaxing solution to her customer's hair.
“It's been moved to Sunday at eleven.”
“You learn anything new from that photographer yesterday?”
Marla lifted a shank of hair, snipped at an angle, then let the strands fall back into place. “Griff made some interesting remarks about Torrie's husband.”
“Oh, yeah? Maybe he wanted to throw you off track,” Nicole suggested. “You know, to take the heat off himself?”
“I doubt it. We met at the Venetian Pool in Coral Gables where he'd been assigned to cover an event. When I found him, Griff was injured. He'd been mugged, and his head woun
d was quite real.”
“Shut up.” Nicole stared at her. “Was he robbed?”
“No, and the peculiar thing is, he didn't seem that concerned. I offered to buy him a drink, so we went to the Biltmore afterward. He said Torrie planned to leave Scott, and that's why Scott killed her.”
“Holy guacamole, Marla.” Lynn caught her gaze in the mirror. “You're always in the thick of things. How do you do it?”
Marla grinned. “I wish I knew. So essentially, we have Griff saying Scott is to blame, and Scott saying Griff can't be trusted. Which one do I believe?”
“Unless Griff bashed himself on the head, you have to wonder why someone assaulted him.” Lynn looked thoughtful while Marla shaped her hair. “Didn't he make any guesses?”
“I don't think Griff wants to know, although I'm wondering what made him a target. If robbery wasn't the motive, could this have been an attempt to scare him off?”
“Good point,” Nicole contributed. “That means he knows something that's a threat to the killer. Maybe he snapped a picture of the guy with Torrie at the wedding.”
“So then why wasn't his camera bag stolen?”
“Because he'd already turned in the film for developing or uploaded his digital photos.”
“He wasn't the wedding photographer,” Marla reminded Nicole.
“Doesn't matter. He must have caught something significant on film. Ask his magazine editor if she has the pictures.”
“Hally might have seen them. She's the society reporter who works with him. I'm hoping she can shed more light on Griff's character, because he's an enigma to me. He'd seemed morose, talking about Torrie in the hotel lounge last night as though he cared. But when I overheard their conversation at the park, he threatened her.”
“About what?” Lynn asked.
“I don't know, but I'll find out.” Setting down her implements, Marla grabbed a blow dryer and switched it on.
Four hours later, she switched off the ignition on her Camry and emerged from her car at the magazine's address in Boca Raton. Entering the brick building, she faced a warren of cubicles beyond a wide reception desk. So much for privacy. Maybe Hally could step away for a cup of coffee.
The sleek redhead glanced up from a computer when Marla approached. “Hello, darling. Come to see me at my digs?” She waved a hand. “Hey, girls, this is Marla Shore. She operates a beauty salon in Palm Haven.”
Marla nodded her greeting. “Actually, I'm here to talk about my new day spa. You e-mailed me that you might be interested in covering our opening celebration. We're raising money for Locks of Love, donating ten percent from all our spa treatments that day.”
“Write me up a press release, and I'll see if I can get approval to cover the story.”
“Thanks, I'd be grateful.”
“Is that really why you came to see me?” Bending forward, Hally straightened a framed photo on her desk. It showed a pair of kittens playing. Marla glanced at a couple of other framed shots at her station. No people, she noted. Were these pets more important to Hally than her actual family members?
Marla's arm brushed against a potted plant at an adjacent cubicle. There wasn't an empty chair in sight. Noise from clacking computer keys and workers' subdued chatter competed for volume in the background. This was no place to hold a private conversation.
“Can we go somewhere else?” she asked Hally, who studied her with a speculative gleam. “I want to discuss a mutual acquaintance who was at the wedding.”
Hally's blue eyes narrowed. “Griff, I presume? As you can see, I'm rather busy.”
“Did you happen to see his pictures from the wedding?”
“I don't do the layouts, darling. That's our editor's job. Dellene puts the whole piece together.”
“When is the issue coming out? Can I get a sneak peek? Those photos may show something the police should know.”
“I'm afraid that's not possible.” Gathering her Kate Spade handbag, Hally rose. She tugged at a cobalt-blue top that she wore over a silky flowing skirt. Marla wasn't that familiar with designer labels, but this looked like Dana Buchman. It could be worth hundreds of dollars, unless she'd bought it on sale at the outlet mall.
“What's this?” Marla pointed to an open magazine on Hally's desk. Photos from a recent society ball jumped out at her. Squinting, she tried to read the byline, but the print was too small.
Hally's face took on an ugly sneer. “That's Home & Style Magazine from Palm Beach. Their photographer takes really good pictures. I've never met Grant Bosworth, and some say neither have his editors, but somehow he always seems to get the scoop ahead of our publication.”
A young woman with a blond ponytail stumbled in their direction, nearly dropping a pile of papers. Her face reddened. “Here are your page proofs, Miss Leeds.”
Marla stared at her. For some reason, the girl looked familiar. Had they met before?
“Put them down before they end up all over the floor,” Hally snapped. “We're going into the break room. I don't want to be interrupted, Rachel. You got that?”
Marla saw the flash of anger in Rachel's sharp brown eyes. “Sure, Miss Leeds. And Dellene says, I mean, she said to tell you the article on the diabetic society event was great.”
“You should show more respect, kid. Our editor is Mrs. Hallberg to you.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Dumping her burden on Hally's desk as instructed, the girl swung away.
Marla, appalled at Hally's rudeness, stood watching with her mouth hanging open.
“Come on, no one should be in the break room right now.” Hally wove through the office maze with Marla at her heels. Empty coffee mugs, stacks of paper, and glossy magazine pages were piled everywhere. Staff members scooted here and there or sat frozen at their computer stations, typing madly.
How could anyone get their work done with this continuous clamor? Marla considered the noises in her salon and how they would sound to a stranger. The whirr of blow dryers, the chatter of customers, and the splash of sink water were comforting to her. She supposed the same could be said of background work noise anywhere. Depending on if you liked your job or not, the sounds would either bring pleasure or raise your stress level.
“Do you work with Griff often?” she asked Hally over a cup of coffee in the break room, where they sat on opposite sides of a marred wood table.
Hally pursed her lips. “We try to team up when we can.”
Her lofty tone made Marla instantly suspicious. “Oh? And are these all local assignments, or do you sometimes travel together?”
The reporter's eyes glimmered. “Any overnighters we pull are strictly on our own, if you know what I mean.”
“I'm not sure that I do.” Marla could play coy, too.
“Then let me put it bluntly, darling. Griff and I are together. Or at least we were, until she butted in. That won't be a problem any longer.”
“She? Do you mean Torrie?”
Hally bared her teeth. “The bitch knew he had the hots for me, and she still tried to chisel in on my territory. In more ways than one. I'm sorry she had to die the way she did, but I won't miss her.”
“Are you saying she tried to lure Griff away from you?”
“Torrie and Scott were having problems, in case you didn't notice. A little thing like being married wouldn't stop her.”
“I visited Scott, and he warned me away from Griff. Was Scott aware Griff had been fooling around with his wife?”
“I don't know Scott well enough to answer your question.”
“How about Griff, then? Which one of you two did he favor? Or do you think he snuggled up to Torrie because she knew something damaging about him?”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“I overheard them talking at Orchid Isle. She was upset about Griff going back on his word. They threatened each other, actually.”
“I'm not surprised.” Hally's gaze turned thoughtful. “Torrie knew things about people, things they wouldn't want others to learn. Hanging around
high society like we do, we hear stuff. Torrie collected a lot of dirt. She wasn't as careful as she should've been.”
Meaning what? Torrie blackmailed people? Then what secret did Griff have to hide?
Marla didn't voice her thoughts aloud. She still needed to clarify the issues between Scott and Griff. Which one had the most to gain by Torrie's death?
“I ran into Griff the other day,” she mentioned casually. “He nearly accused Scott of murdering his wife. You don't know Scott that well, but did Torrie ever seem scared of him?”
“Hell, no. All she did was put down the poor guy. He wasn't assertive enough. He spent more time with his clocks than with her. He didn't care if his clothing was out of style. She didn't have one good thing to say about her husband.”
Sometimes the meek types were capable of the most violence.
“Did Griff tell you he got mugged? Nothing was stolen, so robbery couldn't have been the motive. That's why I was interested in the pictures he took at the wedding. Maybe one of them shows Torrie's murderer.”
Hally took a gulp of coffee. “What else would you expect, darling? The killer had to be someone familiar to her, and we're all in the photos. I know it's not me, so that leaves everyone else.” She wrinkled her brow. “What happened to Griff?”
“Someone conked him on the head.”
“Is he okay? I haven't seen him in . . . since we worked together at Orchid Isle.”
“Oh, he'll be fine.” Marla wrapped her hand around the insulated cup. “Weren't you also covering the park's grand opening? How did that go?”
Hally lifted her nose. “I got a great interview with Falcon Oakwood. Watch for my story in the next issue of our magazine.”
“He wasn't the first owner of the property, was he?” She'd been unable to find much information on the Internet about that tract of land.
“Nope. After he acquired the site, it took him five years to develop the exhibits, plant the gardens, carve out the nature trails, and design the buildings. He wanted a place to showcase his orchid collection, to support research for new hybrids or whatever they're called, and to provide a native plant habitat.”
Shear Murder Page 8
