by Joy Avon
“How odd.”
“Maybe not. Maybe he mentioned it to Monica, and she came here because of his recommendation. I want to talk to him. It’s not far from here. I’ll go and see if he’s home now.” She checked her watch. “About dinner time—should be perfect.”
Quinn rubbed his dirty hands. “Should I go with you?”
“No, I can do it by myself.” Callie called Daisy and put her on the leash. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
* * *
Callie heard the sound of the pruning shears before she could even see the cottage. It was hidden behind a bend in the path. The sounds grew louder, and Daisy stayed behind Callie, her ears flat. She didn’t like metallic sounds.
Callie pulled her along and came to a man standing just behind his garden gate, pruning some yellow roses. He was deep into his chore, not hearing her approach until she was beside him. Then he looked up. “Oh, good evening. You must be lost. Not many people come this way unless they take a wrong turn. There’s nothing out there.”
He gestured with the tool down the path. “Just a dead end.”
“I’m actually here to see you.” Callie smiled, reaching out her hand. “Callie Aspen.”
“Otto Ralston. Let me guess. You want advice on how to grow these amazing roses.”
Callie laughed. “That would be useful, as I don’t have a green thumb and I did just rent a cottage with a garden. But no, it’s not about the roses either. I’m part of a local team preparing a tea party for the Fourth of July, at Haywood Hall. We’re focusing on key events from town history, and I’d like to talk to you about Monica Walker.”
Ralston looked her over. The relaxed expression on his slightly sunburned face didn’t alter at all upon hearing the name, as if it had been but a few days ago since he had last seen her, worked with her. Not as if she was a missing celebrity with a ton of secrets. “What about her?”
“You did work with her, didn’t you? On Magnates’ Wives?”
“That was a long time ago. After the show got canceled, I did a lot of other things. But people always remember Magnates’ Wives.”
Ralston laughed softly, somewhat disparagingly it seemed. “It didn’t go deep maybe, but it was a hit series. Mainly because of Monica. She was a natural. When she acted a highly emotional scene, even the crew was crying.”
He took a rose in the palm of his hand and studied it. “She had this way with people. She got what she wanted, in a very charming way.”
Callie tilted her head. “You mean she was manipulative?”
“Very. You never knew with her where the acting started. Sometimes I think everything she did was acting. For the sake of results, applause, her own satisfaction. She thought she was very clever.”
Callie studied this man, the first person she had heard say less than complimentary things about Monica. All the others had seemed to like, even adore, her to some level, but Ralston didn’t mince his words. He had to be about sixty, sixty-five. Physically fit, tanned, an outdoor person with a love of his garden, his hands full of scratches from thorns and his fingernails full of dirt. She couldn’t quite imagine him on the set of a TV series. But then, as he had put it, it was a long time ago.
Ralston said, “Don’t get me wrong. I liked her. We all did. She was charming, funny. She lit up a set with her presence. When she was off for a day or two because the scenes we were shooting didn’t include her, it was dull, and even the prop boys asked when Monica was coming back. The moment she walked in, the set came to life again, and all was right with the world. But we knew, without ever saying it to one another, that Monica got what Monica wanted. When she started dating Roger, he was still engaged to another girl on the show. That didn’t matter to her. She wanted Roger, so Roger had to be hers. How the other girl suffered didn’t mean a thing. And we didn’t tell her to look at what she was doing. We wanted to keep her on the show. So we all just smiled at her.”
He shook his head. “You know, Miss Aspen, I see it now like it really was, but back then I was so caught up in what we had created, in our success and in maintaining it, that I was blind to what Monica did. I liked her and I protected her. I catered to her every whim. I sent her here, you know.”
He looked at Callie as if waking from his memories. “But how impolite of me—you must want a cool drink. Come on in. The dog is welcome too.”
“Her name is Daisy.”
“Well, welcome, Daisy. Just don’t dig in my flower beds.”
Ralston opened the gate and let them into the garden. The warm air was full of scents, and when Callie looked around, she discovered hydrangeas, more roses, fruit-bearing bushes, and a shaded seating arrangement where some children’s toys lay in the grass.
Ralston followed her gaze and said, “My grandkids’ toys. They’re also staying here for the summer. At the campgrounds. They like it a little more rustic than I do.”
He waved at the seats. “Have a seat, and I’ll be back in a moment or two with the drinks. White wine?”
“Why not?” Callie didn’t like alcohol much, but she wanted to maintain the light, chatty atmosphere that would induce this man to tell her more about Monica Walker.
Apparently, he had observed her well, and the relationships she had with other crew members. This girl he had just mentioned, who had been with Roger Aames before Monica had taken Roger away from her—could she have wanted revenge? Could she have followed Monica here to kill her and dispose of the body in such a way that it would seem she had run off with a new lover? That would be extremely hurtful to Roger, perhaps even driving him back into his old love’s arms.
Daisy wanted to pick up one of the toys, and Callie lifted her and put her in her lap, brushing back her ears and whispering to her about the nice roses until Ralston came back, holding two wine glasses in his hands. He gave one to her and then toasted her with the other. “To Monica. May she be happy wherever she is.”
Callie lifted her glass and repeated the toast, even though her mouth was sour at the idea that Monica was very dead and her remains currently under forensic investigation.
Ralston sat down and stretched his legs leisurely, crossing his ankles.
“You said Monica came here on your advice,” Callie picked up where they had left off.
“Advice, advice … She asked me for a quiet place to unwind for a few days. She had ended the thing with Roger because she was tired of him, a typical Monica thing to do, and he kept pursuing her, so she wanted to get away. I told her about Heart’s Harbor, walks on the beach, going out on a boat bird-watching. That sort of thing. Monica was more into parties and skiing in the French Alps, but if she wanted quiet for a change, I wasn’t going to stop her.”
“Did she seem anxious about Roger? Was he pursuing her in a nasty way?”
“Well, Roger was engaged to be married when Monica stole him. So he was upset when she dumped him like a brick. He wanted her back, whatever it took. Also to prevent others from laughing about him behind his back.”
“Meaning he stalked her?”
“He sent gifts to the set, yes, left flowers at her apartment door. ‘You are my life,’ or something like that, he kept writing to her. A bit over dramatic, if you ask me.”
“And you never felt like something violent was brewing?”
Ralston stared at her, his green eyes lighting. “What are you saying? That Roger hurt Monica? He didn’t even know she was here.”
“Yes, he did. He also sent her flowers here. The hotel owner at the time noticed and told me about it.”
Ralston whistled. “I had no idea. I thought Monica hadn’t told anyone where she was going.”
“Roger knew. So he could have come here and—”
“You think he was involved in her disappearance?” Ralston shook his head. “Look, I knew him well. He was angry, yes—humiliated too—but foremost he still loved her. He might have done something silly like come out here to try and persuade her to come back to him, but he would
never have hurt her.”
“Not even if she had refused to come? What if she told him to his face that she was running away? Maybe even with another man?”
Ralston sipped his wine with a pensive expression. “I’ve never quite considered it that way. That he knew that she was here. That he might have kept an eye on her. Have seen her prepare her departure.”
“Maybe even seen her with another man?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, he might have not liked that.” Ralston emptied his glass and rose. “I need more of this. You?”
“No, thanks.”
Callie watched Ralston walk off. He seemed shocked at the idea that Monica’s ex might have come after her here. Callie wasn’t quite sure herself whether it fit. If Roger Aames had followed Monica to watch her, why let her know he knew of her hideout by sending the flowers to the hotel? Giving himself away like that?
Ralston returned with his glass and a bottle of wine. He sat down and poured liberally. Taking a few sips, he sighed. “That’s better.” He glanced at her. “Roger was here, you know.”
“When?” Callie asked, confused.
“Just the other day. I saw him on Main Street. I wondered what he was doing here, but I didn’t feel like going up to him to ask. We lost touch and … well, I like my life quiet now.”
“He was here in town?” Callie echoed, a chill running down her spine. So he could have killed Jamison. “At the time of Monica’s disappearance, a local journalist called Joe Jamison looked into the case for the local newspaper. Did he ever contact you?”
“Oh, he contacted each and every one of us on the show. We were all tired of him. Couldn’t stop digging.”
“Still he came up empty.”
Ralston turned the glass over in his hands. “Those things happen. I’m sure it wasn’t for a lack of trying. He was a super snoop. He even came to the studio to ask questions. I think someone complained that a reporter had been inside his dressing room. But hey, the press was hot on the story at the time. It could have been someone other than this Jamison.”
“Have you ever talked to him again? He lived here too.”
Ralston shrugged. “It’s not such a small town that you can’t avoid each other. I’m here most of the time, tending to the garden, or I take our little boat out and do some fishing. I don’t need to breakfast in town.”
“So you have no idea how Jamison felt after all these years?”
“I supposed he had moved on. The story wasn’t news anymore.” Ralston lifted the wine bottle. “Some more?”
Callie had barely touched her glass yet and waved off his offer. “No, thanks. It’s a very nice wine, but I had a busy day, and too much alcohol gives me bad dreams.”
Ralston refilled his own glass.
Callie had noticed his wedding ring and asked casually, “Is Mrs. Ralston also a fan of gardening?”
“Mrs. Ralston isn’t with us anymore.” Ralston glanced down at his hands. “I suppose that’s why my daughter insists on coming to stay in summer, so she can keep an eye on me. She thinks I don’t eat enough.”
“It’s not very nice eating alone,” Callie said, smiling at him. The man was probably lonely. “But it’s good to be near family during the summer. I’m sure your grandkids love this garden to play in. About Roger Aames, when you saw him in town—do you have any idea where he’s staying now? How I might reach him? I’d like to get the best possible picture of Monica for our Fourth of July party.” She was quite sure already that with the recent developments, the Monica Walker story didn’t lend itself for a presentation at a fun, family-oriented event, but she didn’t want to explain to Ralston that she was looking into things for Quinn’s sake.
“You aren’t going to say I told you she was manipulative?” Ralston looked worried. “The public loved her. It won’t do any good to show them what she was really like. Let them believe what they want. I’m fine with that. I just needed to talk about the old days.”
He smiled sadly. “There aren’t many people who want to hear about it. Certainly not my daughter. She’s glad I got out of that world.”
He sat up and added, more lively now, “Roger, well, I don’t know where he might be staying, but you could contact his agent. Roger’s still acting, so he needs someone to get him parts.” Ralston stood and pointed at the house. “Can write it down for you. Give me a minute.”
Callie sat and watched the tranquil garden while the bumblebees buzzed about her and Daisy chased a butterfly. This was a perfectly peaceful little place. She hoped it could bring some contentment and consolation to the lonely widower’s heart.
Ralston came back with a note for her, holding the agent’s name and phone number. He accompanied her to the garden gate and shook her hand. “Very nice talking to you. Do stop by some other time.”
As Callie walked back with Daisy, she called the agent. In California it was still within working hours. A secretary answered who was reluctant to connect her until Callie said it was very important.
“Yes?” A male voice came on the line.
“I want to get in touch with Roger Aames. It’s very urgent. It concerns the disappearance of his former girlfriend Monica Walker.”
It was so silent on the line for a few moments that Callie feared the connection had been broken. Then the agent said, “That was a long time ago, Miss Aspen. What can you possibly want to know about it?”
“I want to get in touch with Mr. Aames. I know he’s around these parts. Heart’s Harbor, Maine?”
“Most certainly not. He’s filming on location in Canada.”
“He was seen here the other day.”
“That can’t be. Thank you. Bye.” And the agent hung up.
Callie exhaled and put her phone back in her pocket. Roger might, of course, really be filming in Canada. Maybe Ralston had been mistaken about seeing him here. People changed over time. Or people looked like someone else. How likely was it anyway that Roger Aames had been here?
Unless he was involved, of course, and had been asked by Jamison to …
She called the police station. Falk was still there. “I was wondering,” Callie said, “if you checked on phone calls going out from Jamison’s office at the newspaper before he died. If you found out if he might have called someone asking them to come see him or—”
“Of course. We looked into that right away. Both his cell phone and his office phone.”
Callie waited, but Falk didn’t seem to want to give her any more. “I wondered,” she pressed, “if he maybe called a Roger Aames? That was Monica’s ex at the time, and I heard he was seen around town the other day. He could have been in touch with Jamison before he died.”
“Interesting.”
Callie couldn’t stand the tension anymore and asked outright, “Did he call this Aames or not?”
“I don’t need to tell you that.” Falk added in a friendlier tone, “Look, Callie, the media are all over this, and I’ve told all of my people that we’re not saying anything to anyone until we have some firm results. Until we know for certain if the remains belong to Monica Walker and how the boat sank, for instance. I can’t tell them to keep their mouths shut and then go and share information myself. You understand?”
“Of course. But the phone calls could be important. I keep thinking Jamison must have invited the killer into his office.”
“That suggests Jamison knew who was involved in Monica’s disappearance. That he invited him over to confront him with information he had or wanted to tell him he was going to go to the police.”
“Not necessarily. Jamison might have thought about the case anew and remembered something he found odd. He called an involved party to talk about it. The party in question came along and then killed Jamison, either in cold blood because he was dangerous, or in anger or emotion over the turn their conversation took. Jamison might have seen the light during the conversation, and the other person knew nothing better to do than to grab something and lash out. Do you already know what the murder
weapon was?”
Falk exhaled. “Doesn’t that also go under the heading ‘we are not giving out any information’?”
“Yes, I see. I do understand. I just want to help.”
“And I appreciate that. Look, why don’t you stop by my cabin later tonight? We can sort of … catch up.”
Callie’s stomach was suddenly full of butterflies. “Tonight?”
“If you have something else to do, we can do it some other time.”
“No, no, tonight is fine. Around nine?”
“Good for me.”
“See you then.”
Callie disconnected and stared at the phone as if she could read something special from it. Falk’s invitation had come out of the blue. She had no idea why he’d want this. It threw her off-balance, and she didn’t like that.
Even worse: if the case was off limits, what could they talk about? Her mind seemed to be blank just imagining them sitting together with the log fire burning. The only questions going through her head would be:
Are we friends or not? Is there more or not?
Did you miss me or not?
Do you even still want me to come and live here?
Of course, she hadn’t decided to come to Heart’s Harbor for Falk. But for Book Tea, Haywood Hall, a new life in a place she had loved ever since she was a kid. But in December, in that warm atmosphere of togetherness, when she had made her decision to quit her job as a travel guide and settle here, Falk had been a part of that equation. And she wasn’t sure anymore how he fit in.
Especially if he didn’t want to fit in any longer.
* * *
Around nine, Callie, dressed in a pale pink blouse straight from the laundry and her favorite jeans, with gray sneakers, walked up to Falk’s cabin, feeling as nervous as a sixteen-year-old on a date. The door was open, and she hopped up the porch steps and peered in. No one in sight. “Falk?”
Maybe it was about time she started calling him Ace, but since he had never invited her to …
She knocked on the open door and walked in.
