Roxy used a computer to do the hotel accounts. Sage had taught her how, but she still wrote them down in a book too. The physical act of writing out the numbers made her feel more in touch with the financial health of the business than did tapping keys and moving a mouse around. She used an aquamarine gel pen—she had quite a few of them, all kept in a sparkly green box—and wrote everything down in a navy blue ledger.
Roxy spent a little time filling in the ledger and balancing the petty cash. She put on some relaxing music, checked her email, and updated the hotel’s Facebook and Instagram pages. Before she realized it, two hours had flown by. Hearing Nat clattering around in the dining room as she laid tables for dinner caused her to pay attention to the time. Roxy looked at her watch, astounded, then got up and stretched her neck from side to side. Where had the time gone?
She left her office and noiselessly walked into the kitchen. She made Nat jump. “Oh gosh, you scared me!” Nat cried.
“Hey,” Roxy said, blinking. She felt like she was waking from a dream. “Sorry about that. I got into some kind of zone, a business accounts and petty cash zone if you can believe that. I’ve literally had my head down since I last saw you. And not for a nap.” She raised the cup of coffee she was still nursing, the coffee long cold.
“Rather you than me. Look, I’m going to have a fifteen-minute rest before I start dinner,” Nat said.
“I think I’ll do the same,” said Roxy. “See you in a few.”
Roxy opened the door to her room and straight away looked around for Nefertiti. Her little cat seemed to love staying in her room even though she had the freedom to roam just about wherever she liked in the hotel. It was certainly quiet and peaceful for her in there but not very interesting. Still, Nefertiti seemed to be perfectly content most of the time. Occasionally, when the sun was shining, the Persian would meow to be let out and sun herself in the courtyard, looking nothing short of regal. But now, Nefertiti was curled up on Roxy’s chair, purring in her sleep. Roxy gave her cat a tickle under her chin and took off her shoes. It was only then that she noticed something by the door, a slip of paper on the floor. She’d stepped over it when she came in.
Roxy bent to pick it up and frowned.
LOOK INTO SYLVIA’S STORY. YOU’RE ONLY GETTING HALF THE PICTURE.
It was written in capital letters. The handwriting was shaky like the person was writing with their opposite hand or they were trembling. The paper was unlined and smartly folded.
Roxy walked back to her bed slowly, reading the note over and over. Was it genuine? Or was it malicious? And who could have left it?
Now Roxy was wide awake and the possibility of a rest was gone. She climbed onto her bed and reached for her phone.
She navigated to the browser and typed “Sylvia Walters” into the search bar. All she saw was a list of Facebook profiles for women with the same name, none of them the Sylvia that she knew. Roxy tried again.
“Sylvia Walters’ story”
“The truth about Sylvia Walters”
“Sylvia Walters’ scam”
All of these search terms turned up nothing at all. It was only when she searched “Sylvia Walters’ secret” that Roxy came across something, and even that was buried deep, deep in the search results. On page fourteen, in fact.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE BLOG WAS called The Musings of a Middle-Aged, Mid-Western Mom. It didn’t look very professional at all—more like a site made from a free template. The second to last entry was dated 10 years ago.
But the last post, the most recent one, the one that when she read it had Roxy’s breath catching in her chest, was from just one year ago. Obviously, the blog owner had given up on broadcasting their thoughts to the world but had deemed this subject worthy of logging back in after a nine-year break.
The secrets you don’t know about popular Instagram influencer Sylvia Walters.
Roxy scanned the article quickly, her eyes darting from side to side across her phone screen. The blogger wrote that she was from Sylvia’s hometown, a place with a population of less than 5,000 in Illinois but wasn’t specific. But Sylvia Walters isn’t even her real name. It’s Helen Matheson. Don’t believe me?
There was a grainy photo of the front page of a newspaper. The newspaper had printed an image of a woman, her hands cuffed, seemingly walking out of court surrounded by police officers. The headline screamed KILLER WIFE TRIAL CONTINUES!
Roxy thought her heart might burst out of her chest. Killer wife? She squinted at the newspaper photo, but it was hard to see if it really was Sylvia. The woman in the picture looked larger, but Roxy supposed Sylvia might have lost weight since then. She read through what the “Middle-Aged Mom” had to say.
Well-known Instagram influencer, Sylvia Walters AKA Helen Matheson, was sentenced to 20 years in prison for killing her husband Raymond Matheson in an altercation at their home. When she was released, she took a new name and moved to a new state.
I had forgotten all about her until I saw her posts in my Instagram feed. I recognized her immediately and saw that she had written a book. I bought it. It is packed with LIES.
In it, Sylvia/Helen says she spent a lengthy time in Europe, but I’m writing to tell you that she was never in Europe. She was in JAIL. For killing her husband. And the jury found that her attack on him was NOT in reasonable self-defense.
Raymond Matheson was a good man and well-loved by his community. Sylvia/Helen’s defense was that he was abusing her, but no one in our town believes that. We think she was trying to kill him for the insurance money but got caught before she could cash in. Anyone who comes into contact with this so-called “Sylvia Walters” should BEWARE. She is a liar and a convicted felon. Steer clear!
Roxy put her phone down on the bed. This was all too weird for words. Was it true? But why would anyone make it up?
Roxy’s thoughts were whizzing through her brain far too fast. All of a sudden her bedroom was too small. The walls felt like they were closing in on her. Her head was hurting. She needed coffee and she had an overwhelming urge to get out of the hotel.
Roxy slipped her shoes back on, squeezed out a pouch of cat food into Nefertiti’s bowl, and headed out of her room, grabbing her coffee cup as she did so. It was in the lobby that she bumped into none other than Sylvia. She was carrying her trekking poles. Roxy gasped.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” said Sylvia, laughing. “I don’t look that bad in a tracksuit, do I?”
“Oh no, not at all!” Roxy said. “I just didn’t expect anyone to be here. It’s been quite a day. I’m a bit on edge, that’s all.”
Sylvia pursed her lips and nodded. “I know what you mean. It has been a day.” Sylvia looked at Roxy’s cup. “You know, I gave up coffee a while back to manage my stress. It’s helped tremendously,” she said. “Nothing after 2 PM, otherwise I get these anxious thoughts at evening time. I thought I actually suffered from anxiety and went to the doctor for medication, but before I took any, someone suggested I give up caffeine as an experiment. I’ve been anxiety-free ever since! You should try it.”
At any other time, this would have been very interesting to Roxy, but right now Sylvia’s prattling made her want to scream. Maybe in the future, she would give up caffeine, but for now, she just needed to be alone to think.
“I’m going to try that,” Roxy said, pointing her finger in the air. “Maybe I’ll get some decaf in the meantime.”
“Good idea,” said Sylvia. “I’m going for my power walk now, down by the riverside. I’ll be back in time for dinner. Want to come?”
“No, no. You go. Have fun,” said Roxy.
Sylvia smiled. She waved. “See you!”
Roxy whipped out her phone and pulled up the city library website. After scrolling around the site, she texted Nat. Sorry, can’t help with dinner after all. Have to go do something. I found out something crazy. Talk later.
Roxy put her coffee cup behind the reception table and headed out the door, not eve
n sure in what direction she was headed. She consulted her phone for the street name and punched it into her maps app.
Roxy ran to her destination. Unable to stop herself, she sprinted so fast she could hear the wind rushing past her ears. She only slowed to a jog when her destination came into view.
The library was housed in a huge colonial mansion fronted with white pillars and white woodwork. Out of breath, Roxy slowed her pace to a walk. As her heart rate slowed, she also started to doubt herself again. What had seemed like a no-brainer back at the Funky Cat—delve into the library records—now felt like an over-reaction.
Still, over the past few months, Roxy had gotten a lot better at trusting her intuition. She marched into the library and up to the librarian’s desk. “Hi there, good evening,” she said breathlessly. “I was wondering if you have a way of looking up old newspaper content. Say from 20 years ago?”
“Sure we do,” said the librarian, a kindly looking man in his 60s. “A New Orleans paper?”
“Well, no. Illinois. But I’m not sure where in Illinois.”
The man grimaced. “Might have a problem there. What information are you looking for?”
“I want to look up reporting about a woman. A Helen Matheson. She was on trial for murder.”
“Okay,” the man said as if this were a perfectly normal request. “Come over here to this computer, and we’ll access the database.”
An hour later, Roxy walked out of the library, shivers running up and down her spine. It could have been because she was still only wearing her yellow sundress and the sun was going down, but more likely it was because she had located Helen Matheson in the online database. Everything the blog had said was true. Roxy had even seen a picture. Helen Matheson was clearly and indisputably a younger version of the woman she knew as silver-haired, sexagenarian Sylvia Walters.
Roxy meandered through backstreets on her way home, her thoughts mirroring her rambling walk. She was so distracted, she found herself by the river without even knowing how she got there. Roxy sat down on a bench and chewed her lip as she thought some more. If anyone could see inside her brain, they would have seen ideas and theories shooting between her synapses, like spectacular lightning bolts exploding in an electric storm.
She didn’t want to go back to the hotel just yet. How would she face Sylvia with all these questions in her head? Roxy had always been great at hiding her feelings, but only if she was quiet and could make herself small, practically invisible. She used to be able to do that without too much effort, but now? Now, she had to be an upbeat, welcoming host who constantly ministered to her guests. Hiding her emotions in the type of situation she now found herself felt almost impossible. She was too honest.
When Roxy came to the small cobbled street that led to the Funky Cat, she walked right past it. She wasn’t ready to go home just yet. She would visit Sam at his laundry. There were still a couple of reporter’s vans parked on the street near the inn, but she strode along, confident that the journalists wouldn’t notice her as long as she walked purposefully.
But Roxy’s confidence was misplaced. As she turned a corner, she bumped into a female reporter. The other woman had been walking quickly and banged into Roxy with some force. Thick black hair tumbled in waves over the reporter’s shoulders, and she struggled to move freely in her tight black skirt suit and high heels. Roxy didn’t recognize her and wouldn’t have known she was a reporter by sight, but for the microphone that the woman wielded like a weapon in front of her bright red lips.
The woman stumbled back and looked shocked for a moment but recovered in an instant. “Roxy Reinhardt!” she cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“ROXY REINHARDT, THE manager of the Funky Cat Inn, formerly a call center operator with Modal Appliances, Inc. My name is Mariah Morales, KQNR-20 Nightly News.” The woman assumed an expression of concern. “Tell me, Roxy, a murder was previously connected to your establishment when owned by Evangeline Smith. How do you explain this second death? A poisoning at that.” She shoved the microphone in Roxy’s face, awaiting answers to her questions, and gestured urgently toward a man with a camera. “Come on, Sheldon!” Morales hissed.
Roxy felt a huge lump rise in her throat. The microphone terrified her, and she felt adrenaline shoot through her body as, like a cornered animal, she looked for an escape route. “Sorry, I can’t say anything,” she gasped. A car passed and seeing Morales’ microphone, the driver honked the car’s horn loudly. The sound startled the reporter and for a second she took her eyes off Roxy. Seizing her opportunity, Roxy fled, hoping Mariah couldn’t follow in her stiletto heels.
Propelled by a speed that she didn’t know she possessed, Roxy flew down side streets and across sidewalks. People scattered to let her through. Shame burned in Roxy’s pink cheeks, but her feet drove her forward and away from Mariah Morales and her menacing microphone. Why, oh why hadn’t she been content living her quiet little life? Why had she chosen to live bigger? Why couldn’t she have enjoyed the total obscurity of being a call center operator?
By the time she exploded through Sam’s doorway, Roxy was angry with herself, with the world, and especially with Mariah Morales. She found Sam at the front desk, quietly doing some paperwork. He raised his head in surprise when she shot through the door.
“I’m so sick of this!” she burst out.
Sam laughed a little. “Hello to you too, Roxy.”
“Sorry,” she said, glaring at him. She looked back to see if Mariah and her cameraman Sheldon had followed her. They had. She could see Morales tottering on her high heels up the street, Sheldon jogging beside her.
“Help! The press. They’re following me.”
“Here.” Sam parted a rack of shirts each draped in plastic. “Behind there. Be still. Don’t make a noise.”
Roxy slipped in between the shirts, and Sam let them fall so that they obscured her.
Mariah pushed open the door to the laundry and said, “Can I just…?”
“I’m sorry, no, you can’t,” Sam said walking up to her.
“But…”
“This is private property, and I ask that you remove yourselves immediately.”
Mariah stretched her red lips into an especially beguiling smile. “I can assure you, sir, that we…”
“No,” Sam said firmly, not swayed by her feminine wiles, attractive as they were. “Please leave right now. That is all. You are trespassing.”
Mariah’s expression quickly changed into a scowl. “Whatever.” She flounced out, carelessly allowing the door to close on Sheldon who scurried behind her, the big camera he carried on his shoulder weighing him down.
Sam locked the door behind them. “You can come out now, Roxy.” There was a rustle of plastic as the shirts parted and Roxy appeared, red-faced and windswept. “The reporters are still bothering you, I see,” he said.
“Yes,” said Roxy. “You saved me. Thank you. I don’t know what came over me, I just ran and ran.” She was feeling a little better already. The laundry was lovely and warm, and the thrum of the machines was hypnotic. They relaxed her. She flopped down on a plastic chair. She felt safe here with Sam.
“But the reporter is not really what’s on my mind.”
“So what’s up?” he said.
“I found out some things about one of my guests. She’s not been truthful, and I’m not sure what to do. Not in the circumstances. I’d like your help, your advice.”
“You don’t seem to like it when I give you advice. So I don’t know how I can help.”
“This time it’s different, I’m asking for your advice—about this little…um, investigation I’m doing into my guest.”
“Hmm well, you ignored me last time when I told you to stop investigating, and then you went and solved a murder!” said Sam. “Boy, did I feel like a jerk afterward.”
“But you were right!” Roxy said. “It was just by chance that I solved it. It was a lucky break. But this time, I’m really out of my depth. I have to keep
the influencers happy or they’ll post terrible things about the Funky Cat, but this person, the one who’s been untruthful, is one of the influencers! Oh dear. And it looks like I’m going to have to say something to the media eventually. Or they’re just going to keep popping up in unexpected places. Oh dear, oh dear.” She was wringing her hands and looking around the room as though the answer might lie among the racks of plastic-swathed laundry or in the churning washing machines.
Sam came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “There, there. You just need to calm yourself a little. And never mind those journalists. They are like cockroaches. They scuttle away when you stand up to them.”
The pressure from Sam’s hands calmed Roxy, and she took a couple of deep breaths. “Exactly like cockroaches.”
“You could just give a generic statement that yes, this thing happened. It’s a terrible tragedy, that your thoughts are with the family, and you’re looking forward to the case being resolved.”
Roxy gulped and looked down at her lap. “That sounds like a press conference. Lots of journalists.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” he said. “You can do it with one news crew. I guarantee all the other stations will pick it up.”
The very thought of Roxy’s face being beamed across the country, even the state—heck, the city, was terrifying.
Sam moved in front of her, and when she looked up from watching her fingers, which she was interlacing in different patterns in her lap, she saw him looking at her intently. The concern in his eyes caught her off guard.
“Just do it if you want to,” he said. “If you don’t, that’s fine too. Just don’t let fear get in the way of what you want to do.”
Roxy Reinhardt Mysteries Box Set Page 26