“Oh, please. Now you sound like a character in a Victorian novel.”
“You’re playing with fire, Ms. Jacob, only you’re too stupid to realize it. Ellen Nagy is a cold-blooded killer. She killed my nanny and she killed that man found in her field. I believe she also plans to kill a member of my family out of revenge.”
“Because she went to prison? Since she confessed, that doesn’t make sense.”
“Ellen’s behavior won’t make sense. She’s insane. Perhaps you need further proof.”
He pulled a folded piece of white paper from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. With a weary sigh, he held it out. “This was left at our hotel this morning.”
I unfolded the piece of paper. A message had been pasted onto the page, using letters cut from newspapers and magazines. It looked like the notes kidnappers leave in movies.
The message read: “The dead want justice. Confess before you are exposed. Tell the truth. Now!”
I looked up at Patrick. “How did it get to your hotel?”
“It was sealed in an envelope and taped to the revolving door of The Beekman. Scrawled on the envelope were the words ‘Deliver to the Sables.’ An employee who arrived for his morning shift found it and handed it to the front desk. They gave it to us.”
I handed the note back to him. “I assume no one saw who left it.”
He tucked the note back into his pocket. “No. It must have been delivered before dawn, since the employee found it at six a.m. And I don’t think there’s any mystery about the identity of the person who left it.”
Since I agreed with his assessment, I said nothing.
“Ellen wants to destroy my family,” he went on. “With lies, rumors. And given her unstable state of mind, probably another murder. She’s killed twice before.”
Although I didn’t think she meant to kill the Sables, I did worry about her next move. So far she had pulled a “prank” on the Sables for each of the past four days. “Have you shown this note to the police yet?”
“That’s why I’m in town. To hand it over to your police chief.” He looked disgusted. “Although there was some debate in the family about that. Your local law enforcement hasn’t impressed us so far. My father and I believe this is best dealt with internally, but we were overruled. However, we all agree on one thing. Our patience is at an end.”
“What does that mean?”
He stood, no doubt for the chance to loom over me. “It means you and the police better start taking this more seriously.”
Joshua looked up from his phone in the next room. “Dad, we need to go somewhere private and call the lab in California. One of the serum batches has gone missing.”
“Be right there,” he told his son. Patrick turned his attention back to me. “Looks like yet another thing has gone missing. I’ll handle the serum batch. But I recommend you find Ellen and the manuscript she wrote. And do it before we leave on Saturday.” He stomped out.
If I had any doubt a Sable was behind Bonaventure’s death, this conversation dispelled that. Someone in the Sable family murdered Bonaventure. And probably the nanny. I had no idea which one, but Patrick Sable was a front-runner.
Chapter Eighteen
When I returned to The Berry Basket, I called Chief Hitchcock and told him about my conversation with Patrick and Joshua Sable. He already knew about Ingrid Sable’s Olympic career but wasn’t aware that all of the Sables were skilled in the use of a bow and arrow. I had a feeling the Sable family were going to be visited by the police later today. If nothing else, it would keep them out of trouble—and Leticia and me out of danger. At least while the police were with them.
I didn’t have time to worry about the Sables for the next hour. A group of women came into the store. And they were in town for a long girls’ weekend, not the health fair.
In the mood for a good time, they loved everything in the shop and bought bags of berry-flavored coffees, teas, wines, Theo’s pastries, berry hand lotions and soaps, berry syrups, and much more. By the time they left, I had sold more in one hour than I had all week.
Their visit seemed a happy harbinger as customers trickled in for the remainder of the day. Maybe everyone had begun to have their fill of all those celebrities. I hoped so. The fair continued tomorrow and Saturday, the two biggest shopping days of the week. In addition, the people coming here for the Halloween evening parade would start to arrive. Halloween visitors were in a party mood. That meant lots of food and drink . . . and retail therapy.
At five, I closed up, pleased at the day’s sales. I had just stapled the receipts and credit-card slips when my cell phone rang. It said Unknown Caller.
“Hello,” I said with a degree of caution.
“Is this Marlee Jacob?” a female voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Delta Marsh here. The booker on Wake Up America told me to contact you. Apparently, you have questions regarding an upcoming production about the murder of Laeticia Murier, otherwise known as the Nanny Murder.” She laughed. “Had it been anyone else, I wouldn’t have bothered. But how can I refuse a request from the former producer of the Sugar and Spice show? The show and the murder trial that ended it were epic! You may not remember, but I interviewed you for Wake Up America.”
“Of course, I remember.”
Hundreds of reporters had interviewed everyone connected to the Chaplins, particularly those of us who worked on the popular cooking show. At some point, they all became a blur, but Delta had left an impression. She managed to make our interview seem like a cozy chat between friends, rather than a savvy reporter determined to get answers from a beleaguered TV producer caught up in a scandal. Although I’d revealed more than I meant to, it was an honest interview, maybe the best one ever conducted about the Chaplin case. For that I had to credit the talented Ms. Marsh.
“What have you been doing since you left New York?” she asked. “I hear you’re a businesswoman now. And in a lovely beach town along Lake Michigan. I’m so jealous.”
We spent a few minutes catching up. I summarized the past two years for her, then asked polite questions about her own career, which had continued to rise. An entertainment correspondent for the morning show, Delta covered everything from George and Amal Clooney’s twins to royal marriages. I expected her career to reach even greater heights. She was twenty-nine, vivacious, smart, and ambitious.
“Now what’s all this about the Nanny Murder?” she asked finally.
I explained how the Sables were in town for a local health fair, and that I had heard a possible series or movie about the murder of their former nanny might be in the works. To encourage her to confide in me, I added that the woman convicted of the murder lived in Oriole County, and I thought she might be upset to learn the case was about to go public once again.
Delta gave a throaty laugh. “Leave it to you to live in a town with a famous murderess. I’m also not surprised Ellen Nagy is upset the Nanny Murder is about to go viral again.”
“Then it’s true?”
“Yes. A deal was signed with a premium cable channel for a limited dramatic series about the murder of Laeticia Murier. I’m not at liberty to say which one until the executive producers make the announcement. The Sable family tried to stop it, but couldn’t. After all, the case is a matter of public record. They should be flattered. I’ve heard Saoirse Ronan has been asked to play the young Ainsley Sable. Producers want Nicole Kidman for the role of Ingrid.”
My heart sank. If they put together a cast that stellar, the series was sure to be a hit. Making the details of the nanny’s murder once again public fodder. “When did you contact Ellen Nagy’s cousin?”
“Earlier this year, as soon as I learned a series was being put together. I had no idea where Ellen Nagy was, especially since she married after she got out of prison. But I did remember she had family in Coldwater, Michigan. I could only get a cousin to talk with me: Sarah Nagy. They’re the same age and grew up together. She and Ellen have stayed in contact. I told her a
bout the upcoming series and asked her to get a reaction from Ellen.” Another throaty laugh. “She told me to go to hell and hung up.”
“Well, she did tell Ellen about the series, and Ellen’s not happy about it. I spoke with her about it yesterday.”
“Do you remember Ellen’s exact words?” Delta’s voice grew serious. “A quote from the killer would be fantastic.”
I sighed. “I don’t think of her as a killer. Just a sad woman.”
“I was a baby when this whole thing happened, but I’ve read enough about it. Don’t get too sentimental, Marlee. Ellen Nagy murdered that French girl. Speaking of murder, weren’t you all over the news this past July? I seem to recall a killer chased you during a road rally. Girl, you must be a magnet for danger.”
“Yeah, lucky me. Getting back to the Nanny Murder, do you know any journalists who covered it way back then?”
“Not really. Although I did some asking around when I heard you wanted to talk with me. The only person who remembers much about the case is our producer on Wake Up America. At the time of the trial, she was an intern at Harper’s Bazaar and helped research a feature about Laeticia Murier. One thing that stuck with her was that the French nanny loved the color orange. Apparently, she often wore something orange, even if it was just a piece of jewelry in that color. Weird, huh?”
“I guess she just had a thing for orange,” I said. Although neither Delta nor I understood why Laeticia Murier had such a fondness for the color, it did explain why Ellen dyed her hair pumpkin orange. It was yet another way for her to keep Laeticia’s memory alive.
“What can you tell me about the Sables?” I asked. “Have you ever met any of them?”
“Sure. One of the Sables is always walking some red carpet function in New York. And Keith Sable shows up on Page Six whenever he gets married and divorced. I’ve lost count as to how many Mrs. Keith Sables there have been.”
“I met the soon-to-be Number Four last night.”
“Ah, yes. Scarlett the model. All his wives have been models. You’d think these girls would stick to rock stars and Leo rather than get hooked up with Keith Sable.”
The distaste in her voice made me sit up. “You don’t like him?”
“God, no. Hard to like someone so enraptured with himself. I’ve interviewed him a few times. He spent the whole time flashing those dimples and pouring on the charm. But beneath all that charm is a talent for manipulating people. Takes after his mother.”
I thought back to the icy beauty of the Sable matriarch. “She does seem formidable.”
“More like indestructible. I guess you’d have to be if you’re married to Cameron Sable. Her husband’s the best salesman I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen them all. He never stops selling. And I don’t mean his products. He’s always selling himself. Trying to convince us that he’s the final authority on everything from magnesium supplements to the meaning of life.”
“In other words, a narcissist.”
“Big-time. And so demanding. We did an interview last year on the anniversary of that damned diet. He refused to be filmed unless we obtained an Eames chair for him to sit on! Along with his favorite makeup artist, who had to be flown in from Florida. He also insisted on a specific camera filter.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “It was like working with a bald Henry VIII.”
“Do you like any of the Sables?”
“Not really. Joshua, the younger one, seems the most decent. But his parents are a joke. Ainsley is a brittle socialite pretending to know something about skin care and beauty. A trust-fund baby who married into another rich family. She’s as shallow as a wading pool.”
“What about Patrick Sable?”
“The man possesses all the joie de vivre of Eeyore. He reminds me of an unhappy soldier awaiting his next order.”
“And who would order him?”
“One of the Sables, of course.” She sighed. “If only the public could see past their polished facade and the skills of their public-relations team. Those products are nothing more than twenty-first-century snake oil.”
I was glad I had never jumped on the Sable bandwagon. “I remember liking one or two Cameron Sable cookbooks back when I was at the network. And now he’s become just as famous for his motivational books. In fact, all of them seem to be continually writing books.”
“You don’t believe they actually write them? The Sables are like most celebrities. They pay people to write their books.”
“You think they’re all ghostwritten?”
“I’d bet my new apartment in Tribeca they are.”
“Do you know a ghostwriter called Felix Bonaventure?”
“I’ve certainly heard of him. He writes true crime now, but he started out doing celebrity memoirs. Don’t know if he ever worked for a Sable. It’s possible. Try checking the acknowledgments page in their earlier books. Some famous people feel guilty about not including their collaborator on the cover. They throw an occasional bone by mentioning their name in the acknowledgments. Without specifying why they’re being acknowledged.”
“I’d love to know if Bonaventure worked with them in the past.”
“Why?” Another pause. “Don’t hold out on me, Marlee. I did you the professional courtesy of contacting you and answering your questions. It’s only fair you reciprocate.”
She was right. The business was built on quid pro quo. And Delta had a reputation as a woman who could be trusted. “Fair enough. But until things here have been resolved, all this is off the record.”
“Agreed.” I heard paper rustle. She was getting ready to write everything down. I was also sure I would be recorded.
The Sables, Leticia, and the Nanny Murder were about to take center stage once again. And not simply because of the TV series. A man had been murdered and a woman was in hiding because of the Sables. It wasn’t yet All Hallows’ Eve, but I suspected the ghost of that dead nanny had come back, demanding the truth be known.
And if Ellen Nagy and I failed to reveal her hidden secrets, maybe a woman with a watery name—and a big public platform—could.
Chapter Nineteen
On the way home, I thought over what Delta said. Not only about the personalities of the Sables, but her claim that their books were ghostwritten. Half the Sable display in the conference center’s vendor room consisted of their bestsellers. If they had been co-authored, maybe the name of their collaborator appeared somewhere in the book. Delta said Felix’s first ghostwriting job was twenty years ago, and that he had concentrated on working for famous people then. One of them might have been a Sable.
Even though I wanted to go home, eat dinner, and play with my animals, I decided to take a peek at the Sables’ early books. Before I could talk myself out of it, I took the next turn and headed for the Lyall Center.
Once I entered the vendor room, I second-guessed my decision. The last time I was here, I’d been caught up in a terrifying rush for the exits. Not enough time had passed for me to forget the fear that swept through the room. Luckily, it was after five thirty and most attendees were at the various celebrity Q&As set up in the early evenings. I hoped some of those celebrities were Sable family members.
I also saw no evidence of mulberries scattered on the carpet. Fingers crossed, a mime wouldn’t pop up either.
I recognized the volunteer who sat at one of the tables in the Sable book section. It was Kim, a young cashier at Lufts’ Grocers. She gave me a brief smile before returning her attention to a Sable instructional book on makeup.
Going over to the first table, I picked up the famous Sable Diet and leafed through the opening pages. The acknowledgments page mentioned various doctors, the publishing house’s editor, and Cameron Sable’s agent. I did the same with the next six titles; none of them included a name on the dedication or acknowledgment pages that didn’t also explain who that person was.
“Looking for something in particular?” a familiar voice asked.
I turned to face Ainsley Sable. “Checking out publication dat
es. I had no idea the Sables had written so many books.”
“It looked like you were more interested in the dedication and acknowledgment pages.”
“I find it interesting to see who authors choose to thank.” That was certainly true.
“No doubt you were hoping to find Felix Bonaventure mentioned.”
“If I had, it would have been rather telling.”
“What would it have told you? That we were too lazy to write our own books?” Those jet dark eyes narrowed at me. “But not too lazy to murder him. Because that’s why you’re rifling through the pages. Trying to find a link between us and that dead man. Well, page through all of them. You won’t find a single mention of his name. Or any ghostwriter. The Sables are quite capable of penning our own books.” She shot me a disdainful smile. “All bestsellers.”
“I am impressed. But it appears you did seek assistance from other professionals.” I held up the book I’d been looking at. “This one mentions a dozen doctors and therapists.”
“What did you expect, given the subject?”
I wished I’d paid attention to the titles of the books. I opened the book once more and flipped through the pages. It allowed me see the title: The Natural Path of Pregnancy . . . and the First Year. The author was Ainsley Sable.
“I’ve heard that after you had your son, you went through postpartum depression.”
“An experience that inspired me to write this.” She tapped the book I held. “That’s what all of us in the family do: help others make better choices to improve their lives. Choices that don’t include harmful chemicals, toxins, and negative thinking.”
“So the Sables are all about positive thinking?” I tried not to sound disbelieving.
“Yes, but it can be a struggle. We write about that, too.” She took a deep breath. “The family has certainly found it difficult to maintain an uplifting attitude this week.”
“I’m not surprised.” I kept my attention on the pages, most of which mentioned coconut oil and babies. I was skimming too fast to figure it all out.
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