by Lois Winston
“Sorry about that,” I said a bit nervously. “We don’t usually have that kind of caller on the show.” I glanced at Molly who had suddenly blanched, two bright spots of color on her cheeks, her lips pressed tightly together. “Let’s go back to where we were, shall we?” I said brightly.
A confused look crossed her face. “I have no idea what that person was talking about,” she said in a quiet voice.
“No worries, let’s move on and open the lines for some questions. Vera Mae, who’s our next caller?” I glanced at Vera Mae through the control room window. She gamely gave me a thumbs-up sign. It’s rare that nasty callers get by Vera Mae’s quick reflexes.
Vera Mae flipped open the mic. “Jenny from Coral Gables wants to know if Mayfair House was haunted and if there are any secret passageways.”
“I can answer that,” Molly said, regaining her composure. “I can say definitively that there haven’t been any ghostly sightings in the time I’ve been associated with Mayfair House. The mansion goes back to the eighteen hundreds and many houses in that era seem to have their resident ghosts, but Mayfair House is the exception.” She sat back with a sense of relief on her face. I knew she’d been nervous about the interview and maybe now she realized it wouldn’t be that difficult after all.
“And the secret passageways?” Jenny asked. She had a sweet melodious voice with a touch of a Georgia accent. “I’ve heard that many of those houses had rooms to hide runaway slaves, that sort of thing. Or maybe even bottles of rum.”
“Well,” Molly stalled for a moment, thinking. “We’ve never discovered anything about runaway slaves and as far as I know, there are no secret rooms with rum.”
I met her gaze and she flushed a little. Naturally she knew about the speakeasy, it was on the scavenger hunt map, but the police were keeping quiet about the secret room behind it. And I still had no idea what was in the secret room. Vera Mae had seen shelves, I remembered, but it had been too dark to see much else.
We took another call from Sara in Jacksonville who wanted to know what would happen to Mayfair House now that Greg Towner was dead.
“We’ll go ahead with our plans,” she said resolutely. “All of us are mourning his death, of course, but Greg put a great deal of work and dedication into the project and he wouldn’t want us to abandon it.” She tilted her chin up defiantly as if she expected me to disagree with her.
I wanted to ask her what would happen to Greg’s architectural plans but I didn’t dare open that line of questioning on the air.
The half hour drew to a close and mercifully no one asked about Greg’s affair with the flashy Shari Phillips or the wife and children he had abandoned. Either common decency forbade them from questioning Molly or they just weren’t aware of his extracurricular activities.
“That went well,” Vera Mae said, popping into the studio at the end of the hour. “You did great, honey,” she said to Molly. “Sorry about the troll. I cut him off as soon as I could. Every once in a while, we get a call like that, thankfully, not too often. I’ve found the best thing to do is just ignore it and not engage in conversation with them. They love it if the guest gets rattled.”
Molly drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “That’s okay. I wasn’t going to let him bother me. I tried to give as much information as I could about the arts center and what a great thing it will be for Cypress Grove,” Molly said with a touch of shyness.
“And you succeeded,” I told her. “You’re a real trouper. I’d love to have you back on the show sometime.”
She stood up and I figured she was eager to make her departure. Live radio is always a strain, even on seasoned performers, and it’s especially tough on people who aren’t in entertainment. I had to admit that Molly had held her own with the callers and it had been a reasonably good show. I wanted to ask her more questions about Mayfair House but decided to wait until another day. We said our good-byes and I headed back to Vera Mae’s office.
“What did you think? I asked, settling into a comfy chair. I saw that the croissants were gone, but Vera Mae had a whole box of my favorite donuts from The Crusty Cruller down the street. They advertise with us and send over a selection of their goodies from time to time.
“It was a good show,” she said. She nodded at the box of pastries. “Grab one now before Big Jim makes the rounds again. He’s already snared two of them and will probably come back for a third.”
Right on cue, Big Jim stuck his head in the door. “Hey, nice show, Maggie. Murder seems to follow you everywhere, doesn’t it?” He was obviously referring to a couple of other murder investigations I’ve been involved in. “You could be the Jessica Fletcher of Cypress Grove.” He chortled at his own humor and wrapped two donuts in a paper towel.
Irina Yaslov, our beautiful blonde receptionist and copywriter, walked into Vera Mae’s office just as Big Jim bustled his way out. He gave her a broad wink and said, “Hey, don’t hit the donuts too hard, sweetheart, you don’t want to ruin that cute little shape.” He leered at her slim figure, encased in a white pencil skirt from Ann Taylor and a gauzy sky-blue blouse. He maneuvered himself close to her in the narrow doorway and was all set to brush against her, but she put her palms flat against his chest and gave him a hard push.
“Idiotsky,” she murmured.
Irina arrived from Sweden last year and English is barely a second language for her. This leads to a lot of comical mistakes which Vera Mae tries to catch before they go on the air. “Here is new copy for Cary’s Funeral Home commercial,” Irina said, passing Vera Mae a piece of paper. “I think this time I got it right. At Cary’s, we leave no stone unturned to help you. Is okay this time? Better than first attempt, no?” She raised her eyebrows at Vera Mae, waiting expectantly.
“Sure hon, this is fine.” Vera Mae and I exchanged a quick smile.
“What was the first version?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“It was very short and how you say, snappy,” Irina said. “If I were a corpse, I’d go to Cary’s.”
I had no comment to that and watched as Irina carefully broke off half a plain donut and headed back to the front desk.
“Land sakes, look at that girl,” Vera Mae said. “It takes a lot of self-discipline to eat only half of a Crusty Cruller. Do you suppose we could look like Irina if we did that?” She sounded almost wistful.
I laughed. “We’d never look like Irina. Not even if we lived on lettuce leaves and Twizzlers for the rest of our lives.”
“Speaking of food,” Vera Mae said, “Nick Harrison called and wants us to meet at Gino’s tonight to go over the case. What do you think?”
“I’m game,” I told her. “Mom’s visiting me so I need to include her.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll call him back and confirm for six-thirty.”
~*~
But first I needed to call Rafe and he suggested a quick drink at Moonflower, a trendy bar on Olive Street just a few blocks from WYME. He was waiting for me at a booth and stood up when I hurried inside. For a moment, my eyes couldn’t adjust after the blinding Florida sunshine and then a wave of emotion body-slammed when he was at my side, pulling me into a hug. “I have to work tonight,” he murmured into my hair, “otherwise…” He let his voice trail off in a sexy way that made my heart do a little flip-flop. My “otherwise” would have been the same as his “otherwise.”
“That’s okay,” I said a little breathlessly, “Lola and I are having dinner with Nick this evening to discuss the case. I hope you can bring me up to speed. We can trade notes.” I slipped into a red leather booth and saw that Rafe had already ordered virgin mojitos, which is the signature drink at Moonflower. I took a sip and sighed with pleasure. It was cool, tart and delicious.
“Molly Sanders was on the show today,” I said.
“I tuned in for a few minutes,” Rafe said, letting his eyes skim over me and I smiled at him. Rafe has black hair, worn on the longish side that tends to curl up in the back in a very sexy way. The word on the street is t
hat he never gets too involved with anyone. He’s had a string of girlfriends, but he makes sure he can walk away at a moment’s notice. An “exit strategy,” as Vera Mae would say. Vera Mae is fond of Rafe but she advises me against putting my heart on the chopping block.
“What did you think?” I asked reminding myself to “cool my jets” as he moved closer to me.
“She was better than I thought.” His face telegraphed a cautious look. “And she kept her cool when the creepy guy called in.”
“You sound like you’re suspicious of her,” I said in surprise. As far as I knew, no one had a bad word to say about the community organizer.
“Maybe not suspicious,” Rafe explained, “just a little wary. I don’t think she’s as ditzy as she pretends to be. What did she say about the mystery caller? Was she embarrassed? Did she have any explanation?”
“No, of course not.” I took another sip and leaned back against the soft leather, wishing we could spend the evening here. “We both just wrote it off as a jerk with too much time on his hands.”
“Are you seeing her again?”
“Yes, I have to. I’m returning a folder she left at the station.”
“Do me a favor,” he said, leaning close to me, his dark eyes intent. “Ask her what she thinks the caller was referring to.”
“Wow,” I said in a low voice. Rafe must think there was something there. “I will, but I don’t think she’s going to come up with anything.”
Rafe gave a sardonic laugh. “You never know.”
I glanced at my watch and realized I’d have to hustle to get back to WYME, pick up Vera Mae, head home for Lola and get to Gino’s on time. “Are there any breaks in the case?”
A long beat. Rafe shrugged, outlining the salt on the rim of the mojito glass with his index finger. “We working on a profile of Greg Towner,” he said slowly. “Did he have any enemies, was he involved in any dodgy business dealings, did he know any secrets…”
“I think old Mr. Morgan would have vetted him pretty carefully before hiring him to do the restoration,” I offered. Know any secrets? “He was keeping a few secrets of his own,” I said, holding back a snort.
“A good point,” Rafe agreed. “And then there’s Shari Phillips. What do we really know about her, except that she’s a first-wife’s nightmare. There might be a story there. A jealous ex-boyfriend? Or ex-husband?”
“I haven’t heard anything about that, but I can try to track it down.”
Rafe nodded. He knew that Cypress Grove is a small, tight-lipped little town. Sometimes people will open up to a friend or neighbor sooner than they will to the police.
“There’s something I’ve been curious about,” I said, wishing I had brought a notebook. “Why did Greg go down to the speakeasy? Do we know?”
“Yes and no,” Rafe replied. “Shari Phillips told me he suddenly had a call or a text and he jumped up from his chair and left the living room to take it. That’s the last she ever saw of him.”
“She has no idea what the message was?”
“Nope. And his cell phone is missing, so no help there.”
I thought for a moment, trying to process this new development. A message from someone lured Greg down to the speakeasy and to his death. Was it threatening? A call for help? We’d never know unless the Cypress PD found the phone.
“What did you find in the storeroom?”
“Lots of really old wine,” Rafe said, “but I have no idea if it’s valuable or even drinkable.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I said, finishing the last delicious drops of my mojito and standing up. Rafe put some folded bills on the table and escorted me to my car parked outside.
“What angle of the case are you and your pals working?” He tossed me a grin. Rafe likes to tease me about my amateur sleuthing but he knows from past history that I’ve come up with some interesting leads that have helped the Cypress PD close cases.
“I’m looking into Key West, Cuba and stolen wine,” I said blithely.
The look of surprise on his face was priceless. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that.” He scratched his chin as if he was trying to make sense of it. “You’ll call me when you have something definite?”
“Of course,” I said, opening my door and slipping behind the wheel.
“You’re not going to even give me a little hint?” His tone was bantering, but I knew I’d have to throw him a bone or he wouldn’t keep me in the loop After all, exchanging information is a two-way street.
“Bacchus.” I kept my voice neutral.
“Bacchus?” He frowned. “The god of wine?” He looked perplexed. “That’s the hint? Can’t you expand on that?”
“Bacchus and a wine dealer named Gavin Benson,” I said, relenting as I started the car and hit the AC. “I’ll call you tonight if I get any bombshells from Nick.” And with that, I drove off. As my Mom tells me, “Always better leave ’em wanting more.”
~*~
I was curious to see what Nick had come up with on the Greg Towner murder. We hadn’t spoken since that night at the mansion, and I knew he’d been assigned to the case. Nick is a photojournalist who writes for the tiny Cypress Grove Gazette, while waiting and hoping for his big break. He wants to become an investigative reporter for the Miami Herald but right now he needs to build up his resume. The Greg Towner murder could be a high-profile case that might gather a lot of attention from the big papers and speed him on his way.
My mom adores Nick, and if there weren’t at least thirty years between them, she’d be making a play for him. She put on her best black linen shift when I told her we were having dinner with Nick.
“Mom, we’re only going to Gino’s,” I reminded her.
She grinned at me. “A girl likes to look her best.” She added a long silver pendant necklace to the outfit and silver hoop earrings. A pair of black Jimmy Choos—bought at a ridiculously low price at a consignment store—completed the outfit. “You know, you could spruce yourself up a bit, my dear.” Her eyes skimmed over my white wrap skirt and black tank top.
We arrived at Gino’s and grabbed a table in the back. Gino’s is popular with families, a great favorite with the business crowd and a hit with anyone who wants great Italian food at reasonable prices. We ordered unsweetened tea for ourselves and sweetened tea for Nick.
I’d brought my notebook and we were going over the suspect list when Nick arrived.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me. “We’re doing a Sunday special on Mayfair House and I had to come up with some background material.”
“I just remembered something,” Vera Mae said, looking up from the menu. “Molly left her Mayfair House folder at the station today. We’ll have to get it back to her.”
“Let me go through it first,” I suggested. “And I’ll drop it by her house, that will give me an excuse to chat with her.”
“Good thinking,” Vera Mae agreed.
“Does it have anything I can use for the Sunday article?” Nick asked. He paused briefly as we all gave our orders to the server. Manicotti for Vera Mae and me, and lasagna for Nick and Mom. Everything at Gino’s is delicious, so it’s always a tough call.
“I doubt it,” I said, when the server had scooped up our menus and disappeared. “She was flipping through it in the break room and it looked like a bunch of press clippings. Nothing new or interesting.”
Vera Mae reached for a breadstick. “I took the folder away from her,” she said, “because I was afraid she was going to read from it on the air. I left it in my office and plumb forgot about it.”
“I’m glad you lifted it,” I agreed. “Molly was clutching it like a security blanket.”
“How did she do on the air?” Nick asked.
“Not bad,” I told him. “She was a little nervous at first but seemed to hit her stride about fifteen minutes into the show.”
“That’s when that jerk called,” Mom interjected. “I was listening at home.” She m
ade a face. “The nerve of some people. I’m sure it was somebody’s idea of a prank. Probably hoping to rattle her.”
“What did the caller say?” Nick looked puzzled.
“Something like, ‘Greg Towner got what he deserved. The truth always comes out.’ The voice was electronically altered. I get goose bumps, just thinking about it.”
“Sounds grim,” Nick agreed. “How much do we know about Molly Sanders, anyway?” He had downed his iced tea and looked like he wanted something stronger. Maybe a nice cold draft beer.
“Not much, at least, no salacious gossip,” Vera Mae said with a twinkle in her eye. “Molly has been a community organizer for at least three decades, like her mother before her. She lives alone, has never been married and as far as I can tell, she devotes herself to charitable causes.”
“She sounds positively saintly,” Mom piped up. “I wonder if she enjoys her life,” she added, chewing on a breadstick. “All those good deeds can be exhausting.” She chuckled, lifting an eyebrow. I’ve learned not to take Mom’s pronouncements too seriously. Sometimes she says things for effect.
“I think so,” Vera Mae said. “She has the garden club, her book club, the women’s service society, the food bank and of course the Mayfair House Preservation Society.”
“How much clout do those old dears have?” Nick asked thoughtfully. “Is it just an honorary thing, or do they really have anything to do with running the mansion? That might be helpful for the investigation.”
“I think old Mr. Morgan had a lot of faith in them,” Vera offered. “Don’t forget, those two daughters of his, Claudia and Celine, are both a dead loss. They never had any interest in the estate and had hardly any contact with their father once they moved away.”
“Is there a story there? Why they left Cypress Grove and broke off contact with Mr. Morgan?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” Vera Mae said. She paused while the server placed salads in front of us. At Gino’s, they chill the salad plates, a nice touch. “One of my neighbors taught both girls in high school and she said they were a bit odd. Socially awkward, kept to themselves. A pair of ‘cold fish,’ she called them.”
