Shades of Wrath

by Karen Rose Smith

  They ended the session that lasted about an hour and a half with a guided imagery meditation. On their mats, they closed their eyes, arms relaxed by their sides. Evelyn played a recording of her voice that took them through the exercise, from relaxing eye muscles and cheek muscles and neck muscles to low back, knees, calves, and feet. Caprice had forgotten how good relaxation could feel. Right now, she felt like a limp jellyfish.

  At the end of the exercise, they were supposed to lie there with their eyes closed. Caprice obeyed the sound of Evelyn’s voice. She was on the mat closest to the door and Evelyn’s voice, in a different tone, interrupted her relaxation. Apparently the yoga instructor had stepped outside the room when she’d begun the recording for them. She was speaking to someone else and at first two women’s voices were just a whisper.

  But then Evelyn’s voice rose in tone. “I thought we could make this work together. Our own studio would benefit us both.”

  “Yes, I know it would,” the other woman agreed. “But I just don’t have the capital to make it happen. Perhaps in a year or two.”

  There was silence again and Caprice kept her eyes closed. After all, she did sometimes follow directions. Still, although her eyes were closed, her senses were alert now. She noticed that Evelyn stayed in the hall and soon it sounded as if she was talking to someone else. But the conversation was one-sided, which probably meant Evelyn was calling someone on her cell phone.

  Her voice rose again. “I need it now and not six months from now.”

  That did it. Caprice opened her eyes and sat up. She caught a glimpse of Evelyn just beyond the doorway. She didn’t look so Zen now. Her expression was anxious and lines cut deep around her eyes and her mouth. It was possible that she was older than Caprice thought she was. So who was the real Evelyn? The yoga teacher who could remain calm, or the woman in her forties standing outside the door who looked as if her world had just collapsed around her?

  Dulcina sat up now too. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I think it’s amazing how it takes so long to relax our bodies and how it can be revved up in about a minute.”

  “So you’re revved up again?”

  “I am. I’m thinking about all the people who surrounded Wendy and who among them would have wanted to hurt her. One particular person comes to mind. Wendy was arguing with him the first time I met with her about the Wyatt estate. I know him in another context, and I think I’m going to have a talk with him.”

  She and Warren Shaeffer could always begin talking about business and then let the conversation wander into the territory where she wanted to go.

  “Will you have someone with you when you talk to this person?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll go to his place of business. There will be people around.”

  “You can’t take Lady?”

  “I could try, but then I might not get in. Grant wants me to depend on him, so if he’s free, I’ll keep my phone line open.”

  Dulcina gave an approving nod. “That sounds like the best idea of all.”

  Caprice hoped Grant thought so too.

  * * *

  Warren Shaeffer had saved his printing company from becoming obsolete. Once, the company had produced hobby magazines as well as a few medical journals. When journals went digital, he’d discovered a way to keep his business thriving. The self-publishing business had taken off and he’d tapped into older residents of the area who wanted to save their life stories for posterity. Sure, they could have self-published online with an impersonal company, or had the ingenuity to do it themselves by finding formatters and cover artists and the myriad other services necessary to jump into the venture. On the other hand, Shaeffer’s company had made it easy. He charged exorbitant fees but set up signing parties, had the events catered, and was keeping his business viable in the area.

  Caprice had to give him props for that. Oh sure, he still printed pamphlets and programs for any locals who wanted to use him, but savvy business owners knew the best deal to get online like she did. Still, Millennium Printing had its place and Warren did too. As president of the Chamber of Commerce, he had some power in the town. His recommendations went a long way and so did his veto.

  She hadn’t made an appointment because she knew the best way to get into his office. After she phoned Grant and left the line open, her phone hooked on her wide leather belt, she simply appeared in front of his receptionist on Tuesday morning and said, “I have Chamber business to discuss with Warren.” She could have been stalled if he’d been in a meeting, but he wasn’t. His receptionist, Danita Ottman, who’d been with him at least five years with his newer ventures, was pretty, young, and friendly.

  “Chamber business? I know he’ll want to talk about that. Let me buzz him.” And she did. Caprice could hear Warren’s voice over the intercom when he said, “Tell her to come on back.”

  Now the problem was, Caprice had to think of Chamber business to start their discussion. Chamber business. Just what could she talk about? Then she thought of it. She and Bella had sort of been discussing an idea.

  Warren’s office door was about ten feet from the receptionist’s desk. She took a last glance at Danita and then knocked.

  He came to open the door himself instead of just yelling, “Come in.”

  “It’s good to see you, Caprice. Danita said you had Chamber business. How can I help?”

  So helpful. So charming. Did he really have a Jekyll and Hyde personality?

  She took a seat in front of his desk while he went around to the high-backed leather swivel chair, very similar to the one Rick Grossman had used. A commonality among CEOs? Or a commonality about men who had egos and wanted other people to know they were important?

  “I was speaking to my sister Bella about raising more revenues for the town and the businesses in it.”

  “I’m always open to discussing that,” he said with a smile.

  “You know there are many houses downtown that have historical status. Some of them even have plaques.”

  “Yes, I do know that.”

  “With the holidays coming up, maybe we could take advantage of that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My family once drove to Williamsburg after Christmas. It was a beautiful sight—old-fashioned decorations on the doors and lots of candles. But the big thing was that tourists flocked from everywhere to come see the sights.”

  “We certainly don’t have the quaintness of Williamsburg,” Warren said wryly.

  “No, we don’t. But we do have the wherewithal to put a weekend together with tours of historic homes. Most people decorate for Christmas anyway, and I imagine the residents of historic homes decorate according to their character. It wouldn’t be that much more bother for them. But they would have their homes open to groups of tourists. I was thinking that if they did that, we could have a bartering of sorts with services in the area. The homes could promote local businesses one way or another, and in return, they’d receive coupons for gas or a discount at the food store, a free ham, snow removal at their date of choice in the winter, house cleaning, discounts at restaurants. The list could go on and on. Say we picked a Saturday the second week of December and said that was Historical Home Tour day. We could have a banner or two across White Rose Way and still have time to get the advertisement out.”

  “And just who would coordinate all this?” Warren asked, sitting back in his chair.

  “I’m not sure, but we could bring it up at the next Chamber of Commerce meeting. We might even want to coordinate with the Garden Club. Maybe they would want to make arrangements to put in the homes. It could be a whole community effort.”

  Warren nodded. “I can see that it would be. Can you write this up into something I could hand out? How much we might charge per person?”

  She really didn’t need more work right now with everything else that was going on. But besides it being an element for discussion with Warren today, the whole tour idea could catch on and
be a valuable asset during the Christmas season. How long would it take for her to jot down the ideas? Then she could hand the project to Bella and she could add her input. Bella always had input.

  “We have a Chamber of Commerce meeting in a week. I could have it ready for you by then, if that would be all right.”

  “I’d like to look at it the day before.”

  “I’m sure I can manage that.”

  “This is a good idea, Caprice. I’m glad you came to me with it.”

  “I also came for another reason.”

  “More ideas to increase revenue?”

  “No, I’m helping to move the Wyatt project forward for Sunrise Tomorrow.”

  While Warren’s expression had been open, now it became closed. His brows knitted together and he frowned. “What does that have to do with me or the Chamber?”

  “It could affect the Chamber because it affects the town.” She decided to plunge right in and see what happened. “And it could affect you.”

  “In what way?” he asked belligerently.

  “I overheard your argument with Wendy. I imagine it’s possible that you could become a suspect.”

  Warren stood, pulled himself up to his full five foot nine, and glared at her as if he wanted to sock her. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating. You didn’t hear anything. And if you say you did, it’s my word against yours.”

  Aha. The Mr. Hyde side was coming out—the bully side. She felt the phone on her belt. “It might be my word against yours, but what would your wife say?” That was a shot in the dark, but an intuitive one that seemed to hit home.

  “You leave my wife out of this,” he said with gritted teeth.

  “Warren, I have a feeling Wendy’s murder is all about wives and husbands, control and power, and freedom.”

  “You know nothing. Just because you’ve been written up in the paper a few times, you think you’re an expert. You’re not, and certainly not about this. I think you should leave.”

  After all, it was his office and he could call security or the police to have her escorted off the premises. She didn’t want that. But she wanted him to know she knew he was a bully and she wasn’t going to let him cow her. “I’ve already told the police about your argument with Wendy.”

  “So you’re the one who put my name on that detective’s list. Well, when he interviews me, I’ll show him he has no cause to have me on that list.”

  “When do you see the police?”

  He looked as if he wasn’t going to answer, but then he admitted, “This evening at seven o’clock.”

  “Detective Carstead or Jones?”

  “Jones is the one who called me. He seems to be efficient and quick. I’ll be in and out of there in no time.”

  Jones might be efficient and quick, but he was also thorough. If Warren Shaeffer was seriously on their suspect list, he could be at the police station for hours. But she wasn’t going to aggravate him more by telling him that. She knew Grant was probably scolding her through her phone for what she’d done already. Her line was open, as she’d promised it would be.

  “Have you known Wendy long?” she asked.

  Again Warren hesitated, but then he gave a shrug. “Only the past year when my wife decided to get a spine.”

  At least he’d noticed that.

  He added bitterly, “Thanks to Wendy Newcomb, I don’t know where she is. My guess is she’s with a cousin in North Carolina. I haven’t followed up on that yet.”

  If he hadn’t followed up, just how important was his marriage to him? On the other hand, if he hadn’t followed up, maybe his wife wasn’t in any danger. Maybe if she wanted a new life she could find it. Caprice couldn’t say she was sorry he couldn’t find his wife because it might be a good thing.

  “I’m sorry you’re having problems, Warren.”

  “Don’t be sorry for me. Just mind your own business.”

  “I will do that,” she said, and from the expression on his face, she knew he realized she wasn’t giving in. She was challenging him. If her business included him, especially in the aspect of Wendy’s murder, so be it.

  When she turned to leave, he said to her, “You women think you own the world. Maybe it’s about time you find out you don’t.”

  If Grant heard that parting shot, he was going to be pacing his office. She was so tempted to toss back a comeback, but she didn’t. She smashed one lip tightly against the other one, and she left Warren Shaeffer’s office and the building.

  Outside, she unlocked the mute button and put her phone to her ear. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here. What did you think you were doing baiting him like that?”

  “I wanted to see if Mr. Hyde would come out and he did. Warren isn’t all Mr. Nice Guy.”

  “No, he’s not, and from now on I want you to stay away from him.”

  Sometimes Grant’s protective attitude frustrated her. “Is that an order?”

  There were a few seconds of silence while they both considered what they’d said.

  She heard him sigh. “No, it’s not an order because it does no good to give you orders. Don’t you think I know that by now?”

  “Just asking,” she said, a little playfully. She didn’t want to argue with him. But because this was Grant and because she loved him, she told him, “I don’t have any plans to see Warren again, not unless it’s at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. I can e-mail him the Historical Home Tour proposal. Really, Grant, you don’t have to worry.”

  “Really, Caprice, I do.”

  She smiled. “Are you looking forward to the masquerade ball? I am. I love the idea for our costumes.” They’d come up with a theme on the phone last night.

  “Yeah, well, I have a feeling the masquerade ball and the costumes have more to do with you investigating and connecting with someone than they do with having a good time.”

  “It’s true, I want Roz to introduce me to Leona Wyatt’s children. They bought tickets and are supposed to be there. But, on the other hand, I’m looking forward much more to dancing with you.”

  “Okay. I give up. You win.”

  “Win what?”

  “You win the prize for knowing exactly what to say at just the right time because now all I’ll think about until the ball is the idea of dancing with you.”

  “I can blow you a kiss.”

  “Better yet, I can get a real one tonight.”

  “Come over for supper. I’ll make some of Nana’s minestrone soup and we can light a fire.”

  “I can be there by seven.”

  Caprice ended the call, forgetting all about Warren Shaeffer and thinking about an evening with Grant.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Country Squire Golf and Recreation Club had been elegantly decorated for fall for a few weeks. Yellow tinted twinkle lights draped around the entrance and the trees. A harvest theme spread across the entrance portico with a huge pumpkin, a stand of hay decorated and wrapped with orange and black ribbon, and a scarecrow that looked welcoming. The same yellow twinkle lights wreathed the inside of the lobby. Orange and yellow mum flower arrangements sported gold lamé wired ribbons while multicolored dried corn ears along with orange and green gourds filled a giant cornucopia on the credenza along one wall in the reception area. Other cornucopias, similarly filled, decorated marble-topped tables as well as wall shelves in the huge dining room.

  Each of the tables in the expansive room was covered with yellow linens. In the center of each stood crystal vases with cranberry, yellow, orange, and white spider mum arrangements.

  A crowd already milled about when Caprice and Grant entered Country Squire. Roz and Vince must have been watching for them because they hurried to them and smiled at their “costumes.” Grant had rented a shadow-striped suit from a costume shop. It was fashion from the forties—double-breasted with a wide collar and lapels in silk. The pleated suit pants were designed with wide legs and a rolled cuff. With the shoulders padded and the jacket fitted at the waist, his muscular, le
an figure was emphasized. With his gray felt fedora tilted at a rakish angle, he could have stepped straight out of an old-time movie.

  Caprice’s gown, also from the costume shop, was golden like the color of fine champagne. It had long sleeves, a deep V neckline, and a tight bodice that flared into a calf-length skirt. She’d worn strappy gold high heels with it and carried a beaded purse from her vintage collection. Grant’s eyes had seemed to pop when he’d seen her and that’s what had mattered.

  Now Vince studied the two of them as Roz grinned and said, “Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.”

  Caprice nudged Grant’s elbow. “See, people will know who we are.”

  “Roz isn’t most people,” he returned wryly. “But if she guessed, a few others will too.” He studied Vince, who was dressed in jeans, a snap-button shirt with a bolo tie, boots, and a Stetson. Roz’s fringed suede skirt, boots that sported high heels, and a puffed sleeve blouse complemented his outfit.

  “There’s no mistaking the two of you,” Grant said. “Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.”

  Vince laughed. “Got my country groove on.”

  “He convinced me,” Roz assured them. “Not too outlandish, but not over the top either. Lots of folks here aren’t into masquerading. They’re just here for the food and the dancing and the party atmosphere, I guess. We snagged four chairs at a table far away from the music so we can talk if we want. Ready to head that way?”

  “How’s the food?” Caprice asked. “Nikki went all out trying to come up with harvest fare. She said she added cayenne to the deviled eggs and made pumpkin cupcakes with a cream cheese glaze dribbled on top and a chocolate stem so they resemble pumpkins. She actually baked crackers that resemble leaves.”

  Roz explained, “She has a sausage, potato, and red pepper combination that looks fabulous, sweet potato chips for that spinach dip, and white pizza with cheese and mango slices. I can’t wait to try that one.”

  “Don’t forget the apple cake with the cinnamon crumble topping,” Vince added. “And the stuffed peppers with the little faces. She’s got a great imagination.”

  If Nikki kept securing gigs like this, she might have to rent a place to cook out of instead of using her own kitchen.