“Here she comes,” Vera Mae whispered. “Play nice.”
“Hello, Maggie,” Chantel said. Her eyes darted to Vera Mae and back to me, as if she knew we’d been talking about her. I tried to keep my expression neutral. She spotted the sheaf of promos I was holding. “I bet those are for the time capsule. Looks like a busy day for both of us in the production room.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” Her mouth twisted in a sneer. “I’ve been assigned a ton of promos.” She lowered her voice to a silky purr. “It’s going to take hours, but I have to do it. Cyrus says I’ve got the perfect voice for radio.”
“So we’re both doing the time capsule promos?” I asked. It came out shriller than I intended, but I was feeling pretty territorial at the moment. It was more than the promos; I hated the idea that she was intruding on my turf. Not that there was much turf to protect anymore.
As Irina would say in one of her favorite mixed metaphors, “The barn door is open and that ship has already sailed.”
“Cyrus asked me to do them as a personal favor,” she added snidely. “I told him I don’t usually do promos, but it’s for a good cause, so I’m willing to play along. After all, the time capsule celebration is important in the town’s history. If it brings some attention to Cypress Grove, I suppose that’s a good thing. Who knows? It might even put this place on the map.”
“But I thought you chose Cypress Grove because it’s not on the map,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You said you liked the rustic charm, the small-town feel of the place.” The words hung in the air, and she narrowed her eyes, shooting me a hard look. Then she gave a forced little laugh.
“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? Well, a girl’s allowed to change her mind, you know.” She drummed her fingers on the desktop for a moment. “Now that I’ve learned about the radio business, I think I’ve found my true calling.” She turned to Vera Mae. “I’ll be in the production room if you need me. I want to choose some music to go under the spots. Something classical with strings, but not elevator music.”
“Sure, hon, that’s fine. I’ll be there in a few.”
Chantel turned to leave and was about to step into the hall, when Vera Mae’s voice stopped her.
“Chantel, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Something personal.” Chantel turned, her expression guarded. “Is this your first time in Cypress Grove? Because you sure look familiar to me.” She stepped closer and peered at Chantel under the harsh fluorescent lights. “I just can’t place you, but I’m sure we’ve met before. You feel it too, don’t you?”
Chantel pinned Vera Mae with an icy glare, clutching her Gucci knockoff handbag to her chest, a defensive gesture. “I don’t think so.” She tried a light little laugh but couldn’t quite pull it off. “People tell me that all the time. Maybe I have a double.”
For a split second, I saw one of those microexpressions that psychologist Paul Ekman had discovered. I looked into her eyes, and my own eyes widened in surprise. What was I seeing? Fear? Apprehension? Maybe even panic?
“See you later,” Chantel said abruptly and sailed out the door.
“Well, she didn’t take the bait, did she?” Vera Mae said, fiddling with some tapes.
“Not at all. I think you caught her off guard, though. She’s got to be hiding something.”
Vera Mae nodded and closed her cubicle door. “Speaking of hiding something”—she bent down and retrieved a cardboard box from under her desk—“here are some of Mildred’s papers. I think you and I should have a look at them together. I put the interesting ones on top.”
“I didn’t know you had a chance to go through them. I was going to do that tonight.” I thought of my meeting with Gina Raeburn over at the library. She was hinting that I’d find something significant in Mildred’s papers; I was sure of it.
“I didn’t go through all of them, but I found some unusual things in there.” She shot me a meaningful glance. “Do you want to take a quick look now? We have about thirty minutes before we have to get things rolling for the show.”
“Sure. Let’s do it. Two heads are better than one.”
“But not three heads.” Vera Mae put her finger to her lips and pointed to the bottom of her office door. Was someone standing there? Or maybe it was just a shadow. She raced to the door, pulled it open, and stared up and down the corridor. “That woman’s making me paranoid,” she said, returning to her desk. “But you know what they say, Maggie: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”
I grinned at her. “Let’s get started. Show me what you found.”
We spent the next half hour going over a strange collection of Mildred’s personal papers. Some were printouts of e-mails she’d sent to other librarians in south Florida, and I copied down their names and addresses. I knew that Mildred was doing her own research on the time capsule and especially on Mr. Paley, the patriarch of the prominent south Florida family. All I found were Mildred’s requests for information; there was no hint of what the responses had been. Had she been successful in her quest? Is that what ultimately led to her death?
“This here looks like a journal entry.” Vera Mae passed me a handwritten sheet from a file. The heading on the page was October 18, but that didn’t mean anything. There was no year listed. “I never expected Miss Mildred to keep a diary, but that’s what this looks like.”
“It sure does. A page from a journal.” I scanned the lines. The text was a bit overwrought, and Miss Mildred seemed to be in emotional distress. “She’s talking about regret, about making mistakes”—I skipped down to the bottom of the page—“and here she says that some things can’t be undone.” I looked at Vera Mae. “Do you suppose she’s talking about herself? What could she have done that she regrets?”
“I can’t imagine. I’ve known her for thirty years.” She passed me another sheet. It had the header November 12. “Read this one.”
No matter how much time goes by, and how many ways I say I’m sorry, it seems some actions can never be undone. My choices have had consequences that I couldn’t have foreseen. I never planned on ruining anyone’s life. I’ve always had a strict idea of what is right and what is wrong, but maybe I’ve been too rigid in my thinking. Maybe justice should be tempered with mercy. I fear that C.K. will never forgive me. I’ve begged her, but she refuses. Her heart is hard, but then, who am I to judge? I think I have ruined her life.
“Wow,” I said softly. “This is heavy stuff. It does sound like Miss Mildred did something she was ashamed of, maybe something innocent that backfired. I really don’t know what to make of it.”
“Neither do I. And I wonder who C.K. is,” Vera Mae said, chewing on the end of her pencil. “It can’t be Chantel. Her last name is Carrington.”
“It wasn’t always Carrington.” I put the paper back in the box, on top of the others.
“What do you mean?”
“Chantel Carrington is a made-up name, a stage name. A pen name. Her real name is Carla Krasinski. At least it used to be.” I paused, thinking. “Of course, that was a long time ago. She might have had several different names since then.”
“C.K. Carla Krasinski. That would be quite a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ll say. I’ve got to talk to Rafe about this. And a few other things,” I added, remembering the blue paint chips. I wondered how long it would take to get them analyzed and whether they would tie Chris Hendricks to Althea’s murder. If anyone was taking bets on Althea’s killer, my money would be on him.
“Do you think Chantel was involved somehow in Miss Mildred’s murder? And maybe even Miss Althea’s?”
“I think Chantel isn’t telling us the whole story. I think she had a relationship with Miss Mildred, maybe one that went back a long time. And for some reason, she doesn’t want to come clean about it. But I don’t think she killed her.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t picture her as a killer. She’s not my favorite person in the wo
rld, but no, I don’t think she’s a murderer.”
“Then who killed Althea and Mildred?”
“I’m still working on that.” I chewed on my bottom lip.
“There could be two separate killers,” Vera Mae said slowly. “I know we’ve been thinking the crimes were linked, but is there anything that concretely ties the two crimes together?”
I shook my head. “Not really. They could be completely separate. Maybe we were putting too much stock in coincidence. Both were elderly women. Both had lived here all their lives.” I bit back a sigh. “But you’re right. The crimes might be completely unrelated.”
My mind flew back to the microfiche ledger with Shalimar Hennessey’s name written on it. The idea of Shalimar doing historical research was as unlikely as Pugsley taking up quantum physics.
I had a gut instinct that Shalimar was involved in Mildred’s murder, but I couldn’t prove it. I also believed that Chris Hendricks was involved in Althea’s death and couldn’t prove it.
What was my game plan? I was planning my next move when Vera Mae’s eyes bulged like Homer Simpson’s and she let out a gasp.
“Holy buckets, girl! Look at the clock!” She jumped to her feet, clutching her trusty clipboard to her chest. “We can’t worry about this anymore, sugar. We’ve got a show to do.”
Chapter 28
The show went well. One of my guests, Jon Tidings, was a retired architect, an authority on south Florida homes, and a history buff. The other guest was Shirley Taub, a local historian and gardening expert who’d written a book about indigenous flowers and shrubs. They both painted an interesting picture of Cypress Grove at the turn of the century, and the switchboard stayed lit up throughout the show.
As Vera Mae would say, it was a “solid show.” Not the type of show that would rock the ratings or lead to a local Emmy for WYME, but it was educational and entertaining. I figure it ranked a six on a scale of one to ten.
We were heavy on history and academic experts at the moment, in honor of the time capsule ceremony. Next week, we could go back to our usual mix of zany callers and light, off-the-wall topics, like people who eat Häagen-Dazs in their sleep and women who are shopaholics.
I checked the log book and saw that Vera Mae had already scheduled a Monday show on hoarders, which would surely pull in the ratings. Tuesday was devoted to why spouses cheat, which is always a hot-button topic. I looked for Chantel’s name on the schedule and didn’t see it. She wasn’t listed as a guest host on my show, and she wasn’t listed as a solo host.
Interesting. Maybe Cyrus was waiting to see which way the wind blew on the popular medium. My gut instinct told me there was something going on with Chantel, but not murder. I kept waiting for all the pieces to arrange themselves into a pattern in my mind, but it just wasn’t happening.
“Not bad,” Vera Mae said as we finished the last commercial and closed the show. Today she was wearing a T-shirt that said, I’M NOT SUFFERING FROM INSANITY. I’M ENJOYING EVERY MINUTE OF IT. She took off her headphones and wandered into the studio chewing on a Twizzler. “The lines stayed busy pretty much all the time.”
“I need to record a few more spots.” Chantel strolled into the studio and slapped some pages down on the console. She plunked herself in my chair and adjusted the mike so that it was close to her lips. “I’ve already chosen the music, so I think we can knock them out fast.” She tapped the mike to see whether it was live. “The sooner we get started, the better.” She gave a thin smile. “You know what they say: time is money.”
“Sure thing,” Vera Mae said. She waited until Chantel’s back was turned, threw her a mock salute, and marched back into the control room. “See you later, sugar,” she tossed over her shoulder to me.
I grinned and headed to my office, pondering my next move. My cell rang as I tossed my show notes on my desk, and I answered it without looking at the readout.
“Maggie? We’ve got something going on.” Rafe. His voice was hurried, excited.
“What’s up?” For a moment my mind stalled. “Is there a break in the case?”
“You bet there is. The forensic guys came up with an analysis of those blue chips falling off that painting you brought in. They’re azurite. There’s no doubt about it.”
“Azurite?”
The word sounded vaguely familiar, but maybe I was thinking of my high school French class. Azur. Blue. As in “Côte d’Azur.” My pulse was thrumming. “And this is important?”
“Very important. Swing by the station, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I didn’t waste another second pondering. I waved a quick good-bye to a stunned-looking Irina as I headed through the reception area. “I’m going down to the police station,” I yelled. “You can reach me on my cell.”
Big Jim had been lounging on the sofa reading a newspaper, and he jumped to his feet. “Are you finally going to confess, Maggie? Which old lady did you murder?” He whipped out a notebook from his back pocket. “Was it Althea or Mildred?” His round face had turned a bright red from excitement, giving him an unfortunate resemblance to an heirloom tomato. “Or did you kill both of them?”
“Calm down, Jimbo. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I can see it now,” he said, his eyes glazed, seeing a bright future for himself at one of the big Miami stations. “ ‘When Shrinks Go Mad: A Big Jim Wilcox Exclusive.’ This one will take me to the networks. I know it will.”
“I’m telling you, I didn’t kill anyone,” I said, scrabbling for my car keys in my oversized tote bag. I looked at Irina. “Tell Vera Mae to call me down at the station, okay?”
“You won’t be able to make any calls in lockup,” Jim said gleefully. “Just one call to your lawyer. And they’ll give you a public defender if you can’t afford one. I want an exclusive, Maggie. Don’t talk to anyone else. I better give Cyrus a heads-up on this,” he called over his shoulder as he headed down the hall. “You’re smart to turn yourself in,” he added as a parting shot. “Maybe they’ll go easy on you. Especially if they think you’re nuts.”
Irina and I exchanged a glance, and she lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. There are times when I’m convinced Jim Wilcox is certifiably insane. Ever since the day Rafe handcuffed and perp-walked me out of WYME after an explosion, Big Jim has been waiting for me to snap. He’s convinced that I’m teetering on the edge of madness and all I need is a little push over the edge.
“Big Jim is . . . How you say?” Irina began. She tapped her ballpoint pen against her temple.
“Insane? Crazy? Loco?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, he is all those things. He is the very big idiot. That is what we would be calling it.”
The very big idiot. It was perfect. I loved it. For someone who speaks English as a second language, Irina certainly has a way with words.
“The very big idiot. You’ll have to tell that to your instructor, Simon Brent.”
Irina’s face clouded. “I haven’t been telling you the sad news. He is no more here in Cypress Grove.”
“He left town? What happened?”
Irina shrugged. “He is not good man, I don’t think.” She raised her eyebrows. “Not what he seems, if you know my meaning.”
I hesitated. Had Simon Brent dumped her? “Was he married?” I asked.
Irina shook her head. “Oh, no, he is not married man. Much worse. He is pretending to be English instructor, but is all a spam.”
Spam? “You mean a scam?”
“Yes, that’s it. He’s here only to meet Chantel and write the biography of her. The kind no one gives permission to do.” Irina gave a little sniff. “He called to tell me truth last night. He left town this morning. I can’t believe I was taking in by him.”
So Simon Brent was here to gather material for an unauthorized bio of Chantel. Interesting. “I’m sorry, Irina. I know you liked him.”
“Is okay,” she said, her face brightening. “As Vera Mae says, there are many more fishes in the sea.”
&nb
sp; I smiled. “You’re right on that one, Irina.”
“So tell me about azurite,” I asked Rafe twenty minutes later.
“You really don’t know what it is?” We were sitting in his office, and he was shooting me a sideways glance, part thoughtful, part amused. “I thought you were an art-history buff. You told me that was your minor in college.”
“I know a little about painters and styles but nothing technical. What’s so important about azurite?”
He rubbed his hand over his chin, his dark eyes rolling over me. “Azurite is a pigment that they used to add to paint. In the old days.”
I waited a beat. I dredged through my memory banks and came up empty. “In the old days. As in past tense?”
“Very past tense. They haven’t used it since the turn of the century. Newer paints don’t contain azurite.”
“Aha. And that’s important because . . .”
“Because our forensic guys found another painting hidden under that monstrosity that Althea had hanging in her hall. Someone had slapped a very amateurish painting over the real one. It’s the real one that has azurite in the pigment. Someone painted right over it.”
“And this original painting, the one underneath, is valuable?”
Rafe leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. “It’s worth a small fortune. And I think it’s stolen. The presence of azurite helps to date it. We’ve reported it to the FBI, and they’re scanning their National Stolen Art File databases right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if they find the owner by morning.”
I knew art theft is big business worldwide. And hiding a painting under another one is the latest trend. You can remove the fake layer with a solvent, and there’s no damage to the original.
I thought of Chris Hendricks and the blue chips scattered on the floor of his shop. “Where is Hendricks in all this? He must have been involved somehow.”
“We’re going to bring him in for questioning.” Rafe sat forward, put his hands on the desk, and cracked his knuckles. “He’s trying to give us the runaround, but so far he hasn’t lawyered up. If he does, he’ll clam up and we won’t get anywhere.”
Stay Tuned for Murder Page 23
