by Harper Lin
Amelia chuckled.
“You see that man over there? He owns a port-o-john company. One of the wealthiest men in here. And he deals in excrement.”
“We all do to a certain degree.” Amelia smiled.
“Yes. But then we have those rare opportunities to meet someone of like mind, and all of that fades away.”
“You didn’t tell me why you are alone, Roland.”
A shadow fell over the man’s face, but he never stopped smiling.
“I was married to a wonderful woman for over twenty years. Then I divorced her and married a monster.” He chuckled sadly. “My first wife died about seven years ago. Before she did, I went to see her, and she told me to straighten up. It was her dying request. So I did.”
“I’m so sorry, Roland. I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t, Amelia.” He patted her hand. “Her name was Patty. You remind me of her in some way. She didn’t fit in at places like this. That was what made her so charming. A treasure I didn’t know I had.”
“That happens sometimes. But, like I tell my kids, when we learn a lesson, it doesn’t matter when so long as we learned.”
“They are lucky to have such a good mother.”
Amelia waved her hand and blushed.
“So, I quit drinking. I divorced my second wife. Got myself back into church. But you see, I never told anyone about my awakening. The last thing I want is a bunch of these hypocrites telling me how good it is I don’t drink while they are sloshing down a few right in front of me. So I pretend.”
Amelia tilted her head.
“I pretend I’m still one of them. And they still invite me to their galas and events, and if I like it, I’ll give a donation. But this event tonight? Not a penny.”
“Geez, Roland. I don’t even know what this event is for. It was just someone’s name on the promotion I saw.” Amelia shrugged.
“This is the Alba and Reese Finkle Gala.”
“Thanks for clearing it up for me. Now I feel better.” Amelia made Roland laugh.
“They had some crusade to help schoolchildren give up sweets.”
“You’re joking,” Amelia said.
“No. Busybody work is what I call it.”
“And in the real world, I own a cupcake truck on Food Truck Alley.” Amelia giggled.
“You don’t say.”
She nodded proudly.
“Well, now I know that you are really crashing the party. Anyone in the dessert business wouldn’t be caught dead in this place.”
“To be honest with you, Roland, someone was caught dead, and that is why I’m here looking for someone in particular.” Amelia watched the man’s expression.
“I’m intrigued.”
Amelia told Roland what her friend Bonnie had repeated to her and named names.
“That bloke finally got his comeuppance. I know both ladies you are referring to, and I know of the infamous Spencer Randall. A turd in the punchbowl if ever there was one.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” Amelia joked. “Do you think either Candace or Florence might have been upset enough with him to, you know, do him in?”
“I think both ladies are fully capable of dealing the deadly blow. But I’m afraid it might not be as simple as that. Spencer made no secret of his weakness for the fairer sex. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the ladies in this room didn’t have a spare toothbrush set aside for him in their homes.”
“Yikes, Roland. I don’t have that kind of time.”
“You are right, and forgive me for speculating. It’s just that a murder makes this event so much more interesting. Let’s stick with the names you have. First, Candace Rosenbaum.” Roland searched the crowd for a few seconds then nodded his head in the direction of the center table. “She’s right over there, speaking with Doogan Heis. A rather boring little man.”
“Okay. Wish me luck. I’m going in.”
“Good luck. I’ll save your seat.”
Amelia took a deep breath and carefully eased her way through the people seated at the tables and those mingling around with glasses in their hands and clever quips on their tongues. Finally, she reached Candace. Casually, she hung back for a few seconds until the conversation came to a pause.
“Excuse me, Miss Rosenbaum.” Amelia smiled pleasantly.
“Yes?” Candace’s face looked a little different in real life than it did in all the magazines. Where Amelia had thought she looked rather ageless in the photos, there was an obvious layer of thick makeup doing its best to conceal some discolorations due to the sun and the natural dark shadows that collect underneath the eyes.
Yet there was no denying that diamond earrings did wonders for the complexion. Amelia introduced herself, going along with the ruse that she had somehow channeled Julia Child to ensure every morsel was a culinary delight.
“How fascinating,” Candace gushed. “I may have to hire you for my next dinner party.”
“That’s very kind of you. As it turns out, I have done dinner parties before and was actually at the home of an acquaintance of yours.”
“Really?”
“Bonnie Paffenberger. She said you’ve known each other for some time.” Amelia watched as Candace’s face became grave and stonelike. “Did I say something wrong?”
“I know Bonnie. She was an acquaintance of a man-friend of mine. You probably know him. You would be hard pressed to find a woman at this event who didn’t.” She stepped back and looked Amelia up and down. “You fit his profile. You’re a woman.” Candace chuckled then cleared her throat.
“Are you referring to Spencer Randall?” Amelia replied.
“The one and only.” Candace grabbed a flute of champagne from a tall thin fellow in a tuxedo, who was balancing at least six more glasses on a silver platter as he passed by. Amelia watched her take a deep gulp. “Let me guess. He took you for a ride, too? I hope you set him up with his own bank account instead of linking him to yours. I heard some love-struck kitten gave in to true love and it ended up costing her her life savings.” She took another gulp.
“I’m not sure if you are aware, but he turned up dead yesterday.” Amelia watched as Candace looked sideways and then took another sip.
“How did he die?” She looked off into the distance and fidgeted with the rings on her fingers. Amelia noticed two Band-Aids on her right hand between the thumb and first finger.
“Beaten with a pipe. Or maybe it was a bat. I can’t remember,” Amelia said.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” Candace nodded as if she already knew this fact. “He didn’t really know how to make friends or influence people.” She chuckled nervously.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Amelia stood still as Candace suddenly glared at her.
“You sure do ask a lot of questions. Why do you want to know?”
“I went to high school with the guy.” Amelia shrugged innocently. “I’m curious to know how the class flirt ended up dead. That’s not so hard to believe, is it?”
“If it were anyone but Spencer Randall, maybe. But we are talking about a world-class lover,” Candace said frankly. “I wasn’t the only one. Your chum Bonnie wasn’t either. I can’t speak for her, but I didn’t have anything to do with his death. If I were you and really wanted to find out what happened to your old high school sweetheart, I’d check in the closets of some of the guests here. Especially those who are conspicuous by their absence.”
“Anyone in particular?” Amelia asked, ignoring the crack about Spencer being her boyfriend.
“Florence Carmichael,” Candace whispered. Her face had become gravely serious, and she appeared to age almost a decade right in front of Amelia. “She was always sloppy. I’m sure she’s left everything but a urine sample at the scene of the crime.”
“What makes you think she had something to do with it?”
“We were in the same prep school. If any girl developed an eating disorder or started pulling out their hair, you can bet one of the f
irst questions the counselors asked was did the girl have any contact with Florence Carmichael.”
“She was that destructive?” Amelia asked.
“Was? She still is.” Candace looked pleased with spreading this particular bit of information. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to mingle with my friends who were invited to this event as guests… not as staff.”
With a whoosh, she turned and stomped away from Amelia in the direction of a group of seven people. They all cheered as she approached, and she smiled elegantly as if she had passed right through Amelia.
Amelia turned back to the bar and spotted Roland watching with wide eyes.
“That looked like one of the more pleasant exchanges with Candace Rosenbaum.” He chuckled nervously. “Did it help you at all?”
“Well, I can’t say she didn’t act suspicious. But I find people with money almost always act that way.” Amelia clicked her tongue.
“You are absolutely right.” Roland nodded and stroked his chin. “That is a very insightful observation.”
“Thanks.” Amelia looked at her watch. “I’m afraid that I don’t see myself getting any further with any of the other guests. Not now that I upset Princess Candace.”
“You are probably right.”
“I think I am going to call it a night.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay?” Roland urged. “You could see my grand finale as I stagger across the room, spill a drink on that guy with the goatee over there—he’s my financial adviser—and then make my exit.”
“I’d love to, but I’ve got to work in the morning.”
“Well, Amelia, thank you for making this event the most exciting one I’ve ever attended.”
“Roland, I would be thrilled if you’d stop by my cupcake truck. The first one is on me.” She handed him a hot pink business card that had a little map on the back showing where the truck was on Food Truck Alley.
“I may just do that,” Roland said as he shook Amelia’s hand pleasantly.
Amelia walked out of the event without anyone noticing her. After hearing Candace’s description of Florence, she was glad the woman hadn’t shown up at the gala. Eating disorders and hair loss were a little scarier than she thought they would be.
“You are looking for a killer, Amelia,” she said out loud as she drove home. “He or she is probably not going to be a loveable, squeezable little fluff ball.”
Chapter Eight
It wasn’t a surprise to find out that Florence Carmichael lived in Amelia’s old neighborhood. When she and John had been together, their home hadn’t been the largest on the block, but it was substantial. There was a day room and a sun room. The back porch was called a three-season room, meaning it could be used almost all year round, even at Christmastime, because it was weather proofed. The kitchen was fit for Gordon Ramsay to bustle about in. There was a fireplace in the living room. The basement was completely furnished. The washer and dryer had their own room. It was a lot of space for two people to drift apart in.
Amelia hadn’t been back to the house since the divorce was final. She hadn’t had any reason to go back to the neighborhood, period. Her friend Christine lived not far away. She ran a house full of growing boys alongside a husband as immature as any man in his forties. They kept her too busy for any regular grown-up play dates.
These days, Amelia’s life consisted of mainly Lila and Beatrice, Dan, and the kids. That was enough to keep Amelia happily out of her old neighborhood.
But this time, she had to go back and face those familiar cul-de-sacs and check out the scene around Florence Carmichael. Even in this fancy neighborhood, there were elite parts that Amelia hadn’t gone to even when she had been living as one of them. The Carmichael Estate was located there.
“Well, this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.” Amelia looked at the paper Adam had written the address on. He’d worked some kind of magic on his computer and managed to get Florence’s address. There were no other Carmichaels listed in the neighborhood, so this had to be the place.
A giant wrought iron “C” in an elegant circle with curlicues around it glared Amelia in the face. She eased her car up closer to the gate and looked around. There was a small box with a camera and speaker to her left.
“This is unbelievable.” She got out of the car and pressed the little red button, assuming that would get someone’s attention if there wasn’t an all-seeing eye watching her already.
“Hello?” came an electronic-sounding voice from the box.
“Hello.” Amelia cleared her throat. “I’m looking for Florence Carmichael. My name is Amelia Harley.”
“This is Florence Carmichael. What is this regarding?”
Amelia cleared her throat again. Her mouth went dry. She just let the words fall out of her mouth without thinking and hoped they’d make sense.
“I was told you were looking for a caterer for your son’s bar mitzvah. Candace Rosenbaum suggested I call on you.”
There was silence on the other end of the intercom. Amelia kept herself professional since she didn’t know if anyone was watching her, but she had the suspicion they were.
The only reply was a noisy buzz as the gate began to open.
Amelia’s heart leapt. She smiled to herself and thought Dan would get a real kick out of this when she told him about it. Maybe when she retired from the cupcake business, she’d start her own private investigation firm. With a little swagger in her step, she got back into her car and drove through the open gate.
However, when it clinked and clanked shut, she realized she was sort of trapped, and Florence might be the person who had killed Spencer.
“You didn’t really think this through, Amelia,” she muttered as she drove up the winding cobblestone driveway. The house was huge, but it had a forest of lush green trees and bushes growing around the entrance to camouflage its real size.
Florence Carmichael was the complete opposite of Candace. Her hair was dyed blond and hung loosely around her face. She wore yoga pants and expensive hot-pink gym shoes that matched her hot-pink tank top. She matched the Pink Cupcake. Amelia thought the woman could bring all kinds of attention to the truck if she’d pose outside holding a tray of samples. The image made her chuckle to herself.
“If this is Candace’s idea of some kind of joke, she’ll be sorry,” Florence barked as soon as Amelia got out of the car.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t have a son, and I’m not even Jewish. What is this all about?”
Thinking quickly, Amelia slapped her forehead and gasped.
“Wait, please don’t blame Candace.” She pulled out her planner, which was stuffed with random notes and papers, making her look very official.
“I scribbled down a couple names at the gala the other night, and I may have crossed the wires somewhere. Are you having a birthday party? Or maybe you were throwing some kind of fundraiser?” Amelia tried to think up a couple more events. There had to be something this social diva was planning that could explain why Amelia was there.
“Are you talking about Senator Walker’s fundraiser?”
Amelia looked down, pointed at a note to pick up dishwasher soap, and nodded.
“I’m so sorry. That’s it, right here. Walker Fundraiser. You know, I always plan to get more organized, and I never seem to hit the mark.” Amelia giggled cheerfully. “Candace Rosenbaum said you were organizing a fundraiser and that you might be in need of a caterer.”
“I hadn’t really given it much thought. I’ve got a bathroom being redone, and it’s such an ordeal.” Florence looked at Amelia and at her car. It didn’t scream “high-end pastry chef.” All it really screamed was “needs new tires and an oil change.”
“Well, that’s all right. I’m sorry to barge in on you.” Amelia pulled out a couple hot-pink business cards and handed them to Florence as if she were afraid she might get bitten by the woman. “I’ll tell Candace at the wake that I spoke to you. Have a good day, Ms. Carmich
ael.”
“What wake?”
Bingo, Amelia thought.
“The wake for Spencer Randall. I believe it’s at three, or maybe it’s two. Better not go by me.” Amelia again put her palm to her forehead. “I’m a mess when it comes to scheduling these days.”
Florence’s tanned face went pale. Her frosted pink lips stood out garishly as she looked nervously at Amelia.
“Oh, yes. I heard about that.” She licked her lips tensely. “Amelia, would you like to come in for a moment?”
“Oh, my. I’ve upset you.” Amelia carefully stepped up to Florence and gently put her hand on her forearm. “I’m so sorry.”
“No,” Florence said as they walked into the great foyer that Amelia could have pulled her car into and still had room for the kids’ bikes and a water heater. “It’s me. Please, have a seat.”
What Amelia would call the front room was an amazing space filled with stark white furniture and dark oak accents including a fireplace so big Amelia was sure she could stand in it. But off to the far left corner, there were tarps hanging over various pieces of furniture and across the marble floor. Pieces of plaster and piping were scattered around. The inside of the bathroom was exposed as if a tornado had touched down on that tiny corner of this huge house.
“Pardon my mess. The bathroom was supposed to take only one week to finish, and here we are in week three.”
“Isn’t that always how it goes?” Amelia tried to sound understanding. “And things always break when we are least capable of dealing with them.”
Florence nodded and looked away wistfully as if she were on stage acting.
“I don’t know if you were aware of this, Amelia. May I call you Amelia?”
“Please.” Amelia took a seat on the white sofa that was so perfectly soft yet firm she was sure her butt felt like it was in heaven. Florence sat on the edge of the armchair across from her.
“Amelia, Spencer and I were engaged to be married.”
