Hiss H for Homicide Page 7
“Don’t let the fact the woman was friends with your mother cloud your judgment, Nora. There might be a lot more to all this than you know. After all, she has, apparently, flown the coop.”
“Marlene had appointments with two other people the day before. Scarlett Vandevere and Dooley Franks, aka Sable St. John. Maybe one of them had a reason for wanting Marlene dead.” I sighed. “I need to find out if either or both of them were anywhere near Cruz last night. They both have had books released recently, and they might have had signings in the area.”
“Easy enough to check out,” Louis said. “I’ll be glad to help you out, Nora, but in return . . .”
“Yes, I know. Noir will get the exclusive when all is said and done. Thanks.”
Lance bustled over to the table, accompanied by Nick. The tuxedo reached up, put a paw on my lap, and started to purr.
I scratched the top of his head. “Well, you look happy.”
“Polished off a whole bowl of milk along with some cheese.” Lance eyed me. “Don’t you feed him?”
I made a gesture at the cat. “Look at him. What do you think?”
Nick shook his portly bottom, removed his paw from my leg and sidled closer to Lance.
“Turncoat,” I muttered.
Lance put a hand on my shoulder. “I saw Samms over here. What did he want?”
“Oh, the usual. He claims I’ve seen more than my share of dead bodies, none of which died of natural causes, and he considers me a pariah. Nick too.”
Lance clucked his tongue. “You should make nice with him, Nora. I hear he’s going to be the head of our Homicide unit permanently any day now.”
I almost choked on my sip of beer. “Yeah,” I gasped, “Louis mentioned something along those lines before. What happened? I thought Samms was all set to join the FBI?”
“He was, but apparently the guy they wanted to take Broncelli’s place took ill, and now he’s going on early retirement. They don’t have anyone qualified, so they asked the FBI if they could ‘borrow’ Samms for a while, seeing as he used to work Homicide in Saint Leo. He’s the acting head until they find a replacement, but . . . I heard from a reliable source that the mayor is so pleased with Samms’s track record, he put a request in to the FBI to make the appointment permanent.”
“Per-permanent? As if forever and ever?”
“You got it.”
I grabbed what was left of my beer and downed it in one large gulp. Nick lifted his head, cocked it to one side, then let out a yowl so loud several patrons turned to stare.
Ollie chuckled. “Nick doesn’t like that idea.”
I sighed. “He’s not the only one.”
My cell phone beeped. I fished it out of my pocket, glanced at the number, and answered. “Hey, Chantal. What’s up?”
“Where are you?” Chantal’s voice sounded tense. “Are you near my shop?”
“Not too far away. I’m at the Poker Face. Why?”
“There is someone here who needs to speak with you.”
I heard muffled voices, and then another voice came over the wire.
“Nora?” Desiree’s voice sounded reedy. “Can you come here immediately. I’ve got to see you. I think I might be in real trouble.”
Eight
I saw Ollie, Lance and Louis all looking at me curiously. I smiled, mouthed “Chantal,” rose and turned toward the bar area. “That’s putting it mildly. Why did you leave the inn? The police are looking for you,” I hissed.
“I know,” she hissed back. “I came here hoping to find you. I really need to speak with you.”
Now I couldn’t ignore Desiree even if I wanted to, not after she’d dragged Chantal into this. I glanced casually over one shoulder. The boys were engaged in conversation, not paying any attention to me. “Give me ten minutes,” I said, and disconnected. I slid the phone back into my pocket and walked back to the table. Ollie glanced up as I approached.
“Everything all right?”
I nodded. “Chantal needs my opinion on one of her displays. Nick and I should get going anyway.”
Ollie scraped his chair back. “I’ll come with you. There are a few things I want to talk to you about.”
Swell. I was trying to think of a good excuse to ditch Ollie when his cell phone chirped. He glanced at the screen and then waved me on.
“Never mind. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, Nora. Some information has come up on a new case I’m working on. Duty calls.”
Ah, there is a God. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks as Nick and I hurried out the front door.
• • •
Ten minutes later I pulled up in front of the charming flower store co-owned by my friend Chantal and her brother Remy. Poppies is actually three stores in one. One side is the flower shop, whose window was always filled with colorful and inviting blooms and floral arrangements, and the right side is divided into two equal parts. One is Chantal’s New Age Store, where she sells crystals, tarot cards, incense, and the like, and where she also gives (upon appointment) psychic readings; and the last section is devoted to her line of homemade jewelry, Lady C Creations, for which Nick is an unwilling model of pet collars.
The bell tinkled as I pushed open the front door, and I quickly glanced around the shop. Two women were looking at a display of silk floral arrangements, pausing every now and then to ask a question of the tall, thin blond man behind the counter. Remy Gillard wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, but he did exude a certain amount of charm. Like his sister, he spoke with a French accent, but his wasn’t a bit put on. Quite the contrary, he’d acquired it from years of living abroad studying in Paris. He glanced up, caught my eye, and motioned ever so slightly toward the curtain that separated the flower shop from his sister’s portion. I smiled my thanks, crossed the room, and parted the beaded curtain. Chantal was bent over one of the glass counters, straightening a deck of tarot cards. She looked up quickly at my approach and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, placing her hand over her heart.
“Chérie! And Nick! Thank goodness.”
“Where is she?”
Chantal rolled her eyes and jerked her thumb toward a door in the far corner. “In the bathroom. She felt ill.”
I bit down hard on my lower lip. “There’s not an exit to the street from that bathroom, is there?”
My friend shook her head. “She is not going to run away from you, chérie. She came here about an hour ago, all worked up and most insistent to speak with you.” She moved closer to me and whispered, “I gave her a hug, and the fear rolled off her in waves. It overwhelmed me. She is deathly afraid of something. I tried to get a read on her, but . . . I kept coming up blank. Her fear is so intense, it shuts every other emotion out.”
“Do you . . . do you think she could have . . .”
“No.” Chantal shook her head emphatically. “I did not get that sort of vibe from her at all, and as you well know, my impressions are usually spot-on. She did not kill anyone.”
“I didn’t think so,” I murmured. “As for the fear, it’s probably that she’ll be arrested on a murder charge, and right now that fear seems pretty well founded. How did she know to come here, I wonder.”
“She remembered your mother telling her what good friends we were,” Chantal said, just as the bathroom door opened and Desiree, looking decidedly pale, emerged. Her eyes lit up, though, as she caught sight of me. She ran toward me, arms outstretched.
“Nora. Thank God.”
She enveloped me in a bear hug, and clung to me for several minutes before I gently pushed her away. I wasn’t even psychic, and I could pick up on the fear that seemed to ooze out of her. She was shaking like a leaf. “Desiree, would you like to tell me why you found it necessary to check out of the Cruz Inn? Leroy Samms is looking for you.”
Her brows drew together. “Leroy Samms? Who’s he?”
“He’s our acting head of Homicide. You remember. I told you about him. He came to the house shortly after I discovered Marlene’s body.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to get worse before it gets better,” I said grimly. “Your leaving like that makes it look as if you’re fleeing the scene, and flight is often considered evidence of guilt. Why did you check out?”
“I just couldn’t stay there another minute. I drove around for a while, and then . . .” Her eyes widened. “Evidence of guilt, you said? Am I a suspect?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Samms isn’t in the habit of sharing who’s on his suspect list with me. I do know he has a few questions for you.”
“Oh.” She sank into a nearby chair and put her head in her hands. “I’m sure he does.”
I knelt down and gently put my arm around her shoulders. “Desiree, I think you should be honest about how you went out to the house and found her body. Samms seems pretty anxious to talk to you, which makes me think he’s found out some more information.”
Desiree twisted her hands in her lap. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Nora.”
Well, hey, there was a news flash. I crossed my arms over my chest and gave her a stern look. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Her fingers plucked at the hem of her tunic. “When I said that I thought there was more to Marlene’s announcement than just dissolving our partnership. I knew there was. I knew she had something else planned.”
“How did you know that?”
“Because”—she expelled a long breath—“she told me when she called me to set up the meeting. She said she was tired of keeping everyone’s secrets and it was time to speak up.”
“Secrets? What sort of secrets?”
“The usual,” she said, with just a ghost of a grin. “Infidelity, dishonesty, crimes of passion.”
“It sounds like you’re describing a soap opera.”
“In a way I am.” She let her hands fall limply to her sides and leaned forward. “Marlene did write a book on her own. Not fiction, and that’s a good thing, because she stunk at crafting it anyway. Nope, the little ditty she was penning was a memoir. What they call a tell-all.”
“She was murdered over a book?” I tried hard, but I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“Not just any book. This was going to be a bloodbath. Marlene had something, a sort of charisma that made one want to pour out their heart to her. Only problem was, in addition to the so-called sympathetic ear, their troubles were recorded for future use. And these weren’t little secrets, either. These were big, jaw-dropping ones. Ones that could ruin a career, a life.” Desiree got up and started to pace. “It was years ago, when we first started out. I got a bit tipsy one night and my tongue got just a wee bit loose. I confided something to her. An old secret that, if it ever came out, would ruin me. Utterly ruin me.” She paused and looked straight at me. “The only other person who knew, up until my moment of weakness, was your mother. She was such a good, loyal friend. She stuck by someone no matter what. I can see those same qualities in you. If the others’ secrets were as devastating as mine, well . . . I know I shouldn’t say this, considering the circumstances, but we’re all better off now she’s dead.”
Her fingers brushed through her ash-blonde bob. “I drove out there last night. She’d mentioned it in passing when she called to set up the meeting, and I wanted to talk about it right then and there, but she brushed me off. So I went to that house to ask her to reconsider. She laughed at me. Said that this was her golden opportunity, and she wasn’t going to waste it. Then she told me it was my own fault for confiding in her. That after all our years together, I should have known she wasn’t a person to be trusted. Besides, my chapter was going to be one of the high points of her book. That, along with what she had on Dooley and Scarlett would make it jump to number one on the New York Times list for sure. I begged with her, pleaded with her to leave me out of it. She just turned her back on me and told me to get out, that she’d see me the next day. I told her I’d get my own attorney and she just laughed and told me to go ahead, for all the good it would do.”
“And then what happened?” I asked, fearful I already knew the answer.
Desiree shrugged. “Nothing.”
I felt a pent-up breath whoosh out of me. “Nothing?”
She stopped pacing and looked at me, and her eyes went wide. “No, Nora. I didn’t kill her. I wanted to, believe me. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.” The pacing resumed. “I left and drove around for a while, I couldn’t say how long, and then I went back to the house. I decided to pay her as much as I had to in order to get her to leave the chapter about me out of the book, even if it drained my life’s savings. I found the sliding door open, and I went in and found her dead. God help me, I went through her desk, looking for the manuscript. Nothing. Then I”—she squeezed her eyes shut—“I turned her on her side, went through her pockets. I thought maybe she’d locked it away, and had a key on her, and maybe I could figure out from that where she’d put it—oh, I wasn’t thinking, I know. It was foolish, but I was desperate. Then I kept hearing sounds, all sorts of creaks and groans, and I just left and came straight back to the hotel. The feeling of shock started to wear off, and I knew I had to get out of my clothes. I didn’t know what I should do, and then I remembered you, and reading about those mysteries you’d solved. I thought, maybe if you found the body, your interest would get piqued enough that you might get involved in the investigation and maybe you could find the manuscript.”
Anger flowed through me for just a split second; then, as I looked at Desiree’s woebegone expression, it slowly faded. The woman truly had no idea just how selfish her little brainstorm had been. “Are you certain there is a manuscript?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes. She showed me a few of the pages she’d written about me. She had it all down, every grisly detail.”
“Well, assuming there actually is a book and she didn’t just type up a few pages to scare you, how do you know she didn’t turn it over to her agent, or her publisher?”
“Marlene wouldn’t waste her time just typing up a few pages, trust me. As for the agent, she doesn’t have a new one yet. That was another thing that made me see red. She showed me a letter she’d written, dated three weeks ago, terminating her part of the relationship with Anabel Leedson as of two p.m. tomorrow. She made Anabel promise to keep it mum from everyone, including me, until after the announcement. See what a witch she was? And I’m being kind.”
“But without an agent, how could she sell the book?”
“Easy. On her rep, excuse me, Tiffany Blake’s rep. She sold it, all right, and was to deliver the completed manuscript to her publisher next week.”
“Who is the publisher? Do you know?”
She shrugged. “No. She didn’t share that with me.”
“What about her computer? There must be some information on her hard drive.”
“What computer?” The corners of Desiree’s mouth turned down in a scowl. “Marlene didn’t have a clue how to work one. I typed all our manuscripts on my computer.”
“In this electronic age, I find that hard to believe. She didn’t type at all?”
“Once in a blue moon. She didn’t like to. She claimed it chipped her expensive manicures.”
I frowned. “But I saw a laptop in her office.”
“Then it must have already been there when she rented the house.” Desiree barked out a nervous laugh. “When she did type she used an old electric typewriter she’d had since the Dark Ages. She always said she felt like Jessica Fletcher when she used it. Hah, like Jessica Fletcher would have done anything like she planned to!”
“And you’re certain she never used a computer?”
“Well, I’m not one hundred percent certain. She knew how to use the Internet, so she might have rented one on occasion, but trust me, any manuscript she delivered would have been typed on her typewriter.”
I still had my doubts, but decided to abandon that line of questioning for now. Rem
embering the mess the master bedroom had been in, I asked, “Did you ransack her bedroom looking for it?”
Desiree shook her head. “No. Just the desk, I told you. I kept hearing strange sounds. Silly, I know.”
“Maybe not so silly. You might have just missed the murderer.”
Desiree’s rosy cheeks paled and she put both palms up against them. “Ooh! I never thought of that!”
“Your presence probably interrupted his search for the manuscript. When I got there I saw the master bedroom had been upended.” I nibbled at my bottom lip, my thoughts whirling. “Unfortunately, taking into consideration the partnership dissolution, the fact your prints are all over the place, throw in those bloody clothes you had cleaned . . . you’re in a position to be their prime suspect. It’s just fortunate you don’t own a gun.”
I saw the look on her face and thought I’d never seen anyone look so miserable.
“Like I told you. I’m in real trouble, right?”
Nine
“Here’s the kicker. Desiree does own a gun. Marlene asked to borrow it a few weeks before. She told her she’d decided to take shooting lessons and of course conveniently never returned it. How much do you want to bet it’s going to turn up as the murder weapon, if it hasn’t already?”
It was nine o’clock the next morning. Even though the shop was crowded, most of my clientele had taken seats at tables facing the television. Their eyes were glued to Good Morning America and they’d yet to place an order. Chantal, fortunately, had come in early and manned the counter while Ollie and I brainstormed at the table in the back.
Ollie added cream to his coffee and took a sip. “She spent the night with you?”
I nodded. “She really was in no condition to go anywhere last night, let alone be grilled by Samms.”
“It would look better if she turned herself in, rather than have Samms arrest her.”
I nodded. “I know. I called Peter Dobbs, but so far he hasn’t called me back. If I don’t hear from him by lunch I’ll take her down to the station myself.” I rubbed at my eyes. “I didn’t get much sleep myself, between wondering what Samms has on Desiree and what else she’s hiding.”