Lavender Grape Dust Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 32

by Susan Gillard

  A hint of nerves? Heather made a mental note of it for later dissection.

  “To talk to you about one of your clients. Mr. Thaddeus Turlington.”

  “Ah,” Herman said. “I’m afraid the information I share with client, even those who are deceased, is strictly confidential.”

  “She mentioned she’s working with the police, right?” Amy leaned forward and tapped out a rhythm on the desk with the tips of her fingers. “Or do we need a warrant?”

  Herman paled at the mention of the word ‘warrant.’ “No, that won’t be necessary. I – uh, I suppose it would be better for me to cooperate with the police, given the situation.”

  “It’s a murder investigation,” Heather said, drily. “Your lack of cooperation would be tantamount to standing in the path of justice.”

  “That’s a crime, right?” Amy asked, and met Heather’s gaze. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s a crime. But I’m not an authority on the matter.”

  Amy’s feigned lack of knowledge did the trick.

  “Thaddeus Turlington,” Schulz said. He hopped off his massive chair, and it swiveled at the sudden change in weight. He walked to a set of dark, wood filing cabinets in the corner and opened the top drawer.

  He rifled through the files, brought out a thick, blue folder, then shuffled back to his seat.

  Herman tossed the folder onto his desk pad. “This is Thaddeus’ file. I keep a file of all the work I do for my clients.” He heaved himself into the chair and made tiny squeaking noises from the effort.

  “You don’t use a computer?” Amy asked, and glanced around the tech free room.

  Bookshelves lined the wall behind Herman’s desk, the spines of thick books on law and what looked like a few on philosophy organized in precise rows.

  Heather grimaced at the thought of all the smoke those books must’ve absorbed during their time in the office.

  “No, I find them compromising. You send an email, you don’t know who else reads it, you know. With the hard copy, you call the client into the office and bingo bongo, you know that only they see the file.” Herman Schulz raised his index finger and waggled it from side to side. “Confidentiality, very important in my business. The most important.”

  “Are you offering up this file?” Heather asked – she highly doubted that Mr. Confidentiality would do that.

  “Oh, no, no,” Herman said, and flipped it open. “I offer you a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Thaddeus Turlington. You will need it after I tell you this next part.”

  Amy tensed up, gaze all but chained to the enigmatic man in his chair.

  “The next part?” Heather asked, and grasped the arms of her leather chair.

  “Ja,” Herman Schulz said, and bobbed his head. “You are aware, I am sure, that the Kevin and Janie Turlington are in Hillside, and have been for two weeks?”

  “Two weeks? I thought it was only one,” Amy said, and glanced between the lawyer and Heather.

  “No, two,” Herman said and held up the equivalent number of fingers. “You see, this Janie, she came to me two weeks ago and begged me to speak to Thaddeus. Begged, ha, the wrong word for it. She insisted. She bullied.”

  “What did she want you to speak to him about?” Heather asked, and her heart skipped a beat. She leaned forward to get the scoop. Amy did the same. Their leather chairs squeaked beneath them.

  “She wanted me to convince Thaddeus to change his will so that it favored her instead of her brother,” Herman replied.

  Heather’s gaze flew to the document, face up on the table. Kevin Turlington’s name stared back at her. “But you didn’t.”

  “Of course not. I do what my client wishes, not what bratty movie stars command,” Herman said, and sniffed at the ‘movie stars’ part.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Schulz,” Heather said. She rose from the seat and swept up the document. “You have been most helpful.”

  “This is what I do,” Herman replied, and spread his arms. “Have a wonderful day, Mrs. Shepherd. And you there –”

  “Amy.” She thumbed herself in the chest. “Amy Givens.”

  “I’ll never remember that,” Herman muttered. His phone rang on his desk, and he snatched it up. “Hello? Yes, Mr. Dukakis. Yes. I told you, tomorrow is the meeting. Not today. No.”

  Heather patted her bestie on the shoulder and pointed to the door. They had another suspect to interview.

  A spectacularly famous one.

  Chapter 7

  Amy puffed out her lips and exhaled, then shifted in the orange egg chair in the lobby of the Hillside by the Wayside Motel.

  “This décor never gets old,” Heather said, and placed a Styrofoam cup under the spout of the chrome finished coffee machine.

  The receptionist paged through a magazine behind the desk and ignored them. He’d been friendly as could be when they’d first entered, and during the short call to Janie Turlington’s room, but after that, the attitude had faded.

  Heather offered Amy a cup of coffee, but her bestie shook her head once, her lips drawn into a tight, thin line.

  “Nervous?” Heather asked.

  “Uh, yeah!” Amy said, in her best imitation of a high school cheerleader. “It’s Janie Turlington, Heather. She’s a celebrity.”

  “Last I checked, celebrities were people. You know, they eat, drink water, drive cars –”

  “Oh please,” Amy said, and flapped her hands at Heather. “You and I both know her assistant feeds her grapes. She probably has champagne filtered into her mouth by angels.”

  High heels clacked on the parquet flooring down the hall, and Amy rammed her mouth shut.

  “She’s coming,” Heather said, and took a sip of her coffee. She refused to let the fabulous Miss Turlington intimidate her. The minute she did, she’d lose sight of the ultimate goal, and that was to solve the murder of Thaddeus Turlington.

  Amy gripped the rounded edges of the orange chair and pinched.

  Janie Turlington strode around the corner and into the lobby draped in a long black dress. The sleeves flowed around her arms, and the narrow line of a silk scarf bisected her long neck.

  Heather’s heart pounded in her chest, in spite of her mental determination not to be overawed by one of Hollywood’s hottest celebrities.

  Janie Turlington halted just short of them. Amy leaped to her feet and her boots clattered on parquet.

  “You’re with the police,” Janie said and leveled Heather with a steely-eyed gaze. Those ice blue orbs bored into Heather’s mind.

  “That’s correct,” Heather replied. “You’re Miss Turlington?”

  Amy snorted as if it was the dumbest question in the world.

  Janie glanced at her and Amy shrank back a step, her cheeks reddening.

  “That’s correct,” the actress said, and shifted her gaze to Heather again, her chin held high. She didn’t utter another word, and an awkward silence surrounded them, broken only by the flick of the receptionist’s magazine.

  He, at least, had acclimated to the celebrity’s presence.

  “I’m Heather Shepherd,” she said, and extended her hand. Not that the woman had asked. Rude.

  Another flush of determination ran through Heather, driven by indignation.

  Rudeness was inexcusable, no matter who it came from.

  Janie Turlington examined Heather’s hand as if it was an ancient artifact in a museum. Finally, she grasped it in her gloved fingertips and squeezed, once.

  “I’m a consultant with the Hillside Police Department, and this is my assistant, Amy Givens.”

  Amy gave Janie a thumbs up and her hand trembled like Jell-O.

  Janie ignored her. “And? I assume you’ve come to talk to me about my father.”

  “That’s correct, Miss Turlington,” Heather said, and her voice didn’t shake at all. “Would you like to take a seat?” She swept her hand toward the egg chair.

  Amy hopped out of Janie’s path and pressed her back to the wall instead. Her puffy blue coat gave
a pneumatic wheeze. Perhaps, that was the woman, herself.

  The movie star deigned to seat herself on the edge of the chair, and crossed her ankles.

  Heather sat down with nowhere near as much grace. She rummaged around in her tote bag beside the chair, then brought out her tablet.

  Turlington’s gaze burned a hole in the top of her head.

  “Miss Turlington,” Heather said, and typed the woman’s name at the top of the screen. “Let’s jump right in. Where were you on the night of your father’s murder?”

  “Here,” she said. “Check the surveillance cameras. Ugh, is this what you came to talk about? I already spoke with that officer and gave him my alibi.” The actress checked her manicure and wiggled her foot up and down.

  Heather glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room. One camera. One. That wasn’t enough to confirm whether Janie had been where she’d said on the night of her father’s murder.

  Heather reduce the celebrity in her mind. Minimized her to yet another suspect in a murder case, instead of a spoiled celebrity with luxurious long blond hair.

  “It’s come to our attention that you’re disputing your father’s will,” Heather said and tapped more info onto her screen. “Is that true?”

  “Yeah,” Janie said, and tossed her head. “So?”

  “So, we’ve been informed that you wanted your father to change his will prior to his death. Is that correct?”

  Turlington’s jaw dropped. She stared at Heather, then snapped it up again. “I – uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A Mr. Herman Schulz informed us of your intention to have your father’s will changed,” Heather said. “What kind of relationship did you have with your father?”

  “A strained one,” Janie growled. She shifted her weight and planted both heels on the ground. She grasped the silk scarf and tugged on its end. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I’m afraid anything to do with the mysterious circumstance surrounding Mr. Turlington’s death is my business,” Heather replied. She typed ‘blonde hair’ under Janie’s name.

  The DNA results hadn’t come back from the lab yet, but Janie’s hair color matched the strand Heather had found on the bed in color, if not length.

  “When did you last meet with your father?”

  “Christmas Eve,” Janie replied. “We met to wish him a Merry Christmas. He saw me for two seconds but kicked me out the minute Kevin arrived.”

  “That must’ve been hard for you,” Amy said, in a small voice.

  “Not at all. My father has always favored my brother,” Janie replied, and shot Amy a venomous look. “I don’t need your pity, or anyone else’s.”

  Heather clicked her tongue and Janie Turlington snapped her gaze around.

  “Did you see anything suspicious at Hillside Manor?” Heather asked.

  “No,” Janie replied.

  “And you left before your brother? Is that correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  One word answers – perfect for a murder investigation. Heather sighed and typed on the touchscreen.

  “And your brother –”

  “Enough,” Janie snapped, and rose from her seat. She towered over Heather and swept her scarf over her shoulder. “Enough of these pointless questions. If you need any more information, you can speak to my lawyer.”

  And with that, Miss Janie Turlington, A-list celebrity, turned on her heel and stormed off from whence she’d come.

  Amy exhaled through her teeth and a whistle popped out instead. She stared up at her best friend. “Well? What did you think?”

  “Suspicious,” Heather replied. “And thoroughly underwhelming.” She locked the screen of her tablet and slid it back into her tote bag.

  “Where to next?” Amy asked.

  Heather produced a slip of paper from her bag and handed it to her bestie. “It’s a residential call, this time. Miss Vera Bain.”

  Chapter 8

  Heather grasped the end of Cupcake’s leash and set the pace down the street. The flattened heels of her boots smacked onto the concrete.

  “We just had to fetch the cat, didn’t we?” Amy asked, and jogged along beside Heather, Dave at her side. She worked up a sweat in her puffy blue coat, in spite of the icy chill which sent shivers down Heather’s spine.

  “For both of them,” Heather said. “We’re walking there anyway, so why not take them out for a stroll?”

  “Because it’s weird to walk a cat,” Amy grumbled.

  “You’re lucky Lilly’s not here,” Heather replied. “She’d be highly offended by that. And you’re not Cupcake’s favorite right now, either.”

  Lils had opted to spend the day at Eva’s house – apparently, the two of them had something big planned for New Year’s Eve, and the planning had them in a frenzy of excitement.

  Amy stared at the cute white tail which swished back and forth just ahead of them.

  Cupcake and Amy had bad blood between them. For some reason, the kitten had taken Ames’ insinuation that cats shouldn’t go on walks to heart. She climbed Amy like a tree whenever she got the chance, just to show who was the boss.

  “Where does this aide live, anyway?”

  “Just around the corner,” Heather said, and pointed at the sign which sat at the cross-section.

  The houses which lined the street peered out between gnarled trees and broken fences. Hillside’s lower class area, though that phrasing balled up in the center of Heather’s mind and sat there like a solid lump of metal.

  It wasn’t a fair observation.

  A full grown cat streaked out from behind a trash can, and the lid toppled off and clanged to the sidewalk.

  Heather bent and swept Cupcake into her arms, for safety’s sake.

  “Super fun walk, Heather,” Ames said, and gave her a thumbs up. “Best day ever.”

  “You’re just upset because Janie Turlington ended up less glamorous and more blah,” Heather said. She reached over and play-punched her best friend on her puffy arm. “I’m sorry about that by the way. I know that must’ve been disappointing.”

  Ames shrugged. “It’s not like I’m her biggest fan. She’s just a woman, like you or me.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Heather replied, then turned the corner. “Ah, there it is!”

  The blocky house sat across the street, guarded by a low picket fence and an empty yard of brown grass. Hedges ran along one wall, but their withered branches didn’t provide much shelter for the dry ground below.

  Two windows glared out on either side of the single, white door.

  Amy shuddered and tightened her grip on Dave’s leash. “Nice place,” she said.

  “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not bad,” Amy said. “It’s just creepy.”

  Heather led the way to the gate. She pressed it open with two fingers, and the latch clicked, the hinges creaked.

  “See what I mean?”

  Heather focused on the darkened windows and the drawn curtains within. “I wonder if she’s even here.”

  “Maybe she’s asleep. They did say she was sick, right?”

  Heather spared her bestie a nod, then hurried up the short, dirt path to the front door. No porch or stairs, just the dusty earth beneath their feet.

  Afternoon had just set in, and the noon sun played a game of Hide and Seek behind the clouds.

  Heather stroked the top of Cupcake’s head. The kitty purred in response.

  “Oh, you’ll purr for her,” Amy grumbled.

  Heather knocked on the front door, and hollow sound traveled behind it. Footsteps clattered toward them, and Amy took a single step backward.

  “That was quick.”

  Latches clicked, and the door creaked open. A young woman appeared in the gap. Her short blonde hair hung in curls past her ears, and the tip of her red nose shone beneath sharp, green eyes.

  “May I help you?” She asked, in a husky voice.

  Shoot, she really was il
l.

  “Are you Vera Bain?” Heather asked, and stroked Cupcake again, but more to comfort herself than the cat.

  “Yeah,” Vera said, and grasped the front of her worn, white robe. “What do you want?”

  “Vera, I’m Heather Shepherd. I’m working in conjunction with the Hillside Police Department to investigate the murder of Thaddeus Turlington. I believe you knew him well.”

  Vera sniffed and rubbed the end of that red nose. “Yes. He was one of my charges at Hillside Manor.”

  Heather narrowed her eyes at Vera’s palm. In her bid to scratch her nose, the woman had flashed a cut, thin, dark and horizontal along the base of her palm.

  “What happened?” Heather asked. Could it be from a break-in attempt?

  Vera glanced at her hand. “Accident in the kitchen. One of those slicing things you use on potatoes? I can’t remember what it’s called.”

  “A knife?” Amy asked, and her lips twitched at the corners.

  “No, no, those flat plastic things with the blade inlays. Never mind. Look, I’ve been off sick from work for a while, so I don’t have much to tell.”

  “You were here on the night of Thaddeus’ murder?” Heather asked.

  “Yeah,” Vera said and stifled a yawn.

  “And you don’t know of anyone who’d want to hurt him?”

  Vera finished her yawn, then dropped her hand to her side. “Are you kidding?” She ruffled her short blond hair. “Everyone despised the guy. He thought he was a gift to every human being who strolled into Hillside Manor.”

  “I heard he was friends with Elvis,” Amy said.

  “Maybe, back when he was an acceptable human being,” Vera said. “But I doubt the King would’ve befriended the bitter, old man I knew.” She glanced over her shoulder and into the stark hall behind her. “I’ve got a pot of coffee waiting.”

  “Right,” Heather said. “We’ll leave you to rest.” But she didn’t want to leave Vera to rest. She wanted to push for more information.

  This was the only person who’d seen Turlington every day for years. She’d known the man intimately.

  “Did Thaddeus do anything which might’ve endangered himself?”