“This cinnamon mocha lip tint gives me a confident smile, but keeps it professional.”
Her smile could lift the clouds from any bad day.
“A gentle application of smoky shadow gives my eyes depth and intelligence. Not that I’m not intelligent, this just confirms their suspicions.”
I know that my smarts absolutely came from her.
“Always give the eyebrows a light nudge with a pencil, so you look like you mean business.”
Then she would apply a little mascara to my lashes before she coated her own and finish by saying, “Dark lashes give you a finished look. Serious but mysterious.” And she would kiss the tip of my nose, every single morning until—
I twist the mascara wand back into the tube and blink back the tears that are threatening to fall.
“I would’ve loved your mother, Mitzy.”
A wave of self-conscious heat flushes my skin. I whip the towel off my head and fluff my white-blonde locks. “What am I going to do with this?”
Grams swirls around and chews on her thumbnail. “This will be tricky, since I can’t physically move anything around. But if you can follow instructions, I’m sure we can brush you into debutante status in no time.”
“I’m game for anything.”
Ghost cosmetology school is in session.
I’ve never spent this much time on my hair in my life. Prior to the “Bad Bet” haircut after my karaoke humiliation, I was a high-pony or messy-bun girl every day.
The application of “product” and the judicious use of a blow dryer and styling wand create a sleek, socialite look. “I’m a knockout, Grams.”
“Give me a little credit, dear. I did have five husbands and an undisclosed number of ‘special friends.’”
“Grams! I’m shocked by what I’m hearing.”
“Don’t get all high and mighty with me, Mitzy. You talk in your sleep, and this Shady Ben you mumble about sounds like he was a very special friend.”
“Ouch.” Who knew ghosts could be so nosy and merciless.
“All right, off you go.”
“Where exactly am I going?”
Grams freeze-frames for a split second before answering. “I think I heard you say it’s Thursday. Is it the first Thursday of the month?”
I take a quick look at my phone. “Yup.”
“Oh, she’ll be at the mansion hosting the Duncan Club monthly luncheon.”
“Maybe I should go another time.” I tug at the gorgeous dress and wiggle my toes in the Valentinos.
“Nonsense. We didn’t get you all gussied up for nothin’. You get in that fancy Mercedes and you walk into that luncheon like you own the place. After all, your pedigree is far better than hers. You’re a Duncan by blood, dear.”
Ooooh, I have a pedigree.
Chapter 14
As I drive out to the mansion, I can’t help but think about how much I don’t miss my old life. My pattern of over-socializing and drinking to dull the pain of my disappointments and loneliness wasn’t as fulfilling as I thought. I haven’t had a drink since I arrived in this tiny town in almost-Canada, and I’ve been too busy to miss anything. My short flash of personal reflection is interrupted when I spy my landmark ahead on the right.
A large granite stone bears what I can only assume is the Duncan family crest with a large “D” in the center. I turn, pass through the massive wrought-iron gates, and continue down the drive. And it is a drive, not a driveway. I can’t even see the house as I curve gently through the thick birch trees. The blur of black-and-white peeling bark is a little mesmerizing.
It’s impossible to resist playing a moment of what-if as I fantasize about growing up this wealthy.
The drive straightens and I am struck by the sheer size of the mansion. It sits on the shore of the great lake that graces the entire region with its presence, but this massive home actually rivals the body of water.
It’s easy to see my younger self running through the trees and skipping stones across the lake.
The slate slabs of the driveway curve widely to the left, allowing room for fifteen to twenty cars to park in front of the three divided two-car garages. Two soaring gables sit astride a magnificent entrance, and light spills through massive windows. The entire home is faced in split rock, and at least three chimneys poke through the steeply sloped roof. A terraced patio hugs the side of the home and works its way toward the surging waves.
My daydream evaporates like mist over the water. I need to focus and get my game face on.
I drive past the fifteen cars lining the drive. I park the Mercedes, pop the door, and step out.
Before I walk into who knows what kind of society luncheon, I take a minute to admire my wheels. A 1957 silver Mercedes 300SL coupe with those sexy, gullwing doors. I whistle softly under my breath, slip the key into my vintage beaded handbag, and swallow. “Game on, Moon.”
My heels click magnificently against the stone, and the deep resonant gong of the doorbell does not disappoint. I’m not surprised when an aptly dressed maid opens the massive wooden double-doors.
“May I help you?” Her eyes take in my attire and find it acceptable.
“I certainly hope so. I’m looking for Kitty.” I thought about using the “Mrs. Zimmerman-Duncan” option, but I thought “Kitty” might make it seem more like we were loosely acquainted.
“The ladies’ club meets in the Fireplace Room.” She turns and walks soundlessly across the hardwood floor.
I follow, painfully aware of the clunking of my heels.
She stops, gives a little bow, and gestures me into the space.
I almost ask her to point out Kitty. No need. If Jessica Rabbit came to life and traded her sultry voice for a cheap, imitation faux British accent . . . I give you, Kitty Zimmerman-Duncan.
I choose to “mix” a bit before I introduce myself to the hostess. Maybe I’ll overhear something useful.
“I’m gutted, I tell you, gutted. He was my world.” Kitty dabs a finger under her unwet eye while several orbiters murmur their concern.
“Have they found the killer?” A short brunette, who is clearly playing out of her league, asks the indelicate question.
“They arrested someone straightaway, which was brilliant, but Pauly told me the woman is already out on bail.”
So Deputy Paulsen has a direct line to Kitty. Good to know.
“Do you need any help with the arrangements, love?”
This older woman looks to have quite a pedigree, and I take note of the massive yellow diamond on her left hand.
“Oh, Chantelle, I super love that you would make such an offer. That’s just brilliant. I think I have everything sorted. Thank you so much.” Kitty’s hand presses against her double-Ds, and her face struggles to make an expression. I’m guessing the Botox interferes.
As I’m about to make another pass through the gaggle—it happens.
“Do I see a new face? Oh, the Duncan Club adores new members. How brills!”
I’m caught like a deer in headlights. I fumble with a smile and debate whether a curtsy is required.
She extends a shockingly pedicured hand weighed down by several carats of blue diamonds. “I’m Kitty Zimmerman-Duncan. Welcome to my humble home.”
I hope she doesn’t see me gag as I take the bejeweled limb and delicately shake. I don’t know what possesses me but for some reason I say, “Mizithra Moon, darling. So good to meet.”
The name has the desired effect.
Her eyes widen and she takes in my attire, all the way down to the Valentinos.
“Are those? Oh they are! Oh brilliant!” She pulls me into her inner circle and whispers, “I’ve never met a pair of Valentinos I didn’t love. I’d kill for those.” I believe that eye twitch was meant to be a wink, but again, the Botox must prevent many of her simple facial functions.
“Is there somewhere we can chat in private?” I whisper and give an actual wink.
She ushers me up three separate sets of stairs, two steps each, and through som
e curved glass doors.
This showy wine cellar is bigger than my old apartment. Geez! I swallow the disgust and return to the mission at hand.
“What is it, love? If the dues are a bit too much to pay in one go, I’m happy to let it slide for a month or two. Our little secret.” She pats my hand and steals another glance at my shoes.
“Actually, it’s about Cal.” Wait for it . . .
She presses the diamond-weighted hand to the double-Ds and gasps. “Oh, the pain is still so fresh.”
I’m not getting any sincerity from that, but it could be the lack of emotion on her plastic face. I break my news. “He was my grandfather, and I’m so upset that I didn’t get a chance to meet him.” I hope my pained expression carries more authenticity.
She steps back and narrows her gaze. “Are you— Are you Jacob’s kid?”
Now that was decidedly un-British. I detect a hint of angry New Yorker. I place a hand over my mouth and nod.
To her credit, she recovers rapidly. “Oh you poor dear. I’ll ask Svenka to make you some tea. Chantelle can run the meeting. We’ll slip up to the study and the two of us can have a dash of girl chat. What do you say?”
“That would be divine.” What is it lately with me and that word? Granted, a chat is more divine than cheese, but get a grip, Mitzy.
Kitty slips out of the wine cellar and signals to the maid. They exchange hushed words.
A strange shiver ripples across my skin. Is this the scene in a James Bond film where two enormous goons walk in, drag me off screen, and then we cut to them tying me to a platform above a shark tank?
The maid, Svenka, leans to the right and sizes me up with an overly plucked raised eyebrow before scurrying off to do her mistress’s bidding.
Looks like I’ll be spared the unnecessarily complicated death scene, this time.
Kitty returns, all smiles, and escorts me up to the study—coffered ceiling and all. She takes a seat on one of the curvaceous leather chaises and gestures for me to take the other.
I admire the drama of the piece, but I don’t know how to sit on it. I’m sure it would provide a fabulous place to lie back and nap, but it’s tricky to find a lady-like purchase on the undulating surface. I opt for a prim perch on the edge of the large curve and smile at Kitty.
“When did you arrive in Pin Cherry, Mizithra?”
I almost correct her, but luckily I remember that I chose the proper version of my name to accompany my ridiculous hairdo and frock. “Unfortunately, I arrived too late.” I’m the one running this interrogation. I can’t let her take over. “How long had you known my grandfather?”
“Oh, we first met almost fifteen years ago in Aspen. Cal loved to ski.”
“Did you live in Colorado?” If I were a gold-digger, I would guess the slopes of a high-end Aspen ski resort would be prime real estate.
“I lived there seasonally.”
Translation, she worked for the ski resort or for some local establishment. “Oh, how fun. Was it love at first sight?”
She hesitated before pasting on a huge, wrinkle-free smile. “I can’t speak for Cal, but I thought he was brilliant fun the moment I met him.”
“How sweet.” I swallow my nausea. “Did he propose right away?”
She twists her huge diamond ring and shifts her position on the chaise. “He wanted me to meet his friends, and— Anyway, I came back to Pin Cherry Harbor with him and we were engaged that spring.”
“Did you start the Duncan Club?”
She stiffens and eyes me suspiciously. “Not that you would know, but his second wife, Isadora, started the Club.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” Grams failed to mention that nugget. “What does the Club do?”
“Well, I’m not sure what Isadora had planned, but when I took over I wanted the Club to provide exclusive social opportunities to Pin Cherry’s deserving women.”
By deserving, I assume she means the wealthy and the social climbers. “Do you have events other than the luncheons?”
Her whole face lights up. “Oh yes. We have three fundraisers each year. The Halloween Masquerade was Cal’s favorite. It was always the most successful. We held it at the old Wells Iron Ore Refinery. The huge building was the perfect place for a haunted ball.”
“Sounds wonderful. I wish I could’ve seen it.” I almost convince myself of my interest with that line.
“Oh, you’ll have to come this year—if you’re still in town. It’ll be brilliant.” She pats her hands together eagerly. “Cal would’ve wanted it to continue.”
I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince herself or me. “When was the last time you saw my grandfather?”
“Monday morning, I suppose.” She brushes the pleat of her skirt and smiles.
“I thought he died on Wednesday? You didn’t see him on Tuesday or Wednesday?”
She stands and paces to the study’s large bay window. “The stress of the trauma is making me lose track of time. I guess Wednesday at breakfast would’ve been our last moment together.” She presses hand to ample chest. “I’m sorry. I still get so emotional.”
I bustle over and pat her shoulder. “I’m so sorry to put you through all this. I’ll leave you to your grief, Kitty. I didn’t mean to stir up the pain.”
She nods and bites her collagen-stuffed lip.
“I’ll see myself out.”
She turns as I leave and says, “Thank you for your understanding, Mizithra. So many people have misjudged my relationship with Cal. I loved him for so much more than his money.”
Her words, not mine. “Of course you did, dear.” I nod and smile.
Chapter 15
Grams is fit to be tied by the time I return to the shop.
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask.
“I never thought I would be treated more unfairly in death than in life!” She swirls up to the high ceiling and floats down in a slow spiral of self-pity.
I look around the massive bookshop and spin the Mercedes keys around my finger. I’m having a tiny bit of trouble seeing where life treated her poorly. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“They won’t tell me anything about Cal. I’m his wife! I should have rights, dear. Even if this is the afterlife, I should still have rights.” More swirling.
It may be the wrong time to point out that she was not technically his wife when he died. Instead I change the subject. “You were spot on about Kitty.”
If a ghost can change from out of order to Vegas neon in the blink of an eye, that’s how I would describe the switch that flipped in Grams. “Tell me everything,” she purrs.
I relay the sequence of events as best I can, despite the incessant interruptions.
“Good call using Mizithra, dear. Anything that sounds even remotely hoity-toity blows that girl’s skirt up.”
“Do you think it’s odd that she’s planning to hold the Halloween Masquerade without Cal?”
“Why is that odd?” Grams shrugs.
“Kitty, said it was always Cal’s favorite. I thought maybe it would be rude to have it without him.”
“Halloween, Cal’s favorite? That doesn’t sound right. That man hated costumes of any kind. He wouldn’t even wear matching sweaters for the family Christmas photos.”
I whip out my phone and make a note of that. “There was one other thing . . . ” My voice drifts off as I type up my concern.
“And?” Grams hovers anxiously.
“Oh, I didn’t realize I stopped talking.” I put the phone down. “She said the last time she saw Cal was Monday morning. When I mentioned he was killed on Wednesday, she claimed PTSD and said she must’ve had breakfast with him on Wednesday.”
Grams darkens. “Where was he for two days?”
“Maybe nowhere, Grams. Maybe Kitty was confused and she did see him Wednesday. I just thought it was worth mentioning.”
She gestures to the phone. “You made a note?”
I nod.
“Good. Who’s our next suspect?”
“It used to belong to the Wells family, but I heard the bank foreclosed on it . . . ” Grams drifts toward the floor. “Tilly would know.”
Tilly! “Oh crap! I was supposed to meet with Tilly today—and meet Twiggy for lunch.” I turn and run out the front door and down Main Street.
I grab the door of Myrtle’s Diner and pause to catch my breath. I pull the door open, spy Twiggy, and blurt my breathless apology. “So . . . sorry.”
A whistle from the kitchen grabs my attention.
“Who do we have here?” says Odell with a chuckle.
“No idea,” adds Twiggy. “I hope you have some filet mignon back there, Odell.”
I look down at my designer gown and shoes. Crap. “All right, get it out of your system.” I walk to the table and take a seat in the booth opposite the cackling Twiggy. “I’ll have my usual, Odell.”
“Right away, M’lady.” He barely completes the gibe before his guffaws join the fray.
I take a deep breath and raise my finger to let them both have a taste of my fancy rage—
“Miss Moon?” Sheriff Harper stands in the middle of the diner, looking like he’s just seen a ghost.
Ah, what the hell. I stand and place one hand at my boned-and-stayed waist. “Erick.”
“You look . . . That’s a real—” He swallows several times and looks around the near-empty diner as the color creeps across his cheeks. “Were you out at the Duncan place this morning?”
“I was.” Clearly he already knows the answer to this pop quiz. I have the urge to reach over and muss his hair. I love it when those long bangs hang—
“I’ll have to ask you to stay clear of this case, Miss Moon.” He squares his shoulders.
My heart flutters. “Your case, is it? Does that mean you might actually be looking at someone besides me as a suspect in my grandfather’s murder?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the case, Miss Moon.”
I decide to press my advantage. I swish closer to the sheriff. Close enough for the layers of my tulle skirt to brush against his polyester pants. It looks sexier than it sounds. “We both know I didn’t kill him, Erick. Why don’t you share your news with me and I’ll share mine.”
Fries and Alibis Page 7