“What do you need to do to tie him to Althea’s murder?”
“We have to tie him to the crime scene. We have to place him at the historical society. The azurite chips aren’t enough. Even if he discovered the painting underneath and planned on keeping it, that doesn’t link him to the murder. He could be a thief but not a killer.”
I thought for a minute. Chris Hendricks was a killer. I knew it.
I suddenly remembered the dust in the foyer of the historical society. A few azurite chips had slid under a doily on a Parsons table next to the umbrella rack. How had they gotten there? I remembered that Candace Somerset was a tall woman, and she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the painting. And Chris Hendricks was short, maybe five-six. There was only one way he could reach the painting without using a stepladder.
“Rafe,” I said suddenly, “I think you need to look at the crime scene again. And this time look in the front hallway. There’s a Parsons table—”
“A what?”
“A table, a big piece of dark furniture, in the foyer. I think Chris Hendricks probably stood on it and hung the picture back up on the wall. A few blue chips fell off the painting while he was doing it.” Rafe nodded, listening.
“What makes you think he stood on it?”
“He’s a little guy, really short. So I figure Hendricks had to hang it back up there fast and get out of there.”
Rafe looked interested, his eyes flashing. “Go on,” he urged me.
“He had to stand on something handy, and the table was the closest thing. I bet he jostled one of the other paintings and it fell on the floor. He was in such a rush, he grabbed both the paintings and hung them back in the wrong place. And I bet he never noticed those little blue flakes falling off the painting.”
“And he was in a hurry because—”
“Because he had just murdered Althea.” My pulse was jumping. It was just a hunch, but I felt good about it. Everything was falling into place. All Rafe needed was the trace evidence to nail Chris Hendricks.
“Somehow Althea found out that Chris had uncovered the real painting underneath the fake one and was planning on stealing it.”
“Althea could have confronted him—” Rafe’s voice trailed off as he started writing furiously.
“That’s what happened. I’m sure of it. He killed her and hung the painting right back up on the wall. That would have been the smart thing to do. He didn’t dare take the painting right then and there, because he was afraid Althea may have told someone that she was having it reframed. And it would raise suspicions if it was missing. This way, there’s no paper trail tying him to the painting. He figured he’d be in the clear.”
“That’s quite a theory. The question is, will it hold up? Can we prove it?” he said, his brows furrowed in concentration.
“As long as he got in and out of the historical society without being seen, he knew he was in the clear.” The scene was playing itself out in my mind like a DVD from Netflix. “After all, he’d had time to examine the painting. He was the only one who knew it was valuable. The painting wasn’t going to go anywhere. All he had to do was hang it back up on the wall and bide his time.” I sat back in my chair, my mind buzzing.
“So you’re saying this is the perfect crime?”
“Chris Hendricks thought it was. He figured he could come by the historical society and steal the painting at another time, maybe when her sister closed up the place. Or maybe he’d offer to buy it from her for a few bucks. Anything is possible. I know the society is auctioning off some items to raise money.”
“Candace Somerset is in the dark about all this. I’ve already talked to her.”
“Exactly. Candace Somerset doesn’t know the true value of the painting. She hates it. She told me so. She probably would have given it to him if he’d asked nicely.”
“I’ll get someone over to the historical society right away.” Rafe reached for the phone, and I zipped out the door. It was tempting to stay and talk with Rafe, but Vera Mae had just texted me with a 911 in the subject line. What was this all about? I had my phone to my ear before I was out the door to the parking lot.
Chapter 29
“Something interesting happened right after you left, girl,” Vera Mae said. Her voice was low, excited. “Chantel let something slip. Something big.”
“Big as in she murdered someone?” I was only partly teasing. I didn’t think Chantel was a killer, but I also didn’t think she was as pure as the driven snow.
“Not quite. Big as in she’s not telling the whole truth about coming inside my house the other night.” Vera Mae paused for effect. “I’m positive that she’s the person I walked in on. She’s the one who went running out the door.”
“Is that so?” I murmured. There’s no way to hurry Vera Mae when she’s telling a story, and even though I was seething with impatience, I got in my car, willing myself to be patient.
“In fact, I think she lied to the police and she left out a major part of the story.”
Okay, now my nerves were stretched taut like a rubber band. “Vera Mae!” I wailed. “I can’t stand the suspense. What happened? Why do you suspect her?”
“Well, we were doing those time capsule promos, and she was having a fit because Tweetie Bird was singing and ruined a couple of takes. It was no big deal. They were only thirty-second spots, so it was easy to redo them, but she raised a fuss about it.”
“I don’t think she’s ever liked Tweetie Bird.”
To be fair, a lot of people at WYME don’t like Tweetie Bird, a perpetually molting parakeet who is the love of Vera Mae’s life. She brings him to work every day in his cage, and he regales us with his limited repertoire of sound effects and warbly renditions of show tunes.
Cyrus once tried to ban him from the building because of health reasons, but Vera Mae held firm and threatened to quit. Cyrus knows when he’s beat. Tweetie Bird stayed.
“You’re right. She doesn’t like him, hon. And that says a lot about her character. Never trust a person who doesn’t like animals, because they have a soul as black as tar. That’s what my momma always taught me.”
“But what happened?” I turned on the ignition but waited to pull out of the parking lot.
“Tweetie Bird was making his fire engine sound. You know the one?”
“Yes, I do.” It was particularly annoying, high-pitched wail that set my teeth on edge. Vera Mae told me he’d mastered it after watching an entire Rescue Me marathon with her one weekend.
“Well, he did it right in the middle of the spot we were recording, and Chantel practically hit the ceiling. She snapped, ‘That’s as bad as his police siren imitation!’ ”
There was a long beat while I absorbed this. To my knowledge, Tweetie Bird has never made a noise like a police siren. “A police siren? Is this something new he’s learned?”
“It sure is, hon. And the first time he tried it out was the other night when that intruder was in my house. My little Tweetie Bird was screaming his heart out, trying to protect me. And I have to tell you, it was pretty doggone realistic. The intruder took off running.”
“But Vera Mae, you didn’t mention any of this to the police.”
“No, of course I didn’t. I’d forgotten all about it. The whole thing came back to me when Chantel was talking about Tweetie Bird just now in the studio. I was so upset that night of the break-in, I guess I blocked it out of my memory. You said that can happen when people are traumatized.”
She had me on that one. Amnesia is often a by-product of PTSD. It was interesting that the whole scene had come back to Vera Mae as soon as Chantel had mentioned it.
“You’re certain Chantel has never heard Tweetie Bird do his police siren imitation somewhere else? Here at work, maybe?”
“I’m positive. He just learned it. He hasn’t had a chance to do it at work. And I know Chantel doesn’t like him, so I usually toss a cover over his cage when she’s around. It would break his heart if he could see the evil looks she
gives him.”
I had to smile. Chantel had thrown a few evil looks my way, as well.
“We have to tell Rafe about this,” I said firmly. “Did Chantel realize the significance of what she’d said?”
“I don’t think so. I suppose she might, if she thinks on it a bit. But she was so mad over having her spot interrupted, I don’t think she was thinking clearly. It just slipped out.” She let out a breath. “You think this is important, right? The only person who could have known about Tweetie Bird’s police siren imitation is the intruder.”
“And if Chantel really was breaking into your house, then we have to assume she was looking for something. Did you tell anyone about the papers?”
“I told Irina,” she finally admitted.
“Was Chantel around at the time?”
“She was standing at the front desk, asking about her fan mail. She could have heard me.”
“That box of Mildred’s papers could be the key, Vera Mae. Be very careful with them. Don’t leave them around the station. In fact, don’t let them out of your sight.”
“I won’t. I plan on dropping them off at my cousin’s and asking her to put them in her safe. That’s better than Fort Knox. Tomorrow we can turn them over to the police, if you think that’s the right thing to do.”
“Good thinking.”
I drove out of the parking lot then, my mind in a tizzy. Knowing Chantel was the intruder put things in a different light, didn’t it? She was after Vera Mae, not to harm her, but to get ahold of those papers. The question was why?
I thought about the heartfelt journal entries in which Mildred had confessed to doing something that could never be undone. It was hard to imagine Mildred ever harming anyone, but it seems that she had, even if was accidental. So maybe Mildred and Chantel had a history, just like I suspected. But how could I get to the facts behind the relationship? Mildred was dead and Chantel wasn’t talking.
I thought of the one person who’d lived in Cypress Grove her whole life and had asked me to contact her if I needed help with anything. I needed help right now.
And Lucille Whittier might be the one person to give it to me.
“Maggie, this is a nice surprise.” Lucille welcomed me into her well-kept home on the end of Water Street, in the older section of town. She lived in a charming Victorian, with a wide front porch shaded by banyan trees. “Would you like to sit out here? I always have a glass of iced tea at this time of day.” I spotted a pitcher of iced tea with lemon slices floating on top, on a white rattan table.
“I’d love to.” She disappeared inside to get another glass, and I checked out the wide-planked porch with its wicker chairs and swing. Very Old South. A place to relax and watch the world go by.
After she’d reappeared with the glass and a tray of cookies, she sat across from me. “I know you didn’t drop by just to pass the time of day.” She shot me a shrewd glance.
“You’re very perceptive.”
“That comes from living a long time,” she said with a light laugh. “And living in a small town for a long time.” She paused. “People think it’s boring to live in Cypress Grove, but believe me, it isn’t. You learn a lot about human nature living in a place like this. Secrets and jealousies and regrets. Everything bubbling under the surface, just waiting to make it to the top. I always think that’s why so many great writers come from the South. There’s so much good material here.”
I smiled at her. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes, I see what you mean.”
“Some secrets are meant to be kept, don’t you think, Maggie?” I felt a little buzz of excitement. She knew something about Chantel; I was positive. But was she ready to say it?
“That depends,” I said carefully. “Sometimes the cost of keeping a secret is too great. There could be a lot at stake, you know. Keeping the secret just prolongs things. It might be better to shine a light on some of these things that are hidden.”
She was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the chirping of cicadas in the lush trees in her front yard.
“I think you want to tell me about Mildred,” I said softly. “You wouldn’t be breaking a confidence. I already found a few pages from a journal she wrote. She talked about how much she regretted something she’d done. She thought she’d ruined someone’s life.”
“The truth always comes out, doesn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yes, one way or another. It certainly seems that way.” I hesitated. “I think Chantel Carrington is involved somehow. That’s where I hope you can help me.”
“Oh, yes, Chantel is part of the story. Because you have to know what happened with both women to understand what really went on.” I leaned back in my wicker chair, afraid to say a word and break the spell. “I’ll tell you what I know, Maggie, and you can decide what you should do with the information. I always thought I’d take this story to my grave, but as you said, there’s a lot at stake. I’ve heard that the police were talking to Chantel Carrington about Mildred’s murder. She didn’t do it, of course.” She said this with absolute certainty.
“But there was something between them that goes back a long way, right?” I was careful to keep my voice neutral.
“Oh my, yes, it goes back a very long time. And it was all so sad. Things didn’t turn out the way they should. Chantel was a young girl here in Cypress Grove—”
“She lived in Cypress Grove!” I blurted out. “Vera Mae swore she recognized her, but she couldn’t place her.”
“That’s because she looks quite different now. In those days, she was Carla Krasinski. I knew who she was immediately when she came back as Chantel, but I decided to hold my tongue.”
“Why did she leave town?”
“She had to. It was really a shame, but she did a very silly thing when she was a teenager. She was working over at the town library one summer, and she embezzled some money. It was only a small amount of money, but you know how Mildred felt about the library. It was her life.”
“Yes, I got that impression.”
“She was shocked that Carla would do something like that, and she reported her to the authorities. Carla begged her not to, but Mildred felt that she had to do the right thing. It would have been nice if Mildred could have seen that justice needs to be tempered with mercy, but she didn’t look at it that way.”
“What happened?”
“Of course Carla was fired immediately. But the consequences were worse than Mildred ever intended.”
“In what way?”
Lucille took a sip of tea before replying. “Besides losing her job, Carla lost her college scholarship. She came from a very poor family, and they couldn’t afford to pay her tuition. She was a smart girl, so it was really a shame. She left town in disgrace and vowed revenge on Mildred.”
“And she never came back, until now?”
“That’s right. She was down on her luck for many years and took a series of waitressing jobs here and there. I have relatives down in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, who kept me up to date on her. She never really got her life straightened out, and then something really awful happened. She was badly burned in a grease fire at a diner. It took years of reconstructive surgery for her to look the way she does now.”
“But you recognized her? When she first came back to town?”
She gave a light little laugh. “Oh, yes, because of the eyes. I knew that was Carla right away. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul, you know. There was no doubt in my mind.”
“This is amazing.” I sat back, stunned. This was the last thing I’d expected to hear. “But you do believe she didn’t kill Mildred, right? Because I don’t think she did it, either.”
“I’m positive of it. I think Carla came back here for one reason. She decided that living well is the best revenge, and at an appropriate time, she was going to reveal herself to the townspeople. Not as a poor girl who’d made a mistake but as a wealthy, famous celebrity. She wanted to show everyone that she’d made something of her life. Bu
t she never had murder on her mind. Never.”
“Did you ever tell her you recognized her?”
“No, I decided to play along. I figured she’d tell the truth when she was ready.”
I nodded somberly, my thoughts skittering around in my head like dry leaves tossed by the wind. Chantel hadn’t killed Mildred. So now that left . . . Shalimar?
“Thank you, Lucille,” I said, standing up to leave. “This has been very helpful.”
“Not as helpful as the time capsule unveiling will be.”
My heart stuttered. Another revelation? “You’re telling me the time capsule holds the key to Mildred’s murder?”
“Very possibly. I think it holds the key to a lot of things,” Lucille said. “And I think you’re probably the one person in town who can put all the pieces together.”
I blinked. Lucille was right. This was a giant puzzle. And I knew that I had less than forty-eight hours to solve it.
Chapter 30
“Want to grab a quick bite to eat at Gino’s?”
Rafe called me just as I was leaving Lucille’s. I knew he was deep into the double murder case, and I hadn’t expected to hear from him. When Rafe’s in the middle of an investigation, I see him only on the fly and sometimes not even then. I glanced at my watch. It was five thirty.
“Of course,” I said, a pleasant little thrill of anticipation going through me. “Do you have time?”
“Not really, but I’ll make time. See you in a few.” He clicked off abruptly in typical Rafe fashion, and I felt myself smiling. I left a message for Lark, saying I wouldn’t be home for dinner, and headed down South Street to my favorite restaurant.
“I thought you’d like to sit outside,” Rafe said a few minutes later. He was sitting at one of the patio umbrella tables and half stood up when he saw me. He touched my arm very lightly, and we locked eyes for an instant. It was a golden time of day, with the sun setting low in a sky filled with paint-box colors. A light tropical breeze was blowing, and I really felt like I was in paradise. Of course, sitting across from Rafe added to the magic of the moment.
Stay Tuned for Murder Page 24
