by Jane Tesh
“Not that it’s any of your business,” she said, “but I came back to apologize. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t like to argue with Cam. I’m sure we can work things out.”
This was sweet and nice and lasted five seconds.
“But,” she continued, as I knew she would, “if he’d talk with Mrs. Harper and accept a little money, we’d be in much better shape financially.”
“You can discuss that with him. I have work to do.”
She doesn’t like to argue with Camden, but she’s made it her life’s work to argue with me. “What did Mrs. Harper have to discuss with you, anyway?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I don’t see why not. I’ve been involved in all your other screwball cases. Is it a psychic matter? Why didn’t she consult the Service?”
“Forget it. It’s none of your business. If you want to run after Mrs. Harper and hound her, go right ahead. Better yet, tune in on her brainwaves and get the latest scoop.”
Remarking on her lack of psychic ability is the best way to really rile her, and I like to use it as often as possible. Today, it didn’t have full effect, for Ellin was already halfway down the steps to her car and paused only to give me a look that could have easily felled one of our big trees.
I went back into my office to start my search. I have a nifty little phone directory program with directories for every state. If you’re lucky enough to have someone’s driver’s license or social security number, nine times out of ten, you can trace a person using one or both numbers. I’d found countless runaway spouses this way. I’d even found Camden’s mother. I didn’t have those numbers for George Mark Macmillan, but Mrs. Harper had mentioned a large dog. Using the phone book program, I checked the nearest vet to Sable Avenue, George’s last known address, and gave him a call.
“Good morning. Doctor Andrews was recommended to me by George Macmillan. Do I have the right vet?”
Three calls later, and I had George’s vet at the Happy Pet Vet. The receptionist was happy, too, and glad to share a little nonconfidential info. George’s doberman is named Danger. Yes, they’d be glad to see my doberman. The vet was quite fond of big dogs. Yes, she often recommended vets in other states if you were going on vacation.
“I have to be in Florida for a week, and I’m bringing Trixie with me,” I said. “If she got sick, I wouldn’t want to take her to just anyone. Who would you recommend in Clearwater?”
“If you’re going to be in the Clearwater area, then you should call Happy Tails Pet Hospital. I’ll give you the number.”
“Thank you.” I called Happy Tails Pet Hospital and explained my situation to another secretary. “You were recommended to me by George MacMillan.”
“Oh, yes. We board Danger for him when he comes down.”
That sounded as if George made more than one trip to Florida. “We were supposed to meet for a fishing trip, but his cell phone must not be working. You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s staying, would you?”
I heard her speak to another woman. “Do you know where George stays when he comes down?”
The other woman must have answered, because the secretary said, “We think he stays at the Best Western, but we’re not sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Be sure and bring Trixie in to see us if she needs any care.”
“I will, thank you.”
I hung up and checked the Best Westerns in the Clearwater area. There were two near Happy Tails. Neither had a George MacMillan registered, so I tried several more Best Westerns with no luck. Maybe he hadn’t gotten there yet. Maybe the woman at the vet was mistaken. On the Internet I found other hotels in the area, including three that allowed animals. The Paradise Sands didn’t allow large dogs, and the Parrot Lodge was closed for repairs. I tried the third and last hotel, the Green Palms.
The man who answered my call sounded friendly if a bit sleepy. “A big dog’s no problem, sir. You leave a deposit, and if your pet doesn’t do any damage, you get that money back.”
“I have a doberman, but she’s very friendly.”
“No problem. We have a guy who brings his doberman every three weeks or so. Great dog. He calls it Danger, but it’s a real sweetheart.”
Bingo.
“You come on down, bring your dog. No problem at Green Palms. We want people to enjoy their vacations with their pets.”
“No Problem” must be the hotel’s slogan. “That sounds like what I’m looking for,” I said. “I heard about your hotel from a friend of mine, George MacMillan. Is he staying at Green Palms?”
“Hang on a sec.” I heard clicking noises as the man checked his computer. “Oh, yeah, he’s the guy with the doberman. I don’t see anything right now. Try us tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” I wanted to find George and get back to the more serious business of discovering Viola Mitchell’s killer. It looked as if finding George was going to be, in the words of the Green Palms employee, no problem.
Chapter Three
“Wouldn’t it be loverly?”
With George as good as found, I went back to my computer and my search for Viola Mitchell. There wasn’t much to go on regarding her or her case. Most of the facts I already knew, and other than a few photos on the Parkland Little Theater’s website, there was nothing about her on the Internet. Like many from her generation, she didn’t have a Facebook or Twitter account. The secretary at the theater, being new, didn’t know her, but offered that the director and all the actors would be there tonight if I wanted to stop by.
On the Little Theater’s website, captioned pictures of Viola showed her as Aunt Eller in Oklahoma, one of the witches in Macbeth, and Mother Superior in The Sound of Music. A slightly younger Viola was shown as Mama Rose in Gypsy. In all the pictures, Viola looked pretty tough and snarly. Maybe she had made enemies in the theater. People were always competing for the best roles. Could someone seething with jealousy have wanted to play Aunt Eller?
As I’d mentioned to Jordan, Camden and Kary were both involved with the latest production, My Fair Lady. Kary was playing in the orchestra, and the members of the Little Theater had fallen over each other to get Camden to play Freddy. From what I remember of the story, the girl rejects this handsome young rich guy for a crusty old bastard who can’t even sing. Freddy has this one big number, “On the Street Where You Live,” and the theater crowd was delighted when Camden agreed to sing it. So we got to hear it for weeks.
I figured I might have the inside track, and this would be an ideal and fairly safe job for Kary, who’d taken me to task several times about leaving her out of the detecting loop. I’d learned the hard way that I’d better inform her about my cases and give her something useful to do, something that did not involve a trip to the library.
I’d have the chance to ask her. It was four-thirty, time for her to be home. Sure enough, her lime-green Ford Festiva, ironically nicknamed “Turbo” for its amazing lack of power, turned into the driveway and parked beside the Fury. Kary had finished her teaching degree in March and was substituting for another teacher on maternity leave. She swung out of her car and came up the walk, silky blond hair tied back in a ponytail, dressed in a pink tee-shirt and denim skirt. Little stick figures holding hands and the words “Teachers Make a Difference” in primary colors decorated her big canvas tote. If she’d been my teacher, there’d have been no more trips to the principal’s office for me. I’d have been teacher’s pet.
As is my tradition, I had a Diet Coke ready for her. She took a drink, thanked me, and sank down into one of the porch rocking chairs. Camden’s porch swing is white, but the rocking chairs are dark brown wood with slatted backs and seats, well-worn and comfortable. I sat on the railing to face her. “Long day?”
“Rufus would say those second-graders were hopping like peas on a hot griddle, and he would be absolutely right. How was your day?”
I handed her the little bag. “I have a new client who works for BeautiQueen. She left some samples for you.”
“Oh, great makeup, but so expensive.” She took out one tube of lipstick. “‘Perfect Peach.’ I’ll try it.”
She doesn’t need lipstick or eyeliner or any sort of war paint. She is a perfect peach. I watched her profile as she admired the other items, noting the graceful swirl of her ear, the fresh color on her cheek, the sweep of her long blond hair.
Her smile made my pulse jump. “Get to work and solve her case fast. Maybe she’ll leave more stuff.”
“It’s a deal.”
“What did she need you to find? Anything I can do?”
“Her business partner’s run off to Florida, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found him. There’s something much more serious for you to do. Camden helped the police find a missing woman, but unfortunately, she was dead and buried in her basement.”
Kary blinked. “Her own basement? That’s intriguing. Gross, but intriguing.”
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to commit this crime. The hole in the basement floor was exactly her size, and the killer knew she lived alone and never had company. You’ve probably heard of her. Viola Mitchell. She did a lot of plays with the Parkland Little Theater.”
Kary stopped rocking. “She’s playing Henry Higgins’ mother—or I guess I should say she was playing his mother. That’s awful! Do you have any clues?”
“Camden couldn’t get much, except to say she’d been poisoned. Not yet the official cause of death, but you and I know he’s never wrong. Viola was in My Fair Lady? The show you’re rehearsing now?” This crime was suddenly uncomfortably close.
“Yes, I’ve heard all sorts of stories about her. If you needed a cranky old woman for your show, Viola was the one to call.”
“Was she cranky in real life? If she got all the best cranky roles, I’m thinking someone might have a grudge.”
“I can find out. I’ll see who replaces her in the part.”
“Good idea. And can you find out the name and address of her cousin? According to Viola’s neighbor, the cousin is the only family Viola has. I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman, but maybe someone at the theater knows. Maybe the cousin came to one of Viola’s performances.”
“David, this is dreadful news. That poor old woman! Do you suppose she suffocated?”
“Camden said she was dead before the killer buried her. That’s not much consolation.”
“She was such an imposing figure on stage. You could tell she loved being in command. Why would anyone want to kill her? How could she have been a threat?”
“I’m hoping the cousin will hire me to find out.”
“Count on me for this one. Is Cam okay? Where is he?”
“He’s in the park with Fred. He says he’s all right.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him tonight at rehearsal.”
“Thanks. And by the way, will you marry me?”
“Not today.”
We’re caught in a delicate dance of almost more than friends, and at the moment, I’m working hard to keep from stepping on her toes. The fact that she often wears the silver bracelet with little dangly stars I gave her for Christmas gives me hope. I like to think of it as an engagement bracelet. “Okay. But you know I’ll keep asking.”
“Ask away.” She continued as if the subject hadn’t been mentioned. “Just a few more days of end-of-grade tests. I know the kids are worn out.”
“Don’t they get to have a wild party after the tests?”
“Not too wild. Give them a cupcake and a handful of potato chips, and they’re very happy.” She took another drink of cola. “I’ve decided to enter the Miss Parkland Pageant.”
This was news. In the past, Kary entered pageants for scholarship money, but she had grown tired of the drama. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“It looks like all the teaching positions are filled for next year. Unless somebody moves away or retires unexpectedly, I’ll have to take an assistant’s job. Not much money.”
“Cheer up. You could win the pageant. That’s a couple of thousand bucks, isn’t it?”
“You know I really don’t want to do any more pageants, but it’s the only way I can think of to make extra money quickly. I only have six piano students at the moment, and Turbo needs new tires now.”
I would’ve given anything to have enough money to help her out, but everyone’s finances, except Ellin’s, hovered on the edge of ruin.
She set her drink aside. “And I’ve thought of a way to infiltrate Baby Love.”
I tried to keep an interested expression and not say anything I’d regret like, “Hell!” Baby Love was a subsidiary of a larger company called Mothers United that supposedly matched the perfect parents with birth mothers who, for whatever reason, decided not to keep their children. Because of an unfortunate unplanned teenage pregnancy, Kary lost her baby, a little girl she’d named Beth, and was unable to have children.
I understand this grief all too well.
On the second shelf of the bookcase in my office is a DVD of my daughter Lindsey’s dance recital. I’m not sure which is more painful, wanting to watch it or actually watching it. I’ve managed to watch it twice. The image of Lindsey dancing reminds me of her radiant joy, her poise, even at eight years old, her grace. It’s as if I’m in the auditorium, and in the next few minutes, she’ll be running down the aisle, so full of pride, so glad I was there to see her. But then the recording ends.
I had a wonderful dream not long ago, a dream I hang onto when the days are especially tough, so I know she’s forgiven me, but I can’t quite forgive myself for not being able to save her. In that dream, she’s smiling and getting ready to join other children in a beautiful playground, but I still have nightmares about the crash, the flames and rolls of black smoke that kept me from finding her. I’ve never told Kary about my nightmares, and she’s never told me about hers. Our separate griefs over lost children weren’t the elephant in the room. They were a whole herd of elephants, huge, dark, and immovable. Like our relationship dance, we tiptoed around the subject, afraid to make each other collapse, afraid to open old wounds. When Lindsey died, I wanted everyone I loved to die and get it over with. I never wanted to go through that unending sadness again.
Before I could descend into that particular pit of depression, I turned my attention to Kary’s new plan. I couldn’t imagine being a father again, but she was determined to adopt a child, and determined to discredit shady online-adoption sites. Kary suspected Baby Love of scamming hopeful, desperate people and planned to go undercover to expose what she felt were illegal practices. Her first scheme involved Omar the Ring Master, the amateur magician she assisted for a while in March. She wanted him to perform for a Baby Love meeting, and while he had the audience’s attention, she planned to snoop around the house for evidence of wrongdoing. Thankfully, Omar didn’t agree to this. So what sort of idea had she come up with now? I was afraid to ask.
“How about this?” Kary said. “You and I could pose as a couple looking for a child.”
“I like the couple part.”
“It could work. At a meeting, one of us could be the distraction while the other looks for clues.”
“Have you thought about checking up on the company via the Internet?”
“Yes, but you know how I feel about being relegated to the computer. I want to actually do something. I can’t believe that any company would be so heartless! If they’re cheating people out of having children, having the families they’ve always dreamed about, I want them stopped! If they’re yanking people around, ruining—I want—” She had to stop and swallow. Her reaction was so abrupt and raw I looked at her in alarm. She held up a hand as if to keep me and the emotional elephants at bay. After a few moments and a few deep breaths, she was calm. “So, are you in?”
I wanted to say, Kary, please, share this pain with me. I’ve got my emotions locked down, too, but grief has a sneaky way of attacking when you least expect it. Together we can get through this. But she wasn’t ready. All I could do was join in her Baby Love plans and be there if anything went wrong. “Yes, of course.”
She was back in control now as if nothing had happened. “Good, oh, and Charlie wants to talk to you about something. I told him to call.”
Charlie Valentine plays piano for a terrific little jazz band called J.J.’s Hot Six that performs at the Tempo, the only club in town that features traditional jazz. I knew the “something” he wanted to talk about was his girlfriend, Taffy. Their romance was almost as fiery as Camden and Ellin’s. When he didn’t have a gig, Charlie was the accompanist for My Fair Lady, which meant he and Kary spent a lot of time in the orchestra pit together. I would’ve been concerned about this, except I knew Charlie was insanely in love with Taffy. At least, I hoped he still was.
“Are he and Taffy still together?”
“As far as I know. He didn’t go into detail.”
Our housecat, Cindy, had four kittens under the porch. They were now old enough to wobble up the steps and get in the way. The black one lost its nerve halfway up and meowed pitifully for assistance. Kary scooped it in her hands.
“What a fuss!”
“We call that one Ellin.”
She gave me a teacher look. “She wants a home of her own. I understand that. She’ll reconsider living here.”
“We have to live through the wedding first.”
“We got through Rufus and Angie’s, didn’t we?”
“That was different.” Last month, Camden’s other tenants, Rufus and Angie, had gotten married on Rufus’ cousins’ farm in the neighboring small town of Celosia. The weather had been perfect for the outdoor ceremony, and then everyone had gathered round for what Rufus called a “shindig,” which is another word for “hoedown.” In any case, we all partied till the cows came home—literally.