“Pretty generic, huh?” I said.
“It’s a textbook suicide note,” she said.
“Exactly. It’s nothing but clichés.”
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I think it’s a fake—which confirms, in my mind, something I learned last night.” Without providing the details, I told Farrah about Arlen’s revelation.
Her eyes wide, Farrah practically bounced with all the questions she wanted to ask. But the one she asked was the one I couldn’t answer.
“Why would anybody want to murder Jim Turnbull?”
* * *
On our way to the Edindale Playhouse, I had half a mind to ask Farrah to make a detour to Turnbull Manor. I was feeling an urgency to get to the bottom of this string of mysteries before anything else could happen. Checking my cell phone, I realized we didn’t have time. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t make a quick phone call.
“Do you happen to have Suzanne’s phone number?” I asked. “She gave me her card, but I don’t know what I did with it.”
“Yeah, it’s in my phone.” Farrah reached for her purse in the back seat and tossed it in my lap. “It’s in there.”
I found the number and dialed. Suzanne answered with a cheery, saleswoman “hello.” But as soon as I identified myself, her cheeriness dropped away. “Keli? What can I do for you?”
“Sorry to bug you, Suzanne, but I have a very important question.”
“All your questions are important, aren’t they?” she said dryly.
“It’s about your husband’s death. The police may be reopening their investigation into how he died.” At least, I hoped they would, as soon as I figured out a way to convince Detective Rhinehardt to do so—ideally without mentioning cow skulls and spirit animals.
“What?” she said sharply, her voice raising several decibels.
“I know this is a sensitive subject,” I continued, “but I have reason to believe foul play may have been involved.”
“What?” she repeated. This time I had to move the phone away from my ear.
“Now, listen, please. I need to know what you were fighting about the day he died.”
“What are you talking about?” she yelled. “Jim’s death was ruled an accident! Why can’t you let him rest in peace? I’m not going to relive the past. It’s too painful. I’m sorry.” And with that, she hung up.
“That went well,” I said, as Farrah pulled into the municipal parking lot.
“I could tell,” she said. “Good job.”
“Yeah.”
* * *
Farrah had bought us front-row tickets, in the very center of the theater. We were so close I felt like we were on the stage, receiving phonetics lessons from Crenshaw right alongside Eliza Doolittle. The story was cute and engaging, and I was able to set aside my worries for at least a little while.
During intermission, Farrah and I walked to the lobby to stretch our legs. While in line to grab a few refreshments, we looked around to see if we recognized any of the other theatergoers.
Farrah nudged my arm. “Hey isn’t that what’s-her-name? The reporter Crenshaw used to date? He’s not seeing her again, is he?”
I followed her gaze. “Sheana Starwalt? Yeah, that’s her. And, I don’t think they’re dating, as far as I know. Then again, it’s not like he tells me everything about his personal life.”
Farrah narrowed her eyes, and I grinned. I was about to tease her about having a crush on Crenshaw, when someone else caught my eye. On the other side of the lobby, a man stood alone, speaking into a cell phone. His back was partially turned away, but I recognized his dark hair and full beard. It was Xavier Charleston.
“Fancy seeing him here,” I muttered.
“Who?” asked Farrah.
I pointed him out, then handed Farrah some cash. “Order me a drink, will you? I’m gonna go hover, so I can nab him as soon as he’s off the phone. Our conversation was cut short the other night, and I still have a few questions.”
As I made my way through the milling crowd, Xavier suddenly turned his head and looked straight at me. He winked, then headed swiftly for the exit. For a moment, I was taken aback. It was such an unexpected reaction. But I soon gathered my wits and followed him outside.
Stepping onto the sidewalk in front of the theater, I looked left and right. Where had he gone? A moment later, I spotted him walking around to the driver’s side of an expensive-looking black car parked along the curb. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was a Bentley.
An older man walking by paused next to me and whistled softly. “It’s not often you see cars like that around Edindale.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
I tossed and turned Tuesday night, wrestling with the implications of everything I’d learned. By the next morning, I was in no shape to go to work. I phoned Arlen to let him know.
“No problem,” he said. “You don’t have any appointments today. I’ll open up the office and hold down the fort.”
“You’re a saint, Arlen. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Hmm,” he said, seeming to consider it. “Hero, maybe. I’m not sure about ‘saint.’”
Smiling, I told him good-bye and crawled back into bed. An hour or so later, Wes came in with a cup of coffee and a slice of avocado toast.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. We need to talk.”
In my sleep-addled haze, my heart stuttered in my chest. Was this the talk? The one about our future? Then I rubbed my eyes and shook off the fog.
“Why aren’t you at work?” I mumbled.
“I went in early to pick up my assignment. I’ll be photographing the fall decorations downtown later today.”
“Fun. So, what do we need to talk about?”
“Lana. What can we do to help her? We gotta figure this thing out. She can’t stay here forever.”
At least we were in agreement on that point. I got up to throw water on my face and brush my teeth. By the time I came back, Wes was sitting up in bed flipping through a small notebook. I sat down next to him and munched on my toast.
“Are those your gumshoe notes?” I asked.
He snickered. “Sort of. They’re mostly about my hunt for Lana. You were supposed to find the will and whatever else was missing.”
“I looked, believe me! But there seem to be a lot of secret hiding places at the manor.” I’d already told Wes about the hidden closet in the gun room. Now I wondered if the mansion held yet more secrets waiting to be discovered.
“Maybe we should see Rhinehardt again,” said Wes. “He kept the threatening letter Lana received and said he’d follow up on it. But he wasn’t clear about what he would do next.”
“Did he say anything about the missing painting?”
“Yeah. He said the cops spent all weekend interviewing people who were at the gala, and nobody saw anything. Since the bartender was in the conservatory all evening, and the caterers were in the kitchen, it’s likely the thief walked out the front door.”
“That would have been a bold move,” I said.
Wes squinted, thinking back to Friday night. “You’re right. There were a lot of cars parked on the street out front. And it’s a fairly long walk from the street to the front door. In some ways, it would have made more sense for the thief to slip out the kitchen door to a vehicle in the driveway.”
“A few people did park in the circular driveway in back,” I mused. “Some of the older guests came in that way.”
“Maybe the caterers were too busy to pay attention to people coming in and out,” said Wes.
“They were quite busy,” I said. “But I’d like to hear for myself what they have to say. Can you hand me my phone?”
Last time I’d spoken with young Trevor, he was a bundle of nerves—mainly afraid his mom would be in trouble for lying to the police about Celia. I imagined being questioned by the cops was a nerve-racking experience for him.
“Ruby Plate Catering,” said the woman who answere
d the phone.
“Hello. Is Trevor in?”
A minute later, Trevor was on the line. His voice cracked when I told him who I was and what I wanted to know.
“I already told the police everything!” he said. “I didn’t see Celia walking around with a painting or anything else.”
“They asked you specifically about Celia?”
“What? No. I—I just assumed she was a suspect because of, you know, the lies. I mean, not the lies. The misunderstanding.”
I glanced at Wes and rolled my eyes. “Trevor, relax. I’m not calling about Celia. I just want to know if you saw anyone exit through the kitchen with anything in their hands. Anything bigger than a glass or plate.”
He was silent for a moment, hopefully thinking. I waited.
“We were really busy,” he finally said. “But I think most of the guests stayed out of the kitchen. There was an old man who came in that way early in the evening. And some of the people who live there walked through—I think their names were Ray and Crenshaw, or something. I don’t think they were carrying anything.”
“What about later on? Like, during the speeches maybe?”
“Oh, yeah. There was a guy who went to put his coat in his car, but he came right back.”
My skin prickled at this bit of news. “An overcoat?”
“Yeah, I guess. One of those long, heavy coats.”
“Who was the guy, Trevor? What did he look like?”
“He was one of the rich dudes. He had a long black beard.”
I thanked Trevor and hung up. Wes was watching me expectantly. “Well?”
“It was Xavier,” I said. “I don’t know why, especially if he’s as wealthy as everyone says. But I’m almost positive it was Xavier.”
* * *
I dressed quickly, then followed Wes downtown to the police station. We took separate cars, since we didn’t know how long we would be. As it happened, we had to wait a while to see Detective Rhinehardt. When he finally showed us to his small office, he seemed grumpier than usual. He was even less happy to learn I’d elicited information from a witness his officers had already questioned.
“Never mind that,” I said, not wanting to draw any more attention to Trevor, my trusty informant. “What do you know about Xavier Charleston?”
Rhinehardt grabbed a file folder and flipped through some papers. Finding the one he wanted, he read us the highlights. “Mr. Charleston was interviewed at the Harrison Hotel on Saturday. He’s an art dealer from LA. He’s been in Edindale for a month. I spoke to him myself regarding the night Elaine Turnbull passed away, and he had a solid alibi. As for Friday night, he told my investigator he thought the painting was still on the wall when he left the party around ten P.M.” He paused, frowning. “Huh.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked, leaning forward.
“It says here there was a problem when the investigator went to run Charleston’s driver’s license after interviewing him at the hotel. He made a note saying he might have copied down the number wrong.”
Rhinehardt snatched up his phone and hit a button. “Get me the Harrison Hotel, please.”
Wes and I watched as Rhinehardt made his inquiries. By the time he hung up, his face was flushed a fiery shade of red.
“He checked out?” I asked.
“Late last night,” said Rhinehardt. “And he paid his entire bill in cash.”
* * *
We could tell Rhinehardt was in no mood for help from amateurs, so Wes and I wisely said good-bye—right after I mentioned seeing Xavier at the Edindale Playhouse the evening before. Over lunch at the Cozy Café, Wes and I both used our phones to look up anything we could find on the art dealer from LA. We came up with nada.
“Either he’s a super private person, or there is no Xavier Charleston,” said Wes.
“I’ll bet you he’s a con artist,” I said. “A smooth swindler. I bet even his beard was fake!”
“I don’t know,” said Wes. “It looked real to me.”
“Yeah, well, I always had a funny feeling about that guy.”
Wes gave me a half grin, as if to say, “Sure you did.”
I took a sip of iced tea, as I tried to recall all the times I’d come across or heard someone mention Xavier’s name.
“He had a lot of people fooled,” said Wes. “And all to steal a painting from the Turnbulls. I wonder if he robbed anyone else.”
“Or purchased something with a bad check,” I said. “He was supposedly buying artwork from other private collectors around here.”
“Oh, well,” said Wes, sitting back in his chair. “That’s one mystery solved, but it doesn’t help us with Lana’s problem. There’s still someone out there who apparently doesn’t want her to claim her inheritance. Somebody who murdered Elaine—and probably murdered Jim, too, right?”
“Yeah,” I said absently, as I played with the ice in my glass. “But I’m not so sure the mysteries aren’t connected. I keep thinking everything is connected.”
“You mean, like, in a cosmic way?”
I smiled. “That, too.”
Wes checked his watch. “I gotta go meet the head of the Chamber of Commerce and take some photos. Let’s pick up this discussion later. Are you going into work today?”
“Not just yet. I want to stop by the museum first.”
* * *
Mavis Rawlins was dumbstruck when I broke the news about Xavier. We were sitting in her office at the Edindale Art Museum, much as we had been the first time I’d met her. Only now, her serene composure rapidly cracked like the marble bust on the shelf behind her.
“It appears he skipped town,” I said.
“But he pledged thousands of dollars in donations to the museum! What do you mean he ‘skipped town’?”
“Well, he checked out of his hotel anyway,” I said. “Do you have a way of getting in touch with him?”
She reached for a Rolodex then picked up her phone. A moment later, she shook her head in disbelief. “His number has been disconnected!”
“Mavis, had you ever heard of Xavier before he came to Edindale? How did you first meet him?”
“Why, I believe we were introduced by Perry Warren. I had the impression Mr. Charleston was well-known in his field, at least on the West Coast.”
I stood up to leave. “The police are trying to track him down even as we speak. If you think of anything that might be helpful, be sure to give Detective Rhinehardt a call.”
In the meantime, I had a few questions to ask Perry.
* * *
I swung by Farrah’s apartment on my way to Turnbull Manor. “Are you free for a bit of sleuthing?” I asked.
“Heck, yeah! I’m supposed to be making some sales calls this afternoon, but they can wait.” She shouldered her purse and locked her door behind us. “This time I want to be with you when you stumble upon some secret passageway or hidden door or whatever it is you always seem to find.”
We were quiet on the drive to the mansion. Farrah probably sensed we were nearing the end of our adventure—and, therefore, wandering into dangerous territory. But my mind was occupied with the sticky strands of a complicated web. Or was it so complicated? Maybe the answer to all the open questions was the same. Someone murdered Elaine, took her amended will, swiped her diaries, and stole the painting—or arranged its theft—all for the same reason. Oh, and killed Jim for the same reason several years before. The killer tried to make Jim’s death look like a suicide, but then Lana ran off with the suicide note. When Lana first shared her story, I’d assumed Perry never mentioned the note for the same reason the responding police officers didn’t share their theory—to spare Elaine the additional pain of believing her son took his own life. Now I was having other ideas . . .
As I parked my car in front of the mansion, Farrah turned to look at me with a nervous light in her eye. “We’re not going to confront Ray, are we?”
“We’re not going to confront anyone,” I said. “We’re just asking questions.”
/>
Before leaving the car, I shot off a quick text to Wes to let him know where I was. Since I didn’t see Crenshaw’s car at the manor, I sent him a text as well.
“About the will,” I said, as we walked to the back of the house. “We’ve been under the assumption that whoever took it didn’t like how Elaine had decided to distribute her estate. Ray thought the crook was going to alter the document to benefit him or herself.”
“Or destroy it,” said Farrah. “Maybe the thief preferred that everything go to Lana. That could apply to her friend, Ernesto, or her stepmother, Suzanne. Or to Lana herself. When did she come back again?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think the motive had anything to do with any individual beneficiary. I think it had to do with the assets Elaine was distributing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think her will made specific bequests of specific paintings. The art collection is the key to this whole thing. I’m almost certain someone hired Xavier to take the painting, because they didn’t want it to be part of the collection when Crenshaw put everything up for sale.”
“Which he was about to do!” said Farrah. “If you hadn’t found Lana, he was going to have to liquidate the whole estate.”
“I’d love to be able to find Xavier,” I said. “And I’m very interested in how Perry came to meet him.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Perry didn’t answer when we knocked on his door. We walked around the outside of his guesthouse, glancing over our shoulders and trying to peek in the windows. At his back door, I knocked again.
“Do you think he took off with Xavier?” Farrah whispered.
“That wouldn’t be very smart,” I said. “After all, his identity is real. He’d have a harder time disappearing.”
On a whim, I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Farrah and I looked at each other, and she nodded. “Detectives snoop,” she said. “Plus, we have permission to be here. Perry let you in with Rhinehardt the other night.”
It was plausible. Besides, the closer we got to the answer, the more imperative it was to act fast.
We crept inside and did a quick sweep of every room. Most of Perry’s things were packed up in suitcases and boxes—as they should be, considering Crenshaw’s eviction notice. We were back in the kitchen, about to leave through the back door, when I opened the refrigerator.
Autumn Alibi Page 26
