Murder on Memory Lake

by J. D. Griffo

  “Blu è il colore più sola,” Alberta whispered, more to herself than to Joyce.

  Joyce quickly translated the Italian saying in her head. “Blue is the loneliest color? What are you talking about?”

  Looking straight ahead, Alberta explained why she was so upset. “The reason there isn’t an outfit in navy is because Lucy was wearing it when they found her in the lake. Whoever killed Lucy, killed her in Beverly’s condo and then deliberately changed her clothes before dumping her in the lake.”

  Slowly, Joyce began to look as scared as her sister-in-law. “You mean someone dressed her in one of Beverly’s outfits? After killing her? But why would someone do that?”

  Shaking her head, Alberta finally looked at Joyce, her eyes filled with fear. “I don’t know why someone would do that, but I think I know why Marion would.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Mammone.

  Joyce wished that she could tell Alberta not to jump to any conclusions, but the facts they were uncovering were starting to tell a different story.

  Since Marion was having an affair with Beverly, it was a likely assumption that he would have a key to her condo or would at least be an invited guest and could come and go without suspicion at any time of day or night. If Lucy were indeed killed in Beverly’s condo, which was another likely assumption because she was found dead wearing Beverly’s clothes, Marion would have had no problem gaining entry to the premises to carry out the deed. It was also obvious that Beverly knew about Lucy’s TV Guide collection and its monetary worth, so it was yet another likely assumption that she would have shared this news with the person she loved the most, aka Marion.

  Perhaps Beverly and Marion planned to steal the collection to sell it and keep the money. It was a logical conclusion, but while Beverly definitely needed the extra cash since she was financially challenged, why would Marion, who ran and owned his very lucrative family business, need a measly fifty thousand dollars? And would he really kill someone for that amount of money? And if so, could greed lead him to kill Beverly too so he wouldn’t have to split their windfall?

  Then again, if Beverly was the murderer, why would she dress Lucy in an outfit that could so easily be linked to her own wardrobe? She could have planned to say that Lucy borrowed the outfit, not realizing the fatal mistake that Lucy hated the color navy and wouldn’t be caught dead—figuratively or literally—in a navy blue ensemble. But here were other nagging questions too. If Beverly were such a close girlfriend of Lucy’s to know of her secret collection, wouldn’t she also know about her secret hatred of navy blue? And if Marion were the murderer, why would he change Lucy’s clothes? He was always impeccably dressed, but wasn’t that taking the idea of being a fashion victim a bit too far?

  After laying out the facts, they were left with the belief that both Marion and Beverly had motive and opportunity to kill Lucy, but they were still no closer to pointing an unwavering finger at either one of them as the definitive prime suspect. As the co-founders of the unofficial Ferrara Family Detective Agency, Alberta and Jinx understood that it was time to ramp their sleuthing up a notch.

  * * *

  The Upper Sussex Herald employed eleven people, and all of them liked Jinx, which was good because she was always wandering into places where she had no business wandering. Like the broom-closet-sized, windowless office that housed the one computer loaded with software linking it to all of New Jersey’s correctional facilities and government agencies. It was also the only office whose door was marked “Private.” A warning that Jinx ignored.

  While running Marion’s fingerprints through the computer, Calhoun entered unexpectedly and startled Jinx, causing her to whip around and almost drop the coffee cup she was holding. At six feet three and exactly one hundred and sixty-two pounds, Sylvester Calhoun was often described as a tall drink of water. His lanky frame easily towered over Jinx’s, especially since she was wearing flats and not her usual three-inch heels, so she knew that he only had to tilt his head slightly and he’d have a clear view of the computer screen. And if that happened, nothing was going to stop the investigative reporter from investigating why Jinx was running one of Tranquility’s most prominent businessmen’s fingerprints through the criminal justice system. She wasn’t going to quell Calhoun’s instincts as an investigative reporter, but she could quench his appetite as a man.

  Seductively, she put the pointed end of his green paisley tie into her mouth and moistened it with her saliva, all the while deliberately avoiding eye contact with her wide-eyed colleague. She dabbed the wet tip of the tie onto his chest and pretended to wipe away imaginary drops of her hazelnut coffee.

  “I wouldn’t want to be the reason your shirt is covered in stains,” Jinx purred.

  “No worries,” Calhoun nervously replied. “My kid usually spits up on me at least once a day.”

  Knowing that Calhoun had recently become a new father, she figured he had also become an old husband and was craving some affection from the opposite sex.

  “Baby spittle on a man’s dress shirt is super attractive,” Jinx said. “Coffee blotches, not so much.”

  Calhoun flinched at Jinx’s repeated dabs and finally took over cleaning duties, pressing his tie into the wet spots on his shirt. “You think so?” he asked. “About the baby spittle, I mean.”

  “Absolutely!” Jinx enthused. “It shows that you’re a hands-on dad and not one of those absentee fathers who still believes a wife is best when barefoot and pregnant. It’s a total turn-on, you know, to most women.”

  As she spoke, Jinx stepped counterclockwise so Calhoun had to follow suit, and soon he was standing in front of the computer and facing the door. He had no idea that behind him the computer was desperately trying to find a match for Marion Klausner’s fingerprints.

  “Well, I hope women will be watching the six o’clock news,” he stated. “I’m going to be interviewed this afternoon about the tax fraud scandal I uncovered involving the mayor’s former brother-in-law.”

  “Johnny Kaplan?”

  “That’s the one,” Calhoun confirmed. “The piece is set to air tonight.”

  Jinx hid her immense disappointment that Calhoun was going to hit the local airwaves and frowned at the announcement. “In that case, you’re probably going to want to clean up,” she declared. “TV magnifies everything, so a tiny stain that might look sexy up close could come off as kind of gross on the small screen.”

  Calhoun looked instantly worried. He might be a veteran reporter and a harried father, but he was still a man, which meant that he was helpless.

  “What should I do?” he said, a hint of desperation etching into his voice. “I don’t have another shirt at the office.”

  “Go into the fridge in the break room, there’s a bottle of seltzer behind the unclaimed Chinese takeout,” Jinx instructed.

  Calhoun’s worried expression deepened. “That’s Mary Margaret’s seltzer, and she’s very territorial about her soft drinks.”

  “Tell her it’s an emergency,” Jinx ordered. “Now go.”

  Alone again in the tiny office, Jinx chuckled to herself, thinking that men could be so predictable. She looked at the computer screen and gave a high five to the empty air when she received confirmation. Marion Franz Klausner’s fingerprints were already in the government’s database, which meant that Marion was a criminal. Or at least had been arrested at some point in his life for a crime that he may or may not have committed. It was good enough for Jinx.

  Heart racing, she typed the information on the computer screen into her cell phone and quickly turned off the computer in case she was interrupted again. She snuck out of the room, making sure that no one saw her scurrying back to her desk. By the time she got there, Marion’s rap sheet was on her phone’s screen.

  Weeks before he graduated from Rutgers University he was involved in a date rape scandal that, based upon the very small number of hits generated, was largely brushed under the rug. Of course, the alleged crime took place well before the daw
n of the Internet, so it could have been widely covered by the press at the time, but now in the technological age, it was a mere footnote.

  Scanning the one article she could find, Jinx discovered that an unnamed female student accused Marion of date-raping her, but after two separate and independent investigations spearheaded by the college and the state, the allegations couldn’t be supported and the charges were dropped. Marion was only mentioned by name once in the article and never quoted, but his mother, Helga, was quite the blabbermouth.

  “I know all too well what it is like to be condemned and considered guilty before proven innocent by the public,” Helga was quoted as saying. “I have been suspected of terrible things simply because I am German and now my only son has been suspected of a terrible thing only because he is handsome, smart, and wealthy. Look at his handsome face, it is the face of an angel, a handsome angel who will go on to do great and remarkable things. And this girl, this evil girl who said my son did this deplorable thing, you watch her and you will see that she rots in hell.”

  Wow, Jinx thought, sounds like Marion’s mother was the original helicopter parent. But after reading the quote again, Jinx realized that her mother probably would’ve said the same thing if she had been accused of committing such a heinous crime. And she knew without question that Alberta, Helen, and even Joyce would speak out as strongly against any person who dared incriminate her, and they would be vocal proponents of her innocence and her good name.

  While she couldn’t fault the mother for protecting the child, she had the nagging suspicion that the child had not learned his lesson. She felt it was time to go directly to the source and probe deeper into Marion’s weak spot. After all, she might not be a mother, but she had already proven to be a very smart sister.

  * * *

  “I know you’re used to meeting with Father Sal, but he’s so overwhelmed these days counseling the bishop and balancing the church’s precarious budget, not to mention returning the endless stream of phone calls from the Vatican.”

  “Yes, he’s a very busy and influential man,” Marion confirmed. “In fact, the last time we met, he said he wasn’t sure if he could continue our sessions due to his schedule, but I’m grateful that in his absence he had the forethought to connect the two of us.”

  Jinx brushed the black cloth of the nun’s headpiece with the back of her hand as if it were a strand of her own long hair and silently cursed herself since it was an inappropriate gesture for the woman she was portraying. But since Marion was staring into his coffee cup pensively, he was unaware that Jinx was behaving badly or that she wasn’t who she claimed to be.

  “Sister Maria,” Marion said. “I must confess . . .”

  “Please do,” Jinx interrupted.

  “You’re younger than I thought you’d be,” Marion stated.

  Jinx nodded her head and smiled politely even though she was disappointed that he hadn’t confessed to something more salacious, like murder, or at least a date rape that he committed decades ago.

  “When I received the call to meet you here,” he continued. “I just assumed that you would be a contemporary of Father Sal’s, not someone so young.”

  Jinx smiled again, this time thrilled to know that he didn’t recognize her voice as the person who called him to set up the interview. She had channeled her grandmother’s thick New Jersey Italian accent and posed as Father Sal’s secretary to lure Marion out of his office and across town to a diner that was once a local hotspot, but was now frequented primarily by tired truck drivers and kids craving disco fries late at night. Neither of them ran the risk of being recognized.

  “I stopped drinking the sacrificial wine at the early morning masses,” Jinx laughed until she noticed Marion’s raised eyebrows. “Sorry, a bit of nun humor. I keep forgetting that it doesn’t go over so well with non-parochials.” Her comedy routine having failed, Jinx thought it best to hit hard and convince Marion that they shared an important connection.

  “Father Sal thought my background in psychology might help me better counsel you,” she lied.

  “You studied psychology?”

  “Yes,” she lied again. “At Rutgers University.”

  “What a coincidence. That’s my alma mater.”

  Marion smiled broadly, and although Jinx stared intently, she couldn’t detect a crack in his veneer. If he was remembering his near-criminal past, he gave no indication and looked like a man momentarily lost in his college glory days. She needed to drag him into the present.

  “So, your relationship with Beverly seems to be the latest in a long line of failures and is the most recent demonstration of a lifelong problem,” she stated bluntly. “Which is your inability to commit to one woman.”

  Opening his mouth, Jinx thought for sure that Marion would protest, but he simply let out a deep breath. He didn’t argue with Jinx’s accusation; in fact, he appeared to rejoice in it.

  “Thank you, Sister, for being so honest and, pardon me for appearing so forward, but for being a woman,” he replied. “Father Sal is a very good listener, but even though he’s a priest he’s still a man, and try as he might, I don’t think he ever thought what I was doing was really . . . wrong.”

  “I’m not here to judge what’s right and wrong,” Jinx maintained.

  “I know that, but it’s refreshing to hear my issue portrayed so plainly,” Marion said. “Ever since I started dating in college, I would lead a girl on, make her think that we had a future, and then break things off just as she was expecting me to get down on one knee. Sometimes I even went so far as to insinuate that I would ask her to marry me and twice . . . I’m so ashamed to admit this . . . but twice I even bought a ring. Each time I swore that I would never do it again, that I would never break another woman’s heart, but I did it again and this time I fear I’ve gone too far.”

  Jinx almost choked on her coffee and had to swallow hard not to spit in Marion’s face. “What do you mean too far?”

  For a moment Marion looked away at nothing in particular, but also at something very significant. Jinx assumed he was looking at Beverly’s tear-stained face. She was wrong.

  “I should have broken things off years ago, but I really hoped that it would work out this time,” Marion said, his voice filled with emotion. “I know that it would have made her so very happy and that’s all I ever wanted to do, you must understand that, everything I’ve ever done was to make her happy.”

  “Beverly?”

  Shaking his head vehemently, Marion replied, “No, of course not. I’m talking about my mother.”

  * * *

  At the same time, Alberta was conducting her own investigation at the Tranquility Library and her conclusions would point her in the same direction.

  After spending about an hour on the computer in the library’s Business Resource Room searching the Internet for articles on Wasserman & Speicher, Alberta still hadn’t uncovered anything new about the real estate firm that she hadn’t already learned on the job or in one of the many press releases that were constantly being e-mailed to all employees from the firm’s communications department. Until she took a cue from the original Sister Maria from The Sound of Music and decided to start at the very beginning.

  Before Marion there was Helga and before Helga there was the Wasserman family. If they owned the company Marion now ran, it would be important to find out about how the company started. Or more specifically, how the family started. Alberta typed Wasserman into the computer, and multiple random links popped up, including one that showed wasser was the German word for water. Who the hell was Waterman, Alberta thought?

  Defeated, she then retyped in Wasserman & Speicher and noticed that not only did links pop up with the word water, but also with the word memory. She did some further digging and was astonished to discover that speicher was the German word for memory. The German words for water and memory making up one company’s name, could it just be a coincidence? Alberta couldn’t cover her mouth fast enough to stifle her gasp when s
he realized that Wasserman & Speicher could be loosely translated to mean Memory Lake, the same place where Lucy’s dead body had been found.

  Without realizing it, Alberta started to mutter to herself. Although her specific words weren’t overheard by the few patrons milling about the library, her incoherent whispering did attract the attention of the librarian who was restocking the magazine racks directly behind her.

  “Excuse me, may I help you?”

  The fingers that unexpectedly tapped her shoulder felt like bolts of lightning. Alberta turned around in her chair so fast that she knocked the magazines out of Sloan’s hands. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she gasped.

  “Not to worry,” he replied, bending down to pick them up. “Happens to me all the time when I frighten a pretty woman.”

  Startled even further by the librarian’s flirtatious comment, Alberta blushed when she apologized once again. “It was my fault,” she admitted. “I was so lost in my reading that I didn’t hear you come up behind me.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said. “It’s nice to see someone using the library for research, helps to keep me employed. I’m Sloan McLelland, by the way.”

  “Alberta Scaglione,” she replied, reaching out to shake his hand.

  The first thing she noticed was that Sloan’s hand was softer but much stronger than her husband Sammy’s ever was. And the second thing was that she recognized his name. “I know that name,” she said.

  It was Sloan’s turn to blush. “You must have read my articles in The Herald.”

  “Yes! They were wonderful and so informative,” Alberta gushed. “Who knew Tranquility had such a rich history?”

  As a third-generation Tranquilitarian, which is what the long-standing residents called themselves, Sloan knew all about his hometown’s past, so Wyck thought he was the perfect person to write a multipart series of articles highlighting the triumphs, events, and occasional scandal of the town’s first hundred years. Wyck also thought having the articles written by a local would give them a hokey homegrown feel. He, along with most of the town, was quite surprised to find that they were not only very well written but impeccably researched, funny, and rather touching. The series served as a wonderful reminder to the fast-paced modern world of Tranquility’s strong and sturdy roots.