Broken Vows Mystery 02-For Richer, for Danger

by Lisa Bork

  “Excellent.” Catherine bent down to the floor where her briefcase rested, snapped it open, and extracted a legal pad. She noted my statement.

  Ray rubbed my neck. “Darlin’, have you told Catherine what you told me? About the noise you heard at the murder scene?”

  “No, she hasn’t.” Catherine’s frown encompassed both Ray and me.

  I set down my fork and shifted in my chair. “I heard jingling.” I felt myself shrug. “That’s all. It could have been the collar tags on a stray animal, but, for some reason, it seemed close by and familiar. It made me think a person was there.”

  “Let’s try hypnosis.” Catherine sat up straighter and smiled as if to persuade me. “I’ve used it before to trigger a witness’s memory.”

  Ray’s amused eyes met mine. “Not this time, Catherine. I’m sure Jolene’s not going to be susceptible.”

  “Why not?”

  Cringing, I waited for him to say “because she’s a control freak.”

  He didn’t. “Because Jolene likes to stay in control of her mind and body. She has solid self-protection mechanisms in place that no hypnotist will be able to breach.”

  I sat up a little taller. Ray made me sound whole and healthy this time, not like I flew a freak flag. It was times like these when I remembered most why I loved him.

  I ran my hand down his thigh. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it under the table.

  “Fine, if you say so.” Catherine doodled a star in the corner of her legal pad. “Let’s assume for now that Jolene was correct and someone else was present at the crime scene. Let’s assume it was the killer, and he threatened Noelle’s safety if Heather revealed him to the police. How do we find him?”

  Ray stirred some creamer into a second cup of coffee. “I don’t think that’s the right question to ask. Theo and Heather had to be staying somewhere in the area. Someone had to see them come and go. Someone had to see who they associated with. Ultimately, I think that’s who we’re looking for—one of their associates who wanted Theo, and maybe Heather, dead.”

  Catherine wrote the word associates on her legal pad. “Okay, how do we find the associates?”

  “Jolene and I could knock on doors, post flyers, and that kind of thing, but the fastest way would be to offer a reward for information on television.”

  Three women turned to look at him in unison. “Really?”

  “Really. That’s why we have a Crime Fighters program. Money’s not just a motive for murder, you know.”

  Catherine looked from Ray to me. “How much money can we offer?”

  “How much do you need?”

  We turned toward Karen as she spoke up. She wiped Noelle’s mouth with her bib and laid the baby food jar on the table. “I talked to Dad last night. He said to do whatever it takes to bring our baby girl home, and he’s got the money to do it. So just name your figure. I’ll have him transfer it to whatever account you specify.”

  “Excellent.” Catherine stood. “Let me make a few calls.”

  Ray started to clear the breakfast dishes, but I continued to stare at Karen’s flushed face as she lifted Noelle out of her highchair.

  Her presence made me more fearful and insecure. Her interest and budding affection for Noelle was obvious. And I had to wonder when she said “bring our baby girl home”—was she referring to Heather or Noelle?

  ____

  Ray left for work. Catherine headed off to talk with the press. Karen hinted that she’d like to spend more time with Noelle, but I rushed her out the door. At ten-thirty, just as Noelle and I sat on the couch to cuddle in peace, Erica breezed in.

  “You never called me back.”

  She wore tan chinos, a pink Izod polo shirt, and one of those fabric belts with pink palm trees on it. Her blond hair was slicked back into a ponytail. She sported a French manicure on her fingers and toes, and her makeup appeared professionally applied. The whole look was new to her.

  Erica held out her finger to Noelle, who grabbed it.

  I leaned against her and nudged her shoulder. “Is this your yacht club look?”

  “No, it’s my ‘I’m so over that boy’ look.”

  I noticed her ring finger remained bare. “You’re not engaged to Sam anymore?”

  “Nope. I’ve met someone new.”

  “Who?”

  “A more mature man from a fine family with prospects.”

  I made a face. “Who are you, Jane Austen?”

  “Don’t laugh. I met him last night at the bar. He’s a stud muffin, and Mom thinks he’s interested.”

  Mom’s ghost was frequenting bars now? She’d never had an alcohol problem before. “So when did you break it off with Sam?”

  Erica flipped her ponytail. “I left a message on his answering machine this morning.”

  I tried not to laugh. “I guess that beats a Post-it note, but it seems a little cold.”

  “You said yourself he’s a sociopath. I wasn’t going to tell him in person. Who knows how he’d take it?” She stood and headed for the kitchen. “I smell waffles, Ray’s waffles. Any left?”

  I followed her. “In the refrigerator. You can warm them up in the toaster.”

  Erica prepared her waffle and leaned against the stove to eat it. Her new look bothered me. Every time she’d made herself over in the past, it had only been a matter of weeks before she’d sunk into depression and tried to take her life.

  “Are you taking your medicine?”

  Erica licked whipped cream from the corner of her mouth. “Why do you keep asking me that? Of course I am. Don’t I seem okay to you?”

  “What about the gnomes—”

  The kitchen door banged open. Cory trotted in, carrying clipboards and walkie-talkies and dressed in khakis, a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and mirrored sunglasses.

  Somebody forgot to call me and tell me the uniform of the day.

  “Good, you’re both here.” He waved the clipboards. “We’ve got to move.”

  I hugged Noelle tighter. I hadn’t planned on going out today. Instead I was looking forward to spending the day with her for a change. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve got to go to Chautauqua this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I found Sylvia Wilder. The Datsun’s in her garage under a car cover, but she’s leaving on a cruise at the end of next week. If Kim Barclay’s grandpa wants to be buried in the car, we need to buy it today—unless you think he’s going to last awhile longer.”

  I had the impression every day might be his last.

  Erica poured syrup on her waffle. “I can watch Noelle.”

  “No, you can’t.” Cory and I spoke in unison.

  She blinked, a little too rapidly as though tears might be imminent.

  I didn’t want her watching Noelle, because then both of them might be in danger. Noelle was safest staying with Marcia for now. But why was Cory objecting?

  He handed Erica and me each a sheath of paper. “Here’s the scenario. You’ll need to learn your part while we’re in the car.”

  “Scenario? Are you kidding me?” Erica shuffled through a few pages.

  Cory turned to me. “Call Isabelle. Tell her you’ll need her to be on standby. She has to call us to make this work, okay?” He glanced toward Erica then back at my shorts and T-shirt. “Can you put on khakis and a pink polo shirt, too? Then we’ll look like a team.”

  A team of what? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “I guess so. First, let me call Marcia to make sure she can watch Noelle.”

  Erica tapped her script with a fancy fingernail. “Who am I playing?”

  “You’ll be Mark.” Cory sighed. “He didn’t want to participate. Said it was wrong to lie to the woman. But if you read it, we’re not going to tell any blatant lies. I don’t know why he’s being so uptight.”

  Neither did I, considering Mark had lied about himself. I resolved to tell Cory the truth about Mark’s family as soon as this day was over. I couldn’t tell him now. It might interfer
e with his creative juices, which were overflowing like a flooded stream.

  When I stepped outside on to the driveway and spotted a white Ford F150 hitched to a car trailer with Kempe Productions lettered with a flourish on the side decal, I wanted to stop and read the script. I didn’t, choosing to have faith in my friend.

  I waited until I had dropped off Noelle, called Isabelle to place her on standby, alerted Ray, and climbed into the truck next to Cory to read the proposed scenario. Erica sat in the back seat and promptly fell asleep as soon as we hit the thruway for Chautauqua.

  I finished reading. “Are you sure this will work?”

  “I think so. Sylvia Wilder is an amateur actress, a really bad one from what we heard. Spends a lot of time at the Chautauqua Institute, trying to perfect her craft. She wants to be on the big screen. I’m betting she bites.” Cory accelerated and passed a senior who was driving the speed limit.

  An educational and cultural center, the Chautauqua Institute offered art, education, religious, and recreation programs to the surrounding township and thousands of summer visitors who assembled there each year. Located on the edge of its namesake lake, it was a good three hours drive southwest from Wachobe and the Finger Lakes region. A long way to go to fail.

  I expressed my doubts. “What if we bite?”

  “I beg your pardon.” Cory frowned. “We never bite.”

  “You know I’m not that fast on my feet. If she doesn’t respond the way you expect, I’m not much of an improviser.” I spent days learning all the attributes of my sports cars. Being put on the spot made me blush, and red was not my color.

  “Don’t worry, Erica and I will be there. Just let me lead.”

  As an actor, Cory lived to perform. He would excel at this plan—most likely why he thought of it. Erica, on the other hand, was theatrical as well, but not one to follow a script. She might improvise by setting her hair on fire.

  I looked at her over my shoulder. She was fast asleep and snoring ever so slightly. “You know Erica is unpredictable.”

  “She’s a lot more with it these days. You’re not giving her enough credit.”

  “Cory, she’s been dressing like a hooker for weeks, running around with a boy barely out of high school who stabbed his mother in the hand with a fork and who hit Erica in the forehead with a ping pong paddle. Just because she looks fine today doesn’t change the fact that she’s collecting a whole tribe of scary-looking gnomes in her front yard—gnomes armed with weapons, no less.”

  “I don’t know about the gnomes, but I’ve been hanging out in the bar with her and she seems fine. People are leaving her nice tips, and not just guys she leans over either. She’s very affable lately.”

  He made her sound almost normal, but I knew different. “She met another guy at the bar last night. That’s why she’s a new person this morning. She dumped Sam and gave herself a makeover, all in less than twelve hours. Were you at the bar last night?”

  “No, but I definitely want to meet this guy. She looks refreshed.”

  I glanced at Erica again. Except for the spittle in the left corner of her mouth, she did look more vibrant—just not recognizable as my sister, who never wore this preppy, yuppie look. She did, however, run through men at a rate of one or two a week when she was manic. Or maybe Dr. Albert was right. Maybe her promiscuity wasn’t related to her illness. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

  These unanswerable questions and the hum of the truck’s wheels on the thruway put me to sleep a few minutes later. When I opened my eyes, Cory had parked in front of a glorious 1800s Victorian brick mansion with arched windows, sparkling white painted trim, and double black doors at the main entrance. A smaller brick building like a carriage house sat several yards behind the home, which was encircled by a black wrought iron fence. Way at the back of the grounds, an old barn leaned ever so slightly to the left, like a modern-day Tower of Pisa in the making.

  “Erica, wake up.” Cory reached back and shook Erica’s knee.

  “I’m awake.” She swiped at the edge of her mouth, leaned forward on her seat and stuck her head in between ours. “Is it show time?”

  I swallowed.

  “Yes. We need to find out if the Datsun is in the garage or the barn. Jo, wait until you see Mrs. Wilder, then call Isabelle and get out of the truck.” Cory handed Erica a clipboard. “Ready?”

  She grinned. “As ever. Lead on.”

  Cory and Erica hopped out of the car and began to stride up and down the sidewalk. Erica appeared to study the home and make notes on her clipboard. Cory stared at the house as he paced. Moments later, the front door swung open and a fashionably dressed woman, maybe in her fifties, with perfectly coiffed shoulder-length blond hair appeared on the porch.

  I dialed Isabelle. “Call me in five minutes.”

  I slid out of the truck and went to stand beside Cory.

  “Here she comes,” he said.

  Mrs. Wilder glided down the front steps and approached with curiosity in her eyes. “Can I help you?”

  Cory waved. “We’re sorry to disturb you. We’re just admiring this beautiful home. Are you the owner?”

  “I am. Sylvia Wilder.”

  Cory held out his hand. “I’m Cory Kempe, from Kempe Productions. We’re scouting locations.”

  Locations of Datsun Zs, not lovely Victorian homes. Not exactly a lie.

  Mrs. Wilder took a few steps closer and shook his hand. She glanced at the trailer, her eyes moving over the lettering. “And you’re interested in my home?”

  To Cory’s left, Erica continued to make notes. Mrs. Wilder tried to catch a glimpse of her clipboard.

  Cory started walking along the fence, jotting down a few lines himself, and Mrs. Wilder followed him. “Your home is a bed and breakfast, is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Her face brightened then fell. “It’s booked for the entire summer, though. Are you looking for someplace to shoot soon?”

  “You know the movie business. It’s always hurry up, then wait for the final production budget. Still, it would be wonderful to see more of this location. Can we take a tour of your lovely home, or would we be disturbing your guests?” Cory turned on the charm with his high voltage smile.

  Mrs. Wilder clapped her hands together with evident excitement. “I can show you the common areas, if you like. Please, come inside.”

  We followed her up the sidewalk and into the foyer. A guest parlor sat to the left of the entry and a spiral walnut staircase led to the second floor. The twelve-foot ceilings, inlaid floors, ornate woodwork, and cast iron appointments made the home magnificent, but I couldn’t wait to get to the garage.

  I trailed behind as Cory and Erica oohed and aahed with enthusiasm, referring to their personal friends as if they were movie production people who would love to film in this home.

  As Mrs. Wilder shared the home’s history with us, we followed her through the dining room with its walnut table, sideboard, and servers, and a marble fireplace, then into what she referred to as the reception room, a white room with bright blue trim, furnished with antiques, including a clock that ticked ominously.

  Mrs. Wilder paused in her tour. “So, if I may ask, what is the film you’re making?”

  Cory started making notes on his clipboard to avoid meeting her eyes. “It’s a love story.”

  About a man and his racecar. I crossed my fingers she wouldn’t ask too many more questions.

  “Who’s starring in it?”

  My cell phone rang right on cue.

  Cory didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Are you familiar with Isabella Rossellini’s work?”

  Mrs. Wilder gasped. “I adore her.”

  I hit the send button on my phone. “Hi, Isabelle.”

  Mrs. Wilder’s eyes bugged out. “Is that her on the phone now?” she stage whispered to Cory.

  “That’s Isabelle.” He smiled. “May we see the grounds?”

  I repeated everything Mrs. Wilder had told us about her home, plus
many accolades, to Isabelle, who kept interrupting to ask if I’d lost my mind by going along with this charade. I thought I had, but luckily Mrs. Wilder was losing hers, too. She almost salivated at the thought of a film company using her home as a location.

  When I disconnected, Mrs. Wilder practically danced across the grass in the backyard. “I’ve done some theater myself. Will you be looking for extras for the film? The Chautauqua Institute is just minutes from here. I’m sure you could find a lot of wonderful players here, if you film in the summer. But if you want to use my house, spring would be best. I know a lot of people at the Institute who would be available as extras then.”

  “That’s a great idea, thank you.” Cory wrote it on his clipboard, and Mrs. Wilder preened. “What about the barn in the back? Is it safe for occupation?”

  Mrs. Wilder’s expression changed to one of sadness. “No, it’s my old horse barn. All the animals are gone. I haven’t maintained it at all. I haven’t even been in it since …”

  I would have liked for her to finish her sentence, but Erica leapt into the void.

  “What’s in here?” Erica pointed to the brick garage.

  “It’s just the garage.”

  “May we see inside?” Erica’s question sounded innocent enough.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Wilder swung open the old-fashioned doors.

  First, I spotted her Mercedes. Bed and breakfasts must do all right. Then I spotted the Datsun Z under a car cover. “What’s that?” I pointed to it.

  Mrs. Wilder waved dismissively. “That’s an old car. It doesn’t run anymore.”

  “Too bad.” Cory looked at Erica and me. “Have we seen enough, ladies?”

  Erica stepped closer to the Datsun. “If we were able to film here, are you saying this car can’t be moved, Mrs. Wilder?”

  “Oh no, it can be moved. It just hasn’t run in years.” She crinkled her brow. “It might start, but I’m not sure.”

  Cory grabbed the car cover. “May we take a look?”

  She nodded.

  He whipped the cover off, revealing the red, white, and blue paint job. I took a few steps closer and found the VIN number. Eighteen. I tried to look bored, but excitement coursed through my veins.