Extra Sensory Deception

by Allison Kingsley

  “It’s like all cameras. You just point and click the button.”

  “What about focusing and all that stuff?”

  “I’ll fake it.” Stephanie’s voice wavered. “We’re not going to get into trouble for this, are we?”

  In spite of her tightened nerves, Clara had to laugh. “I wish I had a dollar for every time you said that when we were kids.”

  “So do I.” Stephanie lapsed into silence, and Clara concentrated on the road as they headed into the upscale district where the Eastcotts lived. Following the directions the calm voice on her GPS gave her, she pulled up outside a pair of large iron gates, behind which a long driveway led up between perfectly manicured lawns to the stone steps of a massive house.

  “Wow,” Stephanie murmured, staring at it through the car window. “Paul Eastcott and his wife are living well.”

  “No kidding.” Spying the intercom at the side of the gate, Clara stepped out of the car to press the button.

  A female voice floated out through the speaker. “Who is it?”

  “Clara Quinn. I have my photographer with me. We’re here for our appointment.”

  “Come right in.” The gates slid silently open, allowing Clara to drive through and up to the house.

  “This is some house,” Stephanie said, as they pulled up in front of the steps. “It’s not surprising Paul wants to hang on to his marriage.”

  “Exactly.” Clara cut the engine and leaned back. “It gives him a pretty strong motive for murder if he was having an affair with Lisa. Maybe she was threatening to tell his wife if he didn’t ask for a divorce.”

  “Classic murder-mystery stuff.” Stephanie opened the door and clambered out of the car. “I wish now I’d worn pants and flats. I’d forgotten how hard it is to walk in heels. Especially when I’m carrying this thing.” She hauled the cumbersome camera off the backseat and slammed the door shut with her hip.

  “Just slip off your shoes when you get inside the door,” Clara said, as she led the way over to the steps. “Diane will thank you.”

  “Great idea. Thanks.” Stephanie grunted as she heaved the bag up on her shoulder.

  Inside the shaded porch a large pot of geraniums nodded in the breeze. Next to it, a tall, willowy, metallic Siamese cat sat staring at them with fixed golden eyes. The eyes blinked, making Clara jump. Wondering if she’d imagined it, she stepped up to the front door just as it opened. Apparently the cat was some kind of sensor.

  A stern-faced woman with gray hair and glasses peered up at her. “Ms. Quinn?”

  “Yes.” Clara smiled. “This is my photographer, Stephanie Dowd. We have an appointment with Mrs. Eastcott.”

  “This way, please.” After waiting for them to shed their shoes, the woman led them down a long hallway covered in maroon carpeting that embraced Clara’s toes like a soft pillow under her feet.

  Cream wallpaper with pale green willow trees and blue waterfalls hugged the walls, and gleaming oak doors on either side guarded the rooms. Reaching the end of the hallway, the housekeeper turned into a narrow passage and then out into a solarium, where tall glass walls overlooked a luscious lawn bordered with hydrangeas and rosebushes, and a scattering of mimosa trees.

  A woman with smooth, platinum blonde hair falling about her shoulders sat in a rattan chair, staring out at the gardens. On the small table at her side ice was melting in a glass half full of water. The woman turned toward them when the housekeeper announced, in a voice heavy with disapproval, “Mrs. Eastcott, this is Ms. Quinn and Ms. Dowd.”

  Diane Eastcott looked as if she really did belong on the cover of Vogue. Her makeup was impeccable, and dressed in flowing, wide-legged brown pants and a coffee-colored silk shirt, she appeared both comfortable and incredibly chic.

  Envisioning her own blue cotton pants and sleeveless white top, Clara felt decidedly dowdy—one of her mother’s favorite expressions. Holding out her hand, she advanced on Diane, her smile feeling fixed and awkward. “I’m Clara Quinn. I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Mrs. Eastcott. You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you.” Ignoring Clara’s attempt at a handshake, Diane waved at another rattan chair across from her. “You can call me Diane.” She ran her gaze over Stephanie, who stood gazing at the woman as if she were starstruck. “And this is?”

  “My photographer, Stephanie Dowd.” Clara fiercely signaled at her cousin with her eyebrows.

  Stephanie appeared to make an effort to pull herself together. “Happy to meet you, Mrs. Eastcott.”

  “Diane.” Paul’s wife turned back to Clara. “I assume your photographer will want to take pictures of the house?”

  “Yes, of course.” Clara looked at Stephanie. “You have everything you need?”

  As if suddenly realizing she was being dismissed, Stephanie looked worried. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Mrs. Schwartz will show you the house,” Diane said, nodding at the housekeeper. “Just let her take pictures of whatever she wants. Oh, and bring me some more ice.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Eastcott.”

  “Thank you,” Stephanie mumbled, with a quick, panicked look at Clara.

  “This way,” Mrs. Schwartz barked, and, heaving the heavy camera higher on her shoulder, Stephanie staggered after her and out of sight.

  Left alone with this icon of sophistication, what little confidence Clara was clinging to rapidly disintegrated. Reminding herself that she had done this many times before, she pulled her recorder from her pocket and sat down. “I have your permission to record our conversation?”

  Diane hesitated for a second, then leaned back in her chair. “As long as you don’t get too personal.” She reached for the glass and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls before putting it down again.

  Clara switched on the recorder and laid it on the table between them. She’d made a list of the things she wanted to ask, and she pulled it from her purse. After asking a few general questions about the house, she said casually, “I interviewed your husband a couple of days ago. He might have mentioned it. I wrote a review of the rodeo. You can find it on the city council’s website.”

  Diane took another gulp from her glass. “Oh, that rodeo. Frankly I can’t imagine why my father thinks we need rodeos to publicize the Hill Top chain. The resorts should speak for themselves.”

  “I take it you don’t care for the rodeo?”

  Diane sniffed. “I don’t care for all the work it entails. My husband has been rushing around all week, missing meals at home and spending most of his time worrying about the whole thing. I can’t see that it does anything for the resort, and now that dreadful girl is dead and everyone remotely connected to the rodeo is under suspicion. The whole thing is a travesty. I just wish—” She broke off as the housekeeper walked through the door carrying a pitcher of ice and a bottle.

  Watching Diane refill her glass, Clara realized that the woman was drinking something a lot stronger than water.

  As if reading her thoughts, Diane raised the bottle, waving it unsteadily at Clara. “Would you like a drink?”

  Noting that the bottle contained gin, Clara glanced at Mrs. Schwartz, who was staring at her as if daring her to accept the offer. “Thanks, but I’m fine,” she said quickly, and the housekeeper turned to leave.

  “Where’s the photographer?” Diane demanded, halting her at the door.

  “I left her taking pictures in the bedrooms.” Mrs. Schwartz’s sour face turned even more forbidding. “I figured your ice was more important.”

  Her emphasis on the word clearly indicated her disapproval, and Diane’s cheeks warmed. “That will be all,” she said coldly.

  The door snapped shut behind the housekeeper.

  “It’s impossible to find decent help these days.” Diane stood the bottle on the table and raised the glass to her lips. “What were we talking about?”

  “The rodeo.” Clara lea
ned forward. “I was so sorry to hear about Lisa Warren’s death. Your husband must be devastated.”

  Diane took a large gulp of the gin and coughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Clara hurried to reassure her. “I only meant that she was his assistant, and a very good one, according to some of the people who work with the rodeo. As you said, it’s hard to find good help nowadays.”

  Diane stared at her, creases appearing between her finely drawn brows. “She was a slut,” she said, beginning to slur her words.

  Clara caught her breath. Had Lisa been telling the truth about the affair? Had Diane found out and decided to get rid of her competition? She pretended to be shocked. “Excuse me?”

  Diane took another gulp of her glass and set it down firmly enough to slop some of the liquid over the side. “Lisa Warren slept with anyone who asked her. There were even rumors that she was involved with my husband.” She hiccupped, and placed a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.”

  Clara chose her next words very carefully. “But of course, they were lies.”

  “Of course they were lies.” Diane leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I went to the office to confront her.”

  Afraid the woman would nod off, Clara asked quickly, “What happened?”

  Diane opened her eyes again. “She wasn’t there. So I searched her desk drawers to see if I could find anything incriminating.”

  She slurred the last word so badly Clara had to guess what she’d said. “But you didn’t find anything.”

  Diane sat up so suddenly she made Clara jump. “Ah, but I did.” She waved her hand in the air as if she were trying to fan herself, then reached for her glass again. “I found a note.”

  Clara watched her take another gulp of gin. “A note?”

  Diane nodded, but said nothing.

  After a long pause, Clara prompted, “What did it say?”

  Diane leaned forward and lifted a shaking finger to her lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Hoping she wouldn’t notice the recorder on the table, Clara shook her head. “I won’t.”

  Her hopes were dashed when Diane flapped her hand at the recorder. “Turn that thing off and I’ll tell you.”

  Reluctantly, Clara switched it off.

  Diane held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  She handed it over and watched Diane fiddle with it until she was satisfied. “It was a note from Paul,” she said at last, “telling Lisa to meet him behind the concert stage at eight p.m.”

  Clara stared at her. It was the last thing she’d expected. No wonder Diane wanted her to turn off the recorder. But why would the woman tell her about such damning evidence against her husband?

  Once more Diane read her thoughts. “He didn’t kill her.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Nope, he didn’t. You know how I know?”

  Clara gave a quick shake of her head.

  “I went there!” Diane beamed, as if she’d done something incredibly clever. “Yes, indeedy. I went behind that lil’ ol’ concert stage and I waited for ’em.”

  Clara couldn’t have moved at that moment if the ceiling had caved in. She waited, barely able to breathe as Diane sat there nodding her head.

  After another long, suspenseful pause, the woman raised a finger and shook it at Clara. “They didn’t turn up.”

  Clara blinked. “They didn’t?”

  “Nope. I waited until ten past eight for them, and then I knew that note wasn’t from Paul. My husband has never been late for anything in his life. If he said he was going to be there at eight p.m., he would have been there at ten minutes before eight. For eighteen years he’s driven me crazy, always having to be somewhere at least ten minutes before he’s due.” She shook the finger again. “I keep telling him it doesn’t matter if we’re ten minutes late, but nope, he’ll kill himself every time to get there early.”

  Clara frowned. “What about Lisa? You didn’t see her?”

  “Nope. Lisa was just the opposite. Always late to everything. Drove Paul nuts.” Diane swallowed some more gin. “He was going to fire her, you know. He was just waiting to find the right person to take over for her.”

  “Did Lisa know that?”

  Diane shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “Did you ask Paul about the note?”

  Diane gazed at her bleary-eyed. “What?”

  “The note. Did you ask Paul about it?”

  Diane shook her head. “As soon as I heard about the murder, I flushed it down the toilet. I didn’t want anyone suspecting my husband of killing Lisa.” She leaned forward, her words running together, making them hard to understand. “He didn’t write it. Someone else wrote that note to lure Lisa to the concert stage that night.”

  Clara was silent, trying to digest what she’d just heard.

  Apparently realizing she’d said too much, Diane sounded worried when she spoke again. “Paul wasn’t even there when Lisa died. He got a flat tire and stopped to have dinner on the way home. He didn’t get back to the rodeo until it was almost over. Lisa was killed long before that.”

  “Then he has nothing to worry about.” Clara held out her hand. “May I have my recorder back now?”

  Diane clutched the little device to her chest. “You can’t tell a soul about the note. It’s gone and there’s no proof it ever existed. I’ll swear you’re lying and it’ll be your word against mine. I know—”

  She closed her mouth as the door opened and Stephanie walked in, looking a little desperate as Mrs. Schwartz hovered behind her. “I have the photos,” she said, signaling with her eyes her desire to leave immediately.

  Apparently Diane had had enough as well. “Show them out,” she said abruptly. She tossed the recorder at Clara, then leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Clara stood, slipping the recorder into her purse before following her cousin out the door.

  “She sounded drunk,” Stephanie said when the housekeeper had firmly shut the front door behind them.

  “She drank enough gin to put her on the floor.” Clara led the way down the steps to the car. The sun had set behind the hills, leaving a humid night to take over. Crickets chirped in the grass, and moonlight bathed the driveway as she drove toward the gates. They opened just before she reached them and she passed through, realizing that security cameras must be tracking her movements. The thought made her uneasy, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “So what did she have to say?” Stephanie demanded, as they drove down the road leading to the highway.

  “A lot.” Clara recited as much as she could remember of her conversation with Diane Eastcott.

  Stephanie kept punctuating her cousin’s monologue with exclamations, finally breathing a soft “Whoa,” when Clara told her about the note. “We have to tell Dan about that.”

  “She’ll swear she didn’t say any of it.” Clara sighed. “She’s right. Without the note to back it up, there’s no proof.”

  “But you have it on the recorder.”

  “Nope. She made me turn it off.” With one hand on the wheel, Clara fished the recorder out of her purse. “Here. This is all I got on there.”

  Stephanie took it from her, fiddled with it for a moment or two, then muttered, “You don’t have anything on here. It’s blank.”

  Clara shot her a startled look. “Blank?”

  “Not a peep on here.”

  “Diane must have erased the whole thing. Why would she do that?”

  “Maybe she knew she sounded bombed and didn’t want anyone else to hear it.”

  “But what about my interview?”

  “We have the photos, if you really want to go ahead with it. Then again, she can’t blame you for dumping the interview if she erased the whole thing.”

  “Well, I don’t care what she says, or what her sleaze of a husband says, I think he wa
s lying about having dinner at the Pioneer Inn.” Clara glanced in her mirrors before turning onto the highway. “I think he killed Lisa, and somehow we have to find a way to prove it.”

  “I thought you were convinced Wes Carlton was the killer.”

  “I was, but after talking to Diane, I’m pretty sure it was Paul.”

  “You think he really did write that note?”

  “Yes, I do. I think Diane knows it, too.”

  Stephanie sat back on her seat. “Well, I have something that might help.”

  With a glimmer of hope, Clara glanced at her cousin. “What is it?”

  “There were two enormous walk-in closets in the master bedroom. I took pictures of them with my phone.”

  “Closets? Why would you take pics of them?”

  “I took pics of what was in them. Paul has two red shirts hanging up there.”

  Clara gasped. “Really?”

  “What was even more interesting”—Stephanie lowered her voice—“is that Diane has one, too.”

  “So we have to add Diane to our list of suspects.” Touching the brake with her toe, Clara slowed down for the traffic light at the edge of town. “One of them is lying. The question is, which one?”

  “How many suspects do we have now?” Stephanie held up her fingers one by one. “Wes Carlton, Paul Eastcott, Diane Eastcott—anyone else?”

  “We haven’t ruled out Anita Beaumont,” Clara reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah. Then there’s always the possibility that someone else outside of the rodeo had it in for Lisa. She’s not exactly Snow White.”

  “Maybe, but we’re looking for motive, and all our suspects had a motive to get rid of Lisa Warren. All those motives are tied to her relationship with Paul Eastcott, and since she was in love with him, it’s unlikely she was involved with anyone else. Besides, in my vision I saw a cowboy in a red shirt standing over her, remember? How many cowboys do you see around Finn’s Harbor?”

  “True. So then, what about Diane? Maybe she dressed as a cowboy for the rodeo. Let’s suppose Paul did write the note, then got delayed with that flat tire. Diane could have waited for Lisa to turn up behind the stage and, in a fit of jealousy, strangled her.”