Fillet of Murder

by Linda Reilly

  “That’s just it,” Misty said. “After about ten minutes my friend went to check on her. She couldn’t find her anywhere in the south wing—not in the bathroom or in the dressing area.”

  Because she went to the lighting shop to murder Turnbull.

  “Misty, you said she had a mani-pedi scheduled at eight forty-five. Did she show up for that?”

  “Yeah, she did. Like nothing ever happened. She never said a word about bailing on her massage. Or about feeling sick.”

  “I guess she was embarrassed,” Talia offered. Or she didn’t care to share with anyone that she’d just murdered her ex.

  “And get this,” Misty went on. “When my friend opened her tip envelope on Thursday—all of our customers leave tips privately that way—she said Ms. LaPlante gave her double her regular tip. Double!”

  Of course. To keep her from blabbing about Kendra’s disappearing act.

  “At first she thought Ms. LaPlante was just being nice because of the way she’d ditched her massage.” Misty snorted. “Like that would ever happen. Ms. LaPlante is the least nice person I know.”

  “She can be difficult,” Talia said mildly.

  “Anyway, when the police found out that man who was murdered was Kendra’s ex, they came here and started asking a lot of questions. They wanted to confirm Ms. LaPlante’s alibi for Wednesday evening.”

  Talia jerked up so fast in her seat her knee hit the steering wheel. Squelching an expletive, she said, “The police were there? Did your friend tell them what happened?”

  “No.” Misty sighed. “She was afraid she’d get fired. Ms. LaPlante is our best customer. Every week she spends a fortune at the spa. The owner—our boss—kisses her behind, if you catch my meaning,” Misty added with disgust.

  “Misty, that’s no reason to lie to the police. Murder is a serious crime!”

  “She didn’t lie,” Misty protested. “She just … kept some stuff to herself.”

  This was big. This was huge. Talia was more convinced than ever that Kendra had murdered Turnbull.

  Then Misty dropped a stink bomb on her.

  “Ms. Sunday, I’m taking a majorly huge risk telling you all this. The way things are these days I can’t afford to lose my job, and neither can my friend. If you repeat what I said, I’ll deny it to the ends of the Earth.”

  Talia felt her jaw drop. “What? You’ve got to be— Is your friend there with you? Can I talk to her?”

  “That’s none of your business, and she’s not talking to anyone.” Misty was getting snippy now, and defensive. Talia wanted to reach through the phone and shake the girl.

  In the next instant, Talia chided herself. Any second now, Misty could hang up and leave her with nothing. She remembered what her nana always said. Put a smile in your voice—it shows.

  “Misty.” Talia stretched her lips into a grin. “If you didn’t want me to tell this to anyone, why did you call me?”

  After a pause, Misty said, “I figured anyone sneaky enough to pretend she worked for Ms. LaPlante to wheedle information out of me ought to be able to figure out how to tip off the cops. Without getting me and my friend in trouble.”

  “I—” Talia began, but Misty was gone. The girl had hung up.

  Oh Lord, now what? On top of everything else, she was freezing. She hadn’t even started her car. She turned on the engine and flipped on the heat as high as it would go.

  Ever since she’d found Turnbull’s body Thursday morning, her mind had been on overload. Too many secrets, too many lies—all tumbling through her head like a load of mismatched socks in the dryer.

  Maybe it was time to sort. To see which ones matched up to the truth and which ones needed to be chucked.

  Something Jill said a few nights ago had stuck in her head like a bookmark. Anyone with even a quarter of a brain could figure out Phil’s code. Talia punched in Rachel’s speed-dial number on her phone.

  “What up, pixie pie?”

  Talia laughed. Sometimes Rachel was too funny. “If I treat you to pup-dogs from Deeno’s, are you up for a little snooping?”

  15

  “I can’t believe you recruited me for a B and E,” Rachel said wryly. She swiped a tiny napkin over her ketchup-stained lips and squinted at the scrap of paper clutched in her fingers.

  “It’s not a B, just an E,” Talia defended. “If we figure out the code we’re only entering, right? If we don’t figure it out, then we won’t get in. Besides, it’s not a crime scene anymore, so are we really doing anything illegal?”

  Rachel waggled her hand back and forth. “That’ll be for a judge to decide.”

  Talia groaned.

  “Just kidding.” Rachel laughed. “This reminds me of the time we snuck into Ms. Zimmerman’s class to search for her grade book.”

  Talia nodded. “Tenth grade,” she said. Their history teacher’s grade book had gone missing one day, sending the woman into a minor tizzy. Over the next two days, Talia noticed that Todd Tetford, a fellow student and all-around class clown, kept grinning up at the ceiling with a satisfied smirk. Sure enough, when she and Rachel sneaked into the classroom after hours, they found the grade book hidden above one of the panels of the dropped ceiling. They turned it in immediately but couldn’t convince the principal that they themselves hadn’t filched the grade book. It wasn’t until Todd fessed up to the crime that they were finally let off the hook.

  “Now, what do you have on your list?” Rachel said. “So far I’ve got lock, open, lamp, and lite—that’s L-I-T-E.”

  Talia popped the last bite of her third dog into her mouth, savoring the guacamole topping until the last swallow. Deeno’s might be a dive, but their pup-dogs were miniature rolls of heavenly, spiced mystery meat on butter-grilled potato buns. She grabbed Rachel’s heavy-duty flashlight and shone it on her own list. “All I’ve got is light—the regular spelling—vintage, classic, radiance, and Caddy, with a Y.”

  They were sitting in Rachel’s Jeep Cherokee on Birch Street, each with a list of possible passwords to the keypad at the back of the lighting shop. Outfitted in sleek black leggings, black lace-up combat boots, and a black cowl-neck sweater, her wavy brunette hair tucked into a tight knot at the back, Rachel looked as if she’d stepped off the set of the latest Bond movie. Talia glanced down at her own pitiful version of “spy” clothing—a pair of navy sweats and the army green ski cap she’d had since the sixth grade.

  “I still can’t believe you snuck in there Thursday night with Jill.” Rachel laughed. “I’d love to have been a mosquito on the wall when you were rummaging around in that sofa. And by the way, you violated the BFF Code by not telling me about it sooner.”

  “Unh-uh. Technically, I’m still in the seventy-two-hour grace period.”

  “Shootski.” Rachel snapped her fingers. “Forgot about the grace period.”

  “I have a lot more to tell you, but I want to get this over with first. Besides, it wasn’t one of my finer moments.” She crumpled her greasy Deeno’s bag and set it on the floor of the Cherokee. “Okay, I’m ready if you are. Why don’t we start with your passwords and see how far we get.”

  “If by some miracle we manage to get in,” Rachel said, “do we know what we’re looking for?”

  Talia told her about the photo of the little girl in the orange plaid boots. Jill mentioned Phil had a secret hiding place. What if the child in the snapshot is Phil’s biological child? Could he have stashed more photos like it in his hiding place? Was he blackmailing someone? Was someone blackmailing him? But if that were the case, how did Kendra fit into the picture?

  “Let’s try to find the secret hiding place,” Talia said, “and we’ll go from there.”

  They climbed out of the Cherokee and made a fast dash to the back door of the lighting shop. Talia shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. Birch Street was dark, and blessedly quiet. The staid old houses that lined the street were hunkered down, their shades drawn against the cold October night.

  “Let’s try yours first
,” Talia said, holding her ladybug light over the keypad. “Somehow they seem more logical.”

  One by one, Rachel punched in the words on her list. Nothing.

  “They’re all a bust,” she said, huddling close to the back door.

  Talia tried the words on her list next, with the same results.

  “Thwarted by technology,” Talia muttered. “And Jill said anyone with a quarter of a brain could figure out Phil’s code.”

  “Hmmm,” Rachel said. She punched in another word. This time they heard a distinct click.

  Elated and terrified at the same time, Talia pushed open the door. “Good job, Rach! What was the code word?”

  “What else?” Rachel said drily. “Phil.”

  “You’re a regular Double-O-Seven, aren’t you?”

  “Double-O-Crazy is more like it,” Rachel said. “Come on, let’s work fast and get out even faster.”

  They closed the door quickly. In the windowless room, a feeble light seeped from the luminescent clock on the wall. Rachel stared at the clock for several moments, then flicked on her oversized flashlight and bounced the beam around the room. “Ugh. Everything’s covered with powder. Must be fingerprint powder, right?”

  “I assume so,” Talia said, “but this time I came prepared.” She whipped two pairs of disposable gloves from her pocket and handed a set to Rachel.

  “Ah, perfect.” Rachel looked at the clock again. She tucked her flashlight under one arm while she slid on the gloves.

  Talia went over to the gaping doorway that led to the showroom and closed the door. That way they could turn on the overheads in Turnbull’s office without fear of any light seeping into the showroom and illuminating the front windows. She flipped the switch to the overhead lights—the same switch she’d flicked on that horrible morning when she’d made her gruesome discovery. Was it only two days ago? It seemed an eternity had passed since she’d found Turnbull’s body.

  “Ah, let there be light,” Rachel said. She set down her flashlight atop the stack of boxes near the rear entrance. “On the way over here I got thinking about this catalog Noah has. You know how he collects gadgets?”

  Rachel’s adorably hunky brother was thirty-one, with an IQ that hovered in the stratosphere. Excruciatingly shy, Noah suffered from extreme anxiety, and rarely left the stately home on Milan Drive that he and Rachel shared with their mostly absent mother. Solely through online classes, he’d earned master’s degrees in both German and Spanish, and now worked from home as a translator for an international law firm based in London.

  “Of course I do.” Talia smiled. “Noah has more gadgets than the ingenious Mr. Bond himself.”

  “You got that right. He has this one catalog that specializes in items with secret compartments. You know, desks, bookcases, coffee tables.” She offered some more examples, and they split up the room and began their search.

  For the next ten minutes, they scoured the office. Anything that might conceal a secret opening was poked, pulled, prodded, and pried. The result was a disappointing zippo.

  Talia plunked herself on the floor in front of a narrow bookcase choc-a-bloc with lighting catalogs. She pulled out each one and shook the pages, hoping to dislodge a photo or letter or anything Turnbull might have tucked away from prying eyes. By the time she’d searched the last one, she heaved a disappointed sigh.

  All at once, she noticed a loose strip of decorative wood just below the bottom shelf. Yes! A secret drawer! Her pulse zooming into overdrive, she tugged at it. The entire thing snapped off, and Talia looked at it and groaned. The strip of wood hid nothing more than the blob of dried glue that had been used to tack it in place.

  Talia glanced over at Rachel, who was leaning one elbow atop the stack of boxes near the rear entrance—the same boxes Talia had tripped over two nights earlier. Rachel’s bright blue eyes were fixed on the wall clock. In the next instant, Rachel swung Turnbull’s desk chair around and pushed it across the floor until it rested right below the clock.

  “What are you doing?” Talia said, her voice rising in pitch. “Do you think there’s something in the clock?”

  “We’ll find out in a minute.”

  Steadying her combat boot, Rachel hoisted herself onto the chair. It shifted slightly to the right, and Talia hopped off the floor and went over to hold the chair in place. “Lord, you’re going to break your neck.”

  “I saw a clock in Noah’s catalog that looks a lot like this one,” Rachel said. “The face is actually a door that swings open.”

  “Like a wall safe?”

  “Kind of.” With her fingertips, Rachel reached up and began pulling at the edges of the clock, starting at nine o’clock and moving methodically all around. She’d gotten as far as two o’clock when the clock front abruptly flew open, sending Rachel reeling backward. Talia grabbed her, and they both spilled to the floor in a heap of arms and legs.

  Talia let out an oomph while Rachel came back with a more imaginative oath. “Sorry,” Rachel said. “Did I squish you?”

  “No, you mashed me,” Talia said, “but I’ll live if you get off me.”

  Rachel rolled sideways and heaved herself upward, then pulled Talia to her feet. Talia was brushing off the rear of her sweatpants when she noticed a folded square of paper on the floor. She grabbed Rachel’s arm. “Rach, that must have been inside the clock!”

  With the speed of a rattlesnake, Rachel bent and scooped it up. The single sheet of plain white paper had been folded twice. “There’s something in here,” she said, unfolding it.

  Talia felt ready to leap out of her Keds. “Is it a photo?

  “No, it looks like a bunch of newspaper articles,” Rachel said. “Copies of them, anyway. Look at this one. ‘Student involved in hazing death seeks plea deal.’” She fished through the remaining clips and handed a few to Talia.

  The articles, from a newspaper in Monroe County, Georgia, dated back to the fall of 1998. Talia flipped through them and felt her mouth go dry. “Listen to this,” she said, reading from a clip dated December 9, 1998. “Susan Benson, daughter of bourbon mogul Claimore Benson, whose involvement in a sorority stunt that left freshman Penny Bachellor dead from alcohol poisoning, has reached a plea deal with the District Attorney’s office. ‘While we are sorrowful over Penny’s tragic and needless death,’ Benson’s lawyer, Laurence Atkins, said yesterday, ‘we are gratified that Susan will be allowed to perform community service in lieu of incarceration.’”

  The article went on to recap the tragedy—a sorority hazing stunt gone horribly wrong. But it was the picture next to the article that made Talia gasp. The photo showed a dazed-looking Susan Benson being hustled out of the courthouse by her attorney. She was younger, and her curly hair was pulled back into a prim knot, but there was no mistaking her face.

  Susan Benson was Suzy Sato.

  16

  Rachel backed the Cherokee out of its parking slot and headed down Birch Street. “Refresh my memory. Suzy’s the gal who owns the bath shop, right?”

  “Right,” Talia said, pulling off her ski cap. She tried to process what she’d seen in those articles, but had trouble imagining Suzy Sato taking part in such a thoughtless, deadly act. Not that she knew her all that well, but Suzy had always seemed bubbly and helpful and kind.

  “Why do you think Phil hid those articles in the clock?” Rachel said. She flicked a glance at her rearview mirror. “I mean, if all that stuff was in the paper, then it was public knowledge, right?”

  “Public knowledge, if you know where to look,” Talia offered. “And it was over fifteen years ago. Suzy has a new life now. I’m guessing she doesn’t want anyone around here to know of her past. I sure wouldn’t if I were her.”

  “You’d never do anything so stupid,” Rachel said tightly. “God, what is the matter with people. How can someone …” She shook her head.

  “I know,” Talia agreed. “And I can’t imagine what that poor Penny’s family has been through. It must haunt them every day of their lives
.”

  Rachel stared straight ahead.

  “Rach? You okay?”

  “Yes, but I’m pretty sure someone’s following us.”

  A knot of panic rose in Talia’s throat. She thought of the creepy guy who’d been watching her earlier. “Then go to the police station. He won’t dare follow us there, right?”

  “I’m going to try to lose him first.”

  Rachel drove another three blocks, until they reached the intersection of Pleasant Street. Without signaling, she took a hard right turn, jerking Talia to the left. The car behind them swerved and stayed hot on their tail. In the passenger-side mirror, Talia saw the driver flash his lights—on, off, on, off.

  “I guess he wants us to pull over,” Rachel said, her voice now laced with alarm.

  “Yeah, that is so not a good idea,” Talia stole another glance at the side mirror. The stalker was practically in Rachel’s back end.

  Up ahead, the traffic light at Pleasant and Main had just turned green. “Hang on,” Rachel said. She swerved at the light and turned right onto Main. The stalker did the same, still flashing his lights.

  “This is crazy,” Talia said. “Who is this nutcase?” She gripped the strap over the passenger-side window.

  And then, with the skill of a NASCAR driver, Rachel jerked the wheel of the Cherokee and screeched right into the now-deserted town parking lot. In the middle of the lot she braked hard, and the Jeep lurched to a stop.

  The stalker followed.

  “I can’t believe it,” Rachel said. “He’s parking right behind us!”

  Within seconds Talia heard a car door slam, and before she could dig her phone out of her pocket, the wild-looking visage of Suzy Sato was gaping at her through the passenger-side window.

  “Talia, it’s only me. I need to talk to you!”

  “Ignore her. I’m calling the police,” Rachel said. She flipped the switch on her Bluetooth, and a robotic voice asked who she wanted to call.

  Talia gawked at her friend. Why hadn’t she done that in the first place?