Though she saw no evidence of a physical affair, she saw plenty of evidence of a one-sided emotional affair. The “sultan” spared no compliment, and he missed no opportunity to ask Mrs. Armistead for money. Faye knew she had sent him money, probably many times over, because all three of the letters she’d read so far expressed his gratitude for her recent “donation to the cause of furthering my work.”
Faye was particularly unsettled by the ways he had used her gifts. Takhat made no effort to hide the fact that he was using it to scam his audiences. He’d bought materials for elaborate boxes with places where assistants could hide when they “disappeared.” He’d used Mrs. Armistead’s money to hire contortionists who could slither into any hiding place and wriggle out of any restraints. He’d even used it to construct a Pepper’s Ghost setup, sending Mrs. Armistead an itemized receipt for large panes of glass.
Most damning of all were the diagrams. Takhat had repeatedly sent Virginia detailed plans of how to construct these trick boxes and “escape-proof” restraints. Worse, he’d repeatedly explained how her family members could use them to fool their gullible clients.
Faye knew that Takhat had promoted himself as the real thing. He didn’t earn his money in public magic shows. He earned it by scamming grieving parents into thinking they had seen their dead children, when they were really only looking at Pepper’s Ghost. Reading Takhat’s letters made Faye want to wash the lies out of her brain, yet he didn’t even try to hide his tricks from Virginia Armistead.
Takhat’s letters were evidence that all the Armisteads hadn’t been as honorable as their heiress, Tilda. If this knowledge made Faye feel sad and disillusioned, how would Tilda have felt if she’d known about it? How would it make Myrna feel now?
***
Faye asked for the waitress to pack their lunches to go. It was far too gorgeous a day to eat in the diner. Also, Ennis was seated in the exact middle of the dining room, feeding his great-aunt with unctuous patience, and Faye wasn’t in the mood to watch his floorshow.
“There you go, Sister Mama. Do you want some squash? Let me mash it up for you.”
He nodded in Faye’s direction, then flashed a big smile at Amande. The girl got so flustered that she dropped the napkins and straws she’d been gathering for their picnic. What was wrong with her? Until last night, Faye would have said that her daughter didn’t even like this man.
While waiting for their food, Faye scanned the bulletin board by the door. Most of the postings were business cards and brochures, but she couldn’t miss the big orange flyer urging residents to attend that evening’s town council meeting.
“You should go to that, Mom. They’re going to elect Tilda’s replacement.”
Faye wanted to go, but she couldn’t think of an excuse that would justify sending Amande to the airport to pick up Joe, so she asked, “Why?”
“Because you’re not going to be happy until you know what happened to Tilda, and that meeting will be full of suspects. I’ll pick up Dad.”
There were extra copies of the flyer on a table by the door, so Faye grabbed one. If she was going to snoop on an entire town, she might as well learn as much about them as possible.
The waitress presented them with two white paper bags. One of them already showed a transparent greasy glow, evidence that Faye’s Reuben was in there. Amande’s turkey sandwich was keeping its scanty fat to itself.
“Hang on a minute, Sister Mama. You got to give me time to cut this roast beef up for you, and I need to pour gravy on it. Since I know that’s how you like it.”
Faye could not fail to see how Ennis’ eyes followed them out the door. She was glad to leave him behind.
The trees in the park looked manicured to Faye, who was accustomed to live oaks shawled in Spanish moss. She thought the northern landscape looked unnaturally neat, as if harsh winters killed off everything messy and weedy. Stone picnic tables and benches were scattered along the lakeshore. Here and there, a moss-covered piece of statuary punctuated the grassy lawn. Rosebower’s park looked like an inviting and useful cemetery.
One of the tables was occupied. Toni sat alone, eating a sandwich brought from home and wrapped in waxed paper. A bag of green grapes sat at her elbow. She looked glad to see them.
Scooting over on the bench to make room for Amande, Toni said, “How’s the museum biz, ladies?”
“Awesome.” Amande pulled her sandwich out of the bag. “We found a stash of letters that you are not going to believe. One of the Armistead ancestors was carrying on a long-distance love affair with a fake sultan. The only way this could be better is if there were pictures.”
“Amande…” Faye said. She hoped the girl realized this was code for, “It’s not real ethical to blurt out sensitive information until you’ve figured out whether your client really owns it and you’ve shared it with the donor’s heir.” Which, in this case, was probably Myrna. Faye could just imagine how an elderly spinster would feel about such family laundry being aired. A married Armistead woman corresponding with a philandering charlatan? Myrna would be apoplectic.
Amande didn’t pick up on her mother’s coded message of “Please be quiet now.” She kept talking. “And he wasn’t just a fake sultan. He was a fake psychic working under a fake name. I love it!”
Faye put a hand on Amande’s arm. This time the girl understood. Toni was holding a grape up, studying the sunlight glowing through its translucent green body as if that particular grape were the most interesting thing around. “So,” she said. Her tone was so casual that she had to be faking it. “Those sultan letters sound…um…mildly interesting. May I…?”
Faye shook her head.
“Maybe they’ll go on display in the museum. Maybe they’ll be in an open collection where you can come read them. But maybe Myrna will ask for them back, so she can keep them private. The museum’s records are such a mess that I can’t begin to decide ownership issues.”
Toni finally ate the grape. She said nothing.
Wondering if the woman was going to study every last ever-loving grape instead of making eye contact, Faye decided to push her a little. “Doesn’t it bother you, living here among these people but knowing that they’re going to hate your book when it comes out? Not just the book—they’re going to hate you. I remember you said you were planning to sell your book in local gift shops. That’s ridiculous on the face of it. The residents of Rosebower are going to pretend that you and your book don’t exist.”
Finally, the magician gave Faye her attention. She also gave her a glimpse of the force-of-nature personality that might be expected from a schoolteacher who had once made a splash in low-rent show biz.
“Do you think I don’t know how Rosebower is going to feel about my book? Maybe they feel that way already. Did you know somebody busted out my window this morning? That rock could have killed me. I’m thinking about leaving town. Maybe you should do the same.”
“Maybe I will. But first, I’m going to find out all I can.” Faye waved the flyer for the town council meeting in Toni’s face. “Want to come?”
***
Avery had asked Faye to sign some paperwork, in preparation for photographing the demolition of Tilda’s house. The pile of forms indemnifying Myrna, Avery’s employer, Myrna’s insurance company, and the rest of the western world was truly monumental. If Tilda’s house should accidentally collapse on Faye’s head, she had no one to blame but herself.
As Faye plowed through the pile of paper, she said, “Do you know any reason for Willow to be spending time with Gilbert Marlowe?”
“The developer?”
“Yeah. I saw Willow in the back of Marlowe’s limo this morning. Yesterday, I watched Myrna rip the man a new one over his development plans for Rosebower. I don’t know whether Dara hates him as much as Myrna does, but Willow apparently likes him. Or, at least, he’s willing to enjoy his cushy ride.”
“Why doesn’t Myrna like Marlowe?”
“She seems to have known him since he was a boy.
Right now she’s angry because he wants to build a resort that she thinks will ruin Rosebower. Tilda was against it, too, but she had some power to stop him. Myrna’s just an old lady shaking a fist. I’m sure he’d like her to give his project the Armistead stamp of approval, but she can’t keep him from doing anything.”
“And Tilda could?”
“She was on the town council. With Tilda dead, Marlowe may soon get his way. Would you consider a business deal like this resort—golf course, hotel, spa, exhibition halls—a motive for murder?”
“A project that size? Hell, yeah. It’s the only reasonable motive I’ve heard yet.”
Faye reached in her purse and pulled out the town council flyer. “I’m going to this meeting tonight. You know Gilbert Marlowe will be there, along with most anybody else who might have killed Tilda. Wanna come?”
“You know I do.”
Faye said, “I’ll save you a seat,” and went back to her stack of paperwork.
After she’d signed about eighty-five pieces of paper, Avery had led her over to a big pile of junk in the house’s side yard.
“These are the things I had to pull out of the house to complete my investigation. I gave Miss Myrna a few trinkets I found upstairs that I thought she might want, but most things that didn’t burn were ruined by smoke or water. What you see in this pile is…stuff. Bricks. Here,” Avery said. “Have a brick for the museum.”
Faye took it, knowing that even this bit of trash was going to need cataloging. And she’d need to get Myrna to sign paperwork deeding any donations over to the historical society. These archival requirements were the reason Samuel needed to stop taking everything that was handed to him.
Avery had picked up a stick and was using it to uncover new layers of debris. “Scorched wallboard, with the paper still glued to it. Nails left behind when a board burned. Is there any reason you archaeologists might want to look at this junk before I have it hauled away?”
Amande didn’t even wait for Faye to answer. “Oh, yeah.”
The three women, deeply immersed in discussing how to deal with the trash pile, didn’t hear Dara as she approached.
“Willow and I were checking on Auntie. We’ve decided to take turns sleeping at her house, because she’s not doing so well. I don’t think she needs to be alone any more. Anyway, he’s there to watch her and I saw you and I thought…well…I wondered what had happened to my mother’s crystal ball. Please? If I could have only one thing to remember her by, that ball would be it.”
“I haven’t seen it,” Avery said. “Or rather, I haven’t seen what’s left of it. The fire was centered around the room where your mother used the ball, so I’m assuming it was there. Glass doesn’t do well in high heat.”
A breeze ruffled Dara’s curls and played with her full skirt. The midday sun revealed some lines around her mouth that Dara would probably wish away if she could, but Faye thought they made her seem more human. So did her need to recover a little piece of her mother.
“It wouldn’t have been harmed by the fire. It wasn’t glass. It was rock crystal, what scientists call quartz. You should have found it in the ashes. It was flawless, without a single internal fracture. You can’t imagine its power. It’s impossible to buy one like it these days. Our family has had it for generations. My ancestors’ very souls are imprinted on its crystalline structure. I have to have it.”
Okay, so maybe Dara sounded a little flaky, what with ancestors’ souls and crystals and such, but still. She sounded like someone who believed in those things, not like the unrepentant faker that Toni saw when she looked at this woman, the last of the Armisteads. Faye wished Avery had found Tilda’s crystal ball, so that Dara could have it.
Avery listened intently to Dara, without rolling her eyes at her airy-fairy talk of crystalline power. All she said was, “I can’t explain why I would have missed something of that size in the debris, even if it had been broken. I found hundreds of tiny shards of glass. Even if your mother was using a fake—“
Dara bristled.
“—I still should have found pieces of glass or a recognizable puddle of plastic.” Avery took a stick and poked the pile of junk she’d pulled out of the house. “There’s nothing in this pile or in that house that could be your mother’s crystal ball. If I’m wrong about that—and I’m not—I’ll certainly let you know, but I can’t tell you where it might have gone.”
“Thank you.” Dara twisted her hands in the gauzy skirt of her sundress. “I heard you talking about looking through the junk in this pile. I’ll come back and see what you’ve found. Auntie will want to hear.”
Still wadding fabric in her clenched fists, she said, “Speaking of Auntie, I have to go. She wants me nearby all the time, these days. It scares her when she has trouble breathing. It scares me, too. I don’t like it that Willow and I both have to leave her when we do our shows. I want more time with her. I lost so much time with my mother. I—” She turned her head to look back at Myrna’s house. “I have to go.”
Dara walked away, her hennaed curls swinging far down her proud, straight back.
Faye waited until Dara was out of earshot before asking Avery, “You said last night that you’d been a paramedic?”
“I did.”
“When did you last talk to Myrna Armistead?”
“This morning. I’ve seen her every day this week, some days more than once.”
“What’s your opinion of her condition?”
Avery touched her own jaw, as if to wipe off a drop of sweat, and her eyes focused on a spot somewhere behind Faye’s left shoulder. Her body language said that she didn’t want to tell Faye what she thought. Reading such gestures was the tool that Willow used to make people believe he could read minds and talk to spirits. Faye wasn’t as good as Willow, because she was usually focused on the next thing on her to-do list, but she could read people when she tried.
Avery’s hand still lingered on her jaw. “I haven’t done an examination on Myrna, so I can only offer personal observations. That’s no more than you could do.”
“But you have medical training and I don’t.”
Avery inclined her head to acknowledge the truth of Faye’s statement. She met Faye’s eyes. Scholars of body language would say this signaled that she was preparing to tell the truth.
“As Miss Myrna’s friend who just happens to have medical training, I can say that I don’t like what I see. Her breathing is labored. She can hardly get up out of a chair. Her color’s not good.” She stopped talking, as if to see whether she’d satisfied Faye’s nosiness.
Faye kept the persistent gaze of the person who hasn’t heard all she wants to hear, and she said nothing. After a couple of seconds, Avery took a breath and spoke again. Damn. Faye was impressing herself by how good she was at this body language stuff.
“Ms. Armistead looks like a cardiac patient to me. Fairly well advanced.”
“Can you make her family take her to a doctor? Can anybody?”
“There’s no emergency, Faye, and she is an adult capable of making her own decisions. I can’t chop her door down with an ax and haul her someplace she doesn’t want to go. Nobody can. She has a right to decide about her treatment, and she has a right to put trust in her family.”
Yes, she did. Faye hated being wrong, so she flung one last provocative question. “Even when that family includes a slimy creature like Willow?”
“I’ve seen Willow with Myrna. He’s gentle. Affectionate. He gives her candy and tells her silly jokes. You don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not good to Myrna.”
“You don’t like him, either.”
“I never said that.”
Faye saw that Avery was waiting for her to say, “But you don’t!” So she didn’t.
After a moment, Avery laughed and admitted the truth. “No, I don’t like him, either. But Faye, people get old and, eventually, they die. If Myrna wants to do it at home, in the presence of her family, I’m not going to argue with her decision.”
One more provocative question came to Faye. “If I wanted to kill somebody old, I’d do it here, wouldn’t you? Nobody pays much attention when an old person’s body gives up and dies. I think that’s why there’s so little talk around town about Tilda’s death. Nobody but you, me, Amande, and the killer knows that it wasn’t an accident. Everybody else is secretly wondering if her death was for the best. They’re probably thinking they’d rather go out quickly, like Tilda, than spend miserable years slowly fading away.”
“What are you saying? Do you think someone is trying to kill Myrna? Do you have some evidence for that?”
“Not a scrap. It was just an idle observation. But if somebody wanted to get rid of an old lady, this would be an easy place to go about it, because the people in charge of their elders’ care don’t seem to be paying much attention.”
Rituals: A Faye Longchamp Mystery (Faye Longchamp Series) Page 19