“Some days it’s not easy,” I said. “It’s all part of the job, though.”
He pulled over a wooden stool and perched on it. “Usually Big Jim Wilcox stops by when it’s time to sign up for some more commercials—”
“Oh, I’m not here to sell you airtime,” I said quickly. “I just want to ask you a few questions. About Althea Somerset.”
“Althea Somerset?” He strung out the words slowly, like they were unfamiliar to him. He gave me a passable imitation of someone who was genuinely puzzled, but he was no Al Pacino. I’d give him a seven out of a possible ten on the acting scale.
His right foot was jiggling back and forth like it had a life of its own. A dead giveaway. Nerves. Guilt. Deception. Maybe a mixture of all three?
When I interviewed convicted felons in my forensic work back in Manhattan, the foot tapping was a giveaway. One of the probation officers called it “The Jailhouse Jitterbug.” These guys could look me straight in the eye and manage to keep their voices steady, but their feet told another story. One foot would be dancing away to an invisible mariachi band.
“You have heard of her, right? She was the head of the historical society?” He tore his eyes away from the ceiling and gave a shifty-eyed glance to the right and then to the left. His eyes slid right past my face.
Another long beat passed. It seemed very quiet in the shop; the only sound was the low hum of the air conditioner. Even though it was as chilly as Antarctica, Chris Hendricks was sweating bullets. I decided to press on. “She was murdered last week. You must have seen it. It’s been in all the papers.” Would he deny it? Unless he’d been living in a cave, he’d know that Althea was dead.
When I said the word “murder,” he’d jumped as if I’d just laid a dead fish on his countertop. “Sorry. Did I say something that startled you?”
“No! I mean yes, of course I remember Althea. From the historical society.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. Then his expression shifted and he managed a somber look, something you’d expect from a junior undertaker. “Very sad to hear about her. Probably one of those drugged-up teens from Palm Beach with too much money and time on his hands. I hope they catch the guy.”
“Is that what you think happened?” I let a little note of astonishment creep into my voice. “That she was attacked by a drug-crazed teenager?” I knew he was hiding something, and this bizarre explanation only heightened my suspicions.
“Well sure. Wilding, they call it. Isn’t that what you think happened?” This time he tried for a direct look, his hand wandering over to a crowbar lying on a workbench. He was a skinny guy, but his hands looked powerful, and I felt a little chill go through me.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of that explanation.” Wilding? That expression hasn’t been used since the Central Park jogger case in New York many years ago. If had been a case of wilding, there would be several perpetrators involved, but the lack of trace evidence and fingerprints at the crime scene suggested a single killer.
Chris Hendricks was a liar, and not a very skillful one. “I really wanted to talk to you about a painting Althea had hanging in the front hall.”
“Really? Which one?” He studiously kept his face a mask as he reached for a watercolor and began taking apart the framing. He caught me staring at him. “You don’t mind if I work while we talk, do you? I’ve got a rush order on this frame.” His hands were trembling, and maybe he figured it would be less obvious if he kept them busy.
“No, go right ahead.” I forced a little smile, and my pulse went up a notch. This guy was definitely creeping me out.
“So which painting are you talking about?”
“It was a landscape in the style of Joshua Riggs. A very bad Joshua Riggs. It had an ornate frame, one of those gilt ones with fat cherubs playing tag with each other. It was awful. Althea wanted something simpler. I heard she was planning to bring it into the shop so you could take a look at it.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Joshua Riggs. Never heard of him.” He answered too quickly. He didn’t even think about it; the words spilled out in a rush. If he’d been smarter, he’d have stalled, pretending to jog his memory. That would have made him seem more credible.
“But you do remember talking about reframing a painting for her? Sometime during the past week?”
He put the crowbar down and leaned his elbows on the workspace. I could see a flash of naked fear creeping into his eyes. “You know, I do remember her asking me about making a new frame for a painting. Funny, that slipped my mind.” He gave a little shrug. “I’ve been so busy, I can hardly think straight.” An obvious lie. The shop was empty, and the stock looked dusty, as if no one had touched it in a long time.
I decided to take a wild chance. “But did she bring the painting here, into the shop? Or did you go see her at the historical society?”
They call this a “forced choice” question because the person being interviewed has to choose between A and B. Once you pose the question this way, it’s much harder for him to say he never saw the painting at all. You just don’t give him this option, and usually it works. He has to choose A or B.
It worked. I felt a little zing of pleasure when Chris Hendricks took the bait. “She brought it in here to the shop,” he said in a rush. “It was just the other day.” Funny how his memory had suddenly improved.
He was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. His glasses started their inevitable downward slide again, and he jammed them back in place with his index finger.
“What happened when she came to the shop?”
“Althea showed me the painting. Like I just said.” He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“The Joshua Riggs?”
“Yes.” A few minutes ago, he’d never heard of Joshua Riggs. It’s always fascinating to see how easy it is to trip someone up.
“And then what?”
“I could see what the problem was. She was right. The painting was overshadowed by the frame. It was way too heavy.” He shrugged. “Some people like those Victorian frames with a bunch of curlicues and doodads, but I think it detracts from the painting.” He stopped talking again, so I just stared at him.
“Althea wanted it reframed.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes.” He swallowed. He had a prominent Adam’s apple, and it looked like a walnut bobbing up and down in his throat. “I quoted Althea a price, but she thought it was too high.”
“Is that so?”
“She always thought the price was too high. You know how these old ladies are. They’re out of touch with what things cost these days. Althea asked me if I could give her a discount because the historical society is a nonprofit.”
“What did you tell her?” I kept my voice neutral.
He spread his hands. “I told her I’d go out of business if I started reducing my prices.” He cast a pleading look my way. “A guy’s gotta stay in business, doesn’t he? Everybody and their brother-in-law wants something for nothing. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
He’d moved away from the workbench and was giving me an aw-shucks smile. Mr. Nice Guy. As if I’d buy it! It was wasted on me because something else had caught my eye. I edged closer to him, still talking. I kept my voice low and conversational.
“What happened then?”
“She left with the painting. I never saw it again.”
“Was it overcast that day?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Overcast? Yes, it was. I remember the sky was gray and it looked like it was going to rain any second. You could feel the humidity in the air. I figured there was a storm coming.” The words spilled out of him like candies from a piñata. When people are lying, they tend to tell you way too much detail, and I wanted to see how he’d handle a silly question.
He handled it the way a liar would. He answered it immediately, and he told me more than I needed to know.
Something on the corkboard top of the work surface caught my att
ention. Tiny blue sprinkles, like confetti. Just a little cluster of them dotting one corner of the surface. Where had I seen those blue dots before?
The historical society. A memory kicked in like a freeze-frame in my mind, and it heightened my suspicions. My danger meter went on red alert, and I decided to get out of there as fast as I could.
“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” I said, making tracks for the door. “Thanks for your time.”
Chapter 24
Vera Mae called me on my cell as I was peeling down Main Street, headed to WYME.
“Where’ve you been, girl?” A little edge of worry flared under her warm molasses drawl. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for the past twenty minutes.”
“Sorry. I must have had the phone turned off. What’s up?”
“How long will it take you to get to the station?” A sharp intake of breath and then, “Stop whatever you’re doin’, because you need to get down here as fast as you can.” I heard an excited buzz of conversation in the background. Something big must be going on at WYME. Or as Vera Mae would say, “hellzapoppin.”
“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Why?”
“Turn on the news, hon. Chantel is the big story this morning.”
“Chantel? You mean she made another prediction? That’s hardly news. That’s her stock-in-trade.”
“Not a prediction, sweetie. She’s been taken into custody by the Cypress Grove PD.”
“Whaaat?” I made a fast left onto Prince Street, tires squealing, and the guy in the car behind me blasted me with his horn before flipping me off.
“You heard me. She’s down at headquarters right this minute. I know Rafe’s been tryin’ to get up with you. He called here for you a couple of times, and he told me he was going to try your cell. You’ve got to remember to leave that thing turned on, sugar.”
“I know. I know,” I muttered. I pulled over to the curb and checked my messages. I couldn’t believe my rotten luck. Rafe had called four times while I was wasting time talking with Chris Hendricks.
But what had Rafe come up with? How could everything have hit the fan so fast?
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Vera Mae. Why did they bring her in?”
“They’re questioning her about the murders, hon.” She paused. “Wait a sec. I’ve got to talk to Kevin.” She must have slapped her hand over the phone, because her next words were muffled. Suddenly she was back on the line with me, excited and breathless.
“Okay, Kevin said that’s the last he heard, but it seems to be changing minute by minute. At first they said she was a person of interest. But now it seems more serious than that. Kevin doesn’t know if she’s really been charged with murder or maybe she’s just an accessory.” She sounded like she’d just run up a flight of stairs, but I knew she was just jazzed over the latest developments.
“Rafe told you all this?” I was still scrambling to make sense of it.
“No, Rafe was pretty closemouthed. I’m just going by what I heard from Big Jim Wilcox. And you know what he’s like. He might not have gotten his facts right. Maybe they just brought her in for questioning. Who knows? The point is, she’s down at the police station right now.”
So much for having her own show at WYME. A snarky thought, but I couldn’t help it. That woman had been a thorn in my side since the first moment she’d come to town. And now she’d been hauled down to the police station. Career suicide, right? It didn’t matter how it all turned out; she’d always be tainted by the charge. Her career in broadcasting was over, and maybe even her book deal.
Unless it was all a mistake? I shook my head in frustration. There were too many “if onlys” in the mix to really analyze the situation.
“Cyrus had planned big things for her at the station. I bet he’s pulling his hair out by the handfuls right now.”
“Damn straight, hon. He is.” Vera Mae chortled. “Or what he has left of it.”
Cyrus has one of the worst comb-overs I’ve ever seen. He keeps a can of industrial-strength hair spray hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk, just to keep the spaghetti-like strands glued in place.
“Big Jim’s leaving in a few minutes to do a remote from down there. It’s gonna be interesting to see how this all plays out. That’s for sure. A break in the murder case is going to trump any news features on the time capsule ceremony. I’d bet money on it.” I just realized I hadn’t asked a very important question.
“But which murder is it?” My thoughts were racing. I still couldn’t get my mind around the fact that the police had arrested Chantel. “What’s that?”
“Which murder?” I repeated. I found myself shouting into the phone.
“What, hon? I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.”
“Who was it—Althea or Mildred? Who do they think Chantel killed?”
“We don’t know that yet.” Vera Mae came through loud and clear.
“How is that possible?” My thoughts were buzzing. I was still struggling to connect Chantel with either—or both—of the victims.
She’d held a séance at the historical society, but that was a dead end. I’d been suspicious of Chantel from the start, but facts were facts, and I never had any concrete evidence. Maybe Rafe was way ahead of me, though, because apparently he did. He never would have brought her in unless he thought he had a strong case. I told myself it was silly to speculate. I had to get down to WYME and see what was going on for myself.
There was another interruption while Vera Mae put the phone down for at least ten seconds. When she came back she said, “Gotta run, Maggie. See you in five.”
Five? I sharked down Prince Street, slid through the next three intersections on yellow, and got to WYME in record time.
Big Jim was standing in the lobby, chatting up Irina. “I need to have an open line,” he said, puffing his chest out with pride. “I’ll be sending in breaking news alerts from the police department as they happen.” You’d think he was Chris Hansen from Dateline, not a radio sports announcer from a little backwater town in south Florida.
Irina was busy filing her nails and barely looked up at him. She reached for a bottle of nail polish. Flamingo Pink. “Open line. I get it for you. You will haf it,” she said in a bored tone. “You will haf everything you neet. I make it happen.”
“What’s going on, Jim?” I asked. I tried to breathe through my mouth. Big Jim was drenched in stinky cologne again. The guy was the size of a jukebox, and he looked enormous in his pale blue blazer.
“The first break in the double murder case, that’s what!” He took a step closer to me, peering at my face. “This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.” I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “Career-wise.”
I nodded. “Ah, I see. Yes, this could be the big one.”
He gave me a hard look to see whether I was mocking him, but I kept my expression neutral.
Vera Mae flew into the lobby and grabbed me by the arm. “C’mon back to my office, Maggie. We’ve got to plan today’s show.”
“What’s on the schedule?” I usually check to see who my guest is, but I’d been so rattled by the meeting with Chris Hendricks down at the frame shop that I hadn’t gotten around to it. I wondered whether this news about Chantel knocked out my suspicions about the picture framer.
If Chantel was in as a murder suspect, did that mean Chris Hendricks was out? I didn’t know how to fit Chantel into the puzzle, and I needed more information.
Vera Mae was talking nonstop as she pulled me down the hallway to her office. I tried to duck into the break room for a quick cup of joe, but she plucked at my elbow, propelling me forward. “I got your coffee all ready for you, just the way you like it.” I must have hesitated, because she added, “Hazelnut double roast. And a bear claw. Plus a lemon cream.”
I smiled. “You had me at the bear claw.”
We zipped into her cluttered office and she shut the door. She whisked a pile of legal pads off the visitor’s chair so I’d have a place to s
it, and then she threw herself into her swivel desk chair. The coffee and doughnuts were laid out neatly on her desktop. She whipped a pencil out from behind her ear and tapped it on her mouse pad.
“Okay, Maggie, we’ve got to figure out how we’re gonna play this. Cyrus wants a meeting with me thirty minutes before showtime. He wants to know our game plan.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Our game plan?”
“He wants to know how much information we should release about Chantel.”
“Why can’t we just go with the truth? The cops brought her in for questioning, and that’s all we know.”
“Cyrus is worried about the sponsors. The last thing he wants is any hint of a scandal.”
“If that’s the case, I think we should say as little as possible. You could even mention that she’s helping with the investigation.” I couldn’t believe that I was actually sticking up for Chantel. Maggie Walsh, team player.
“Helping with the investigation. That sounds good, hon. What does Rafe have to say?”
“I haven’t gotten back with him yet.” I sipped the coffee; it was very strong, just the way I like it. I felt a little jolt go through my system, and then I suddenly felt more alert. “So Big Jim is covering everything down at the police station.”
“Only because you weren’t available. If you can get some information out of Rafe, something that we can go public with, we can run it as a news item right now.” Vera Mae pushed her desk phone toward me. “Do it, hon.”
I nodded. Time to call Rafe.
He answered on the first ring. “Martino,” he barked. Then he must have looked at the readout, because his voice softened. “Maggie, where have you been?”
“A long story. What’s going on with Chantel?”
“This is off the record, right?”
“If it has to be.”
“She showed up on Clemson’s security tape. She was trying to get in Vera Mae’s back door last night.”
“So those cameras were real?” Funny, I never thought we’d get a break like this.
Stay Tuned for Murder Page 20
