by Alexie Aaron
I grabbed Harry’s hand to stop him from talking. I wanted to hear and have Harry listen to what the sergeant had to say.
He continued, “You are a private citizen with no license for investigation and really no business even being in this facility unless we are questioning you or processing you, as you indeed are a suspect in the murder of your band mates.”
“Come on,” Harry piped in despite the iron hold I had on his hand. “She’s smart. She solved a half-century old murder with her brain.”
“Whoa, I’m not saying she’s not capable. I’m saying she isn’t allowed.”
I didn’t like being talked about as if I wasn’t in the room. It lessens me. I was about to speak, but Dave turned to me and said, “You’ve got blood on your hands, paperwork that says you are a person of interest. I suggest you lie low.”
“Maybe I should visit Alex?”
“No, you can’t leave town. You are a ‘person of interest’ in an active crime investigation,” Dave said firmly.
“So what do you want me to do? Sit around and watch my friends get picked off one by one?”
“I can’t tell you anymore than to advise you to keep your alibi,” he motioned to Harry, “close at hand. But be assured, Ms. Fin-Lathen, I will inform Tony of your wishes. Now, how about you letting me give you a ride home.”
“I call front seat!” Harry gave me a so there look.
“Fine, but there is only a front seat in my Toyota 4x4.” Detective Dave looked at me. “Did he think I was going to make him ride in the back?”
“I think Harry was hoping for a police car. But, on second thought, it might not be a bad idea if Harry rode in back.”
“Hey, I heard that! Can I drive?”
Dave looked at me. I shook my head warning him. “Sure, why not.”
“Big mistake, big mistake,” I mumbled.
“If he makes any mistakes, Ms. Fin-Lathen, I will just arrest him.” Sergeant Dave tossed Harry the keys as we walked out of the building. “Ms. Fin-Lathen, a thought occurred to me. What if this is all a musical composition? An opera?”
“I hope not, because most operas end in tragedy. And if it’s the killer’s opus, then I better dig out my theory books because I am in no way ready for this concert.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rolling over, sunlight stabbed me from the space between the vertical drapes. What day was it anyway? Was it only Wednesday? I grabbed my pillow and hugged it. I wondered whether or not you got a pillow in jail. I gasped remembering the DayGlo orange jumpsuits. My hair would look atrocious next to the lockup’s color of choice.
As I thought about being locked up, I glanced over at the alarm panel on the bedroom wall. The light was out indicating that Harry had left the house. I must have slept right through the series of beeps disarming it this morning. Looking at the clock I was shocked to see it was ten fifteen.
Sniffing the air I could smell what had once been coffee. “Ah, coffee, the bringer of life.” I wondered where I’d heard that before. Donning my robe, I walked out of my room. I followed my nose, and there was three quarters of a pot still warm on the burner. I poured myself a cup and went in search of Harry. I received a small adrenaline burst when I found my keys missing. I ran down the hall and threw open the door to the garage. The garage was empty, but the driveway contained Harry and a giant soap bubble that was once my car.
Harry turned around, sensing my presence. “Thought we would want her looking her best when we go out interviewing today.” He gave me the plastic smile that my son Alex and his friends used to get their way around me.
“Excuse me, but my mind is still in a fog. What interviews?” I asked, pulling a lawn chair off its storage hanger and handily flipping in open. Sitting down, I marveled how I didn’t even spill a drop of coffee.
“Brian first. We’re meeting him for lunch, and Billy Sands is showing us around the gardens, gratis.” Harry turned around and proceeded to rinse the roadster.
I raised my voice to be heard over the water, “And who made us these appointments?”
“Raoul, your gay, Hispanic social secretary.” Harry grabbed the car towel. “Midster Saunds, Misses Fin-Laaaathaaan would like to know if you be interested in being interviewed for Paaaaalm and Garrrrden.”
“That is a very bad accent. Raoul must be a poser. So why did I ask Raoul to make these appointments?” I asked, playing along.
“Because Tony isn’t going to call them in. He’s already ruled them out.”
“I thought you were sticking to your Manfred and Tobias theory?”
“I didn’t want to get tunnel-visioned.”
“Ouch, my own words turned on me. How does Palm and Garden feel about this? You know one of them is going to check us out.”
“Actually, as of nine this morning, you have been contracted as a freelance writer to do these articles, at scale, of course.”
“Of course. How?”
“My accent isn’t that bad,” Harry finished drying the car and was rummaging around the garage for the back window glaze.
“Top shelf,” I said, not turning around. “So by sleeping in I have let myself be transformed into a freelance writer, and who, my love, are you?”
“Harry, your student intern. I...”
“Don’t tell me you have already arranged this with the college?”
“English department. They’ll be sending you the proper forms.”
I sat back, drank my coffee, thinking. He actually did a great job. Brian and Billy know that I don’t have a regular job. Why not be a writer? The social secretary is a bit much, but someone who can afford a BMW roadster to tool around in may be able to afford a social secretary with a bad Hispanic accent, gay or not. Harry took into account that one or both of these gentlemen would have seen him at the college theater so he covered his tracks there. The only problem was that I was going have to write two articles for the snob gardener’s magazine of choice.
“Harry, what are the subjects of these articles?”
“Botanicals from the Ground Up and Growing Your Own Healing Herbs,” Harry finished the window and stood back. “How’s it look?”
“Fabulous, so when is the first appointment?” I asked, getting up and smoothing out the legs of my pajamas.
“One at the Queen Palm and four at the Botanical Gardens.” Harry put away the cleaning equipment and my lawn chair. Then he herded me into the house. “Take a shower because we have to get to Citiplace soon.”
“Why?”
“Shopping. You have nothing to wear, and I have to transform myself into an English department intern.” Harry tapped his watch. “Time’s a wasting.”
~
I was garbed in a white linen suit, open jacket to show off the orange halter-top which Harry had insisted on. He said it was peach. It was orange, although not lockup DayGlo orange, and my breasts were making their post-divorce debut. “Guys like breasts. It will distract them.” Harry smiled. My feet were made beautiful in Kenneth Cole stilettos with a matching purse, of course. The saleswoman suggested a matching orange scarf and wound it through my red curls to hold my hair off of my new face, courtesy of Macy’s cosmetic department.
Harry chose the not-so-poor student clothes of Dockers and a short sleeve button down Nautica shirt. Round faux glasses gave him an air of intelligence, and his curls were moussed and sprung into place. Armed with Alex’s voice recorder and leather-bound notebook, Harry took on his character with a chameleon’s grace.
“Why the Queen Palm?” I asked as I leaned back in the seat. I was a passenger in my own car. I had a feeling that I would never get to feel the gas pedal under my foot while Harry was around again.
“Valet parking. I thought Brian should see us arrive.”
“Harry, I hate to break it to you, but Brian or his wife knows all about my financial health. I did a favor for his wife in England for which she ended up paying me after I returned. And I didn’t turn her down.” I remembered, with shaking hands, handing over th
e Kernow Daa necklace to Dorothy. I felt the magic leave my hands as I draped it over her head and watched it adorn her collarbone with pagan light. She had been overjoyed and kept pushing a wad of hundred dollar bills into my hand.
“As you know, wives and husbands don’t always communication every detail to each other. Let’s just try to keep up the charade, shall we?”
“Sure,” I said, holding in a giggle. “Harry darling, you sound a bit like Cary Grant. You may want to center in on a character and stay with it. Otherwise you’re going to resemble a mental patient instead of an intern.”
He looked over at me and seemed to take in what I was saying. We crossed the Intercostal Waterway and into the right turn lane. He pulled into the lot and up to the front door where a young valet opened my door, and I stepped out, being cautious of the heels Harry had put me in. My new white pumps were in the trunk for the Botanical tour. Harry came around to my side and escorted me inside where we found Brian Harrison waiting for us in the bar.
Trumpet players, no matter what age, are probably the handsomest lot in the band. They lead with their egos, and Brian was no exception. Standing five foot ten or eleven, he sported the graying hair of a forty-year-old but the face of a man in his twenties. Lean and muscular, his eyes were dark, and his face hadn’t recently seen a razor. Alex would tell me that this was style, and, in Brian’s case, he owned the style. His clothes were classic Palm Beach: open-necked polo shirt and light pants pooling over his soft Italian leather shoes.
“Brian, it’s great to see you away from band.” I gave him a Palm Beach hug. “Thank you for doing this on such short notice. You have absolutely saved my neck! This is Harry. He’ll be sitting in with us today. Harry, Brian Harrison.”
“Nice to meet you.” Harry reached out and shook Brian’s hand. Brian squeezed Harry’s hand hard but Harry barely flinched.
“I admit to being very surprised by your secretary’s phone call. All this time I thought you were a housewife, and, low and behold, you’re a writer.” He scanned my ensemble. “And a successful one at that.”
“My ex was the successful one. The alimony was generous. I just dabble. Harry, go and see if they have our table ready?” I said, living the part.
Harry left, and I eased myself onto the stool next to Brian. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”
“No, not really. I took advantage of your hospitality and ordered a drink.” He picked up a frosty mug of draft beer. “Would you like one?”
“I think I’ll wait for lunch. How is Dorothy?”
“Dorothy’s fine. A bit envious that I am eating out today.” Brian grinned.
“Well, I’ll have to invite the two of you over when I get sorted. I’m still trying to find a good decorator that will work on a pittance.”
“She’d like that. She has a hard time meeting people. Oh, I nearly forgot. She cut this out of the paper for you.” He handed me a half-page photo of the oleander covering my lawn. Caption under the picture: Homeowner Baffled by Tribute.
“This come out today?” I gave the photo my attention. “A lot of work for some prank,” I said, dismissing the incident.
“I hope you didn’t come in much contact with the flowers or stems.”
“Why?”
“That looks like oleander, and the sap could kill you.”
“Now how would you know about that?” I fished.
“Flowers, like herbs, have many medicinal uses, but some are very poisonous.”
“That’s right, you’re my expert. I hope you don’t mind, but Bernice mentioned your profession, and I thought that it was so timely and would make an excellent article.”
“It’s more of a hobby than a profession, Cindy. Dorothy’s money keeps the house so I can spend time in the garden.”
“I guess we are two very pampered concubines.” I gave him a measured look. “I see Harry waving us over. Bring your beer and let’s order lunch. I have many questions to ask you.” I slid off the stool. Brian tucked my hand in his arm, and we followed Harry and the hostess to our table.
~
I had to give Harry a lot of credit. He didn’t say a word beyond ordering his meal. He kept the tape recorder on and took what looked like very good notes. I went over the standard reel of questions: Where are you from? How did you become interested in herbal remedies? Do you personally use them? and Do you prescribe them to anyone on a professional basis? Brian responded warmly and quickly. His eyes went from his food to my breasts to his food to my breasts and once or twice during the interview he even looked me in the eyes. He came from Ohio, where he went to Ohio State and performed in their famous Buckeye Marching Band. I teased him about what part of the famous “Ohio” written in script using the marching band was he. “Oh, definitely the ‘hi.’”
Brian had been a music major but dropped out after getting a paying gig on a cruise ship. He floated around the Mediterranean, taking advantage of the hospitality of rich, lonely women. He even was married briefly to an aging Broadway actress that he absolutely refused to name. Brian continued to play professionally until Dorothy walked into his life. It was during one of his cruises to Central America that he became aware of the power of herbs and ancient remedies. He brought many seeds back with him, careful to smuggle them past customs. This admission was of course off the record. No, he didn’t prescribe treatments but knew enough to recommend a possible alternate remedy to his friends.
He gave me addresses and phone numbers of several experts in the south Florida area. All in all, he was quite informative. Charming, and I think if Harry weren’t there he would have hit on me. Or on my breasts. I had started to think of them as a separate entity. Brian’s hand had an interesting ring on it. When I commented on it, he dismissed it as a club he was in, Celtic Iron. I had seen that coven symbol before in a new age article about local area groups but allowed him to think I was ignorant.
We were lingering over coffee when I brought up the band. “Wasn’t it horrible about Carl?” I watched his face and was disappointed by the concern.
“Carl certainly was a pistol. Shame, I understand his funeral is tomorrow. Dorothy read it in the obits.” Dorothy seemed glued to the paper.
“I didn’t know that. I’ve been trying to put the last few days out of my mind. Cheryl’s death shook me up pretty badly. It’s not that I even liked her, but she suffered a great deal before she died.”
“Oh, I thought it was food poisoning. Botulism in Florida is all too common. But you don’t hear of too many deaths.” Brian reached over and took my hand. “Don’t worry about the bad feelings you had about Cheryl. She was a first class bitch who probably got what was coming to her.” He squeezed my hand and excused himself to the restroom. I signaled for the check.
Harry waited until he was well out of hearing. “Do you want me to get you two a room?” he hissed.
He would have said more but the waitress brought the check, and I dropped some bills on it. She thanked me for the generous tip and left.
“It’s your fault. I told you the halter was too much. Anyway, smile, here he comes.” I got up, and the three of us walked out of the restaurant. Brian tossed the valet his number, and he said his goodbyes as his black Mercedes was pulled up. Harry took care to tip the valet for both our cars and stood there quietly until Brian drove off.
“Jerk.”
“Hey, look at it this way. You got to meet an occultist. Though I would say gigolo would be more his profession. The occult would be a hobby,” I said, mocking Brian.
Harry listed, “He was in Central America. He smuggled in seeds. He had no love for Cheryl. I’d say he had the means, but the motive?”
“I know, the motive. He doesn’t seem too concerned about the band. He didn’t even speculate whether or not we would be ready for the next concert. Or he could be playing his cards close to his chest.”
“How’d he know that was your house? Just the picture appeared in the paper, and there was no mention of who owned the house.”
My car arrived, and Harry popped the trunk and threw me my pumps and waited for the heels. I leaned on the car, slipped off the heels and put on the more sensible shoes. “One down, one to go,” I said, getting into the car.
Harry started the engine, and we flew down the coast to our next appointment.
Chapter Fifteen
We were too early for our appointment with Billy Sands, so Harry pulled into a small park overlooking the Palm Beach airport runways. He put the top down, and we took advantage of the afternoon breeze and sun. I took off the linen jacket and let my skin breathe.
“Feel better?” Harry asked as he ran his fingers through his hair to loosen the hold the mousse had on his curls. “I’m glad that’s over with. How can people do the lunch thing? Polite conversation, innuendos flying faster than that jet. Whoa, did you see that take off and turn?”
“Yes, nice plane.” It was hard to feign an interest in planes. Being married to Luke had brought me exposure to the best aircraft out there. But his desertion of his family for a rich broad he met whilst corporate-piloting left a bad taste in my mouth. It killed any enthusiasm I would have for watching jets take off and land. I reached down and grabbed the notebook. “Mind if I read some of your notes?”
Harry had it in his hands before I had his answer. “No! Wait till we have Billy’s interview. Man. So how are we going to play this one?”
“I thought you had everything worked out.” I looked over at him.
He looked over at me. “You need more lipstick.”
I leaned over and looked in the rear view mirror. “Damn, I hate makeup.”
“I thought your generation grew up on fashion mags?”
“Not everyone crawled out of a shallow pond.” I opened my purse and tried to figure out which cylinder contained the lipstick. “I was red-haired and freckled. Makeup just seemed to look like graffiti on me. This doesn’t look bad, but I can’t seem to find, oh, there it is!” I held up the tube with jubilation.