“Sally is the one who’s dead, ain’t she?”
• • •
For a long time she sat in the darkened kitchen, the only hint of light coming from the streetlamp on the other side of the road. All momentary disappointment over Mr. Nelson’s preference for sleep over pie had long since faded against the constant replay of their conversation in her head. Try as she did to poke holes in his theory, she couldn’t. Blackmail was the only thing that made sense. Why else would five able-bodied adults remain in a strange place under false pretenses?
They wouldn’t.
Something brushed against her ankle and she looked down to find two golden eyes trained on hers. She braced for the hiss that was sure to follow, but it never came. Instead, Lovey jumped up onto the bench beside her and slowly lowered her midsection until she resembled a frozen turkey sitting atop a roasting pan.
Not sure what to make of the maneuver, Winnie remained perfectly still, even while her thoughts manifested themselves through her lips. “Let’s suppose Sally had something on these five people—something big, something that could . . . I don’t know . . . maybe ruin their careers. Why would she bring them here to drop that little bomb?”
She thought about that for a moment and then pushed the question aside. “If it had to do with something pertaining to the school, surely there would be more than five people, wouldn’t there? Unless there’s something different about these five? Maybe they have more net worth than other alumni?”
Lovey remained seated, eyes wide.
“Any idea on how we can begin to figure this stuff out?” she asked.
For the first time since Lovey appeared beside her leg, the cat moved her undivided attention off Winnie and fixed it, instead, on the computer monitor in the living room. Winnie, in turn, looked from the cat, to the computer, and back again.
“Okay, Lovey, you’re actually starting to give me the creeps just a little bit.” Then, without really thinking about what she was doing, she leaned forward and gently rubbed the area between the cat’s ears (sans hiss).
Whoa.
Not wanting to tempt fate, she slowly pulled her hand back and gestured toward the computer. “I’m gonna take your advice, Lovey, and see what I can find on this whole mess. You’re welcome to join me on the computer chair if you’d like.”
Lovey stayed put.
Shrugging, Winnie stood, crossed to the computer desk, and pressed Power. While she waited for the machine to boot up, she liberated a pen from the top drawer and took a moment to jot a few potential search ideas.
Read the bios of successful alumni who weren’t at the retreat—what’s different about them?
Plug in Ned Masterson with Sally Dearfield’s name—see if anything comes up. Do the same for the other four.
She tapped the pen to her chin while she reread her notes thus far. Then, after some careful thought, she added one more.
Research the attendance years of each of the five artists in relation to happenings at the school during the same time frame.
A second pass of her notes stirred up no additions and she turned her attention to the computer and her first stop in the research process—the website for the Charlton School of the Arts. This time, when the home page came up, she took a moment to really study what was obviously the school’s signature building in much the same way the Cully Business Building was for Silver Lake College. Shifting her focus to the right, she noted the mature trees that surrounded the building like sentinels. It was a commanding scene if not maybe a little intimidating, as well.
She moved the cursor up to the top of the page and clicked on the Alumni tab. Sure enough, the same page that had been displayed on Bridget’s computer appeared on Winnie’s. A quick downward scroll reacquainted her with the faces she’d seen on her first visit to the page as well as a few more of the faces she’d seen standing around Sally’s dead body three days earlier.
When she reached the bottom of the page, she scrolled back up to the top and clicked on the first alumni picture—a playwright from Missoula, Montana. Forty-year-old Sandra Moffitt boasted an impressive lineup of plays, some of which had been performed on stage in London (for the Queen) and in Rome.
Halfway down the page-long write-up, Winnie’s heart skipped a beat. When asked who, at Charlton School of the Arts, had influenced her career most, Sandra Moffit pointed to none other than Sally Dearfield.
“I was always a shy kid. It’s probably why I became a writer—it gave me a way to express myself in a manner I was comfortable with. But to succeed in this business, you have to deal with people to some extent. Ms. Dearfield helped me find my presence, my confidence. Once I did, there was no turning back.”
“Interesting . . .”
When Winnie reached the bottom of Sandra’s bio, she went back to the alumni page and clicked on the next picture. Forest Whitman, a thirty-five-year-old graffiti artist, had seen his work in the background of several major motion pictures over the past ten years. In fact, according to his bio, he’d won a few major awards for his work.
“Award-winning graffiti,” she said aloud. “Who knew?”
A quiet meow from the kitchen had her laughing as she continued to read. When she reached the part about who, at Charlton, influenced him most, again Sally Dearfield’s name all but jumped off the screen.
“I was a little rough around the edges when I came to Charlton. Sure, I’d gotten a scholarship to attend, but that still didn’t mean I fit with the kids who could afford to attend without help. So there I was, with a big old chip on my shoulder that first week, and Ms. Dearfield pulled me aside and took the time to get to know me. Next thing I knew, that chip was gone and I was making friends. Real friends. Even now, I can look back at the work I was doing before Charlton and the work I’ve done since and see my growth as a person. Ms. Dearfield helped me do that.”
Confused, Winnie scrolled up to the banner across the top of the page and clicked on the tab marked Staff. Although she knew Sally had retired from the school the previous fall, she couldn’t help but hope that maybe the school had fallen behind on updating their site.
They hadn’t.
In the spot assigned to the school’s main secretary, a bright-eyed twenty-something smiled out at her from the confines of a standard faculty member photograph. Sagging against the back of the desk chair, she continued to scroll her way down the page, her attention flitting in and out (mostly in) until—
Bingo!
There, near the bottom, in a section devoted to retired faculty members, Sally Dearfield, in a powder blue blouse with a fancy collar, smiled out at Winnie in much the same way the woman’s replacement had. Only instead of looking like a schoolkid herself, Sally looked like everyone’s favorite aunt. The one who supports and loves her nieces and nephews as if they were her own children.
Sally’s bio, while not as extensive as those of the alumni, talked of the numerous headmasters she served under during her decades-long career at the school. Quotes from past headmasters spoke of her dedication and work ethic, while quotes from faculty members and former students talked about her devotion to the student body. Virtually every student quoted spoke of the difference Sally had made in their life and the wings she’d given to their career.
At the end of the victim’s bio, Winnie scrolled back up to the site’s masthead and hovered her cursor over the Alumni tab. This time, though, instead of clicking on the third picture, she scrolled down to Abby Thompson’s. Yes, she’d read the puppeteer’s bio the other night at Bridget’s, but it couldn’t hurt to read it again, right?
Abby’s bio read much like the playwright’s and the graffiti artist’s. It mentioned the year of her graduating class, her favorite teacher during her time at Charlton, the why behind her original interest in puppetry, and her successes to date in the field. When asked the question about who influenced her most during her days at Charlton, Abb
y simply said herself.
“Hmmmm . . .” Reaching across to her opposite shoulder, Winnie kneaded at the crick she felt forming. “So much for a perfect count. Still two for three isn’t bad, right Lovey?”
She swiveled her chair to the right and stood, the crick in her shoulder now duplicating itself in her legs and back. “Wow. Yet another reason I was destined to bake for a living. Ten minutes”—she leaned forward and took in the digital clock on the stove—“Whoa—really? Thirty minutes? No wonder I’m done.”
Glancing back over her shoulder, she considered shutting the computer down for the night but left it on in case sleep proved elusive for yet another night in a row. Still, she pushed in her chair, neatened the mouse atop the mousepad, and shut off the floor lamp beside the desk. “Okay, Lovey, I’m heading to bed. Enjoy your hammock . . . or the chair . . . or wherever it is you sleep during the night.”
Winnie made her way through the kitchen and into her bedroom even as her thoughts remained on Charlton School of the Arts. From everything she’d read so far, Sally Dearfield was adored by everyone during her time at the school—headmasters, teachers, cafeteria workers, the custodial staff, students, and even groundskeepers. So why would the five former students currently staying at Silver Lake Artists’ Retreat despise her so much?
Sally lured them here under false pretenses . . .
“But why?” Bypassing the switch for the overhead light, Winnie flicked on her bedside lamp and lowered herself to the edge of her bed as Mr. Nelson’s theory took center stage in her mind and on her tongue. “She wanted to blackmail them, that’s why . . .”
The soft patter of Lovey’s feet on the linoleum shifted her focus to the doorway in time to see the cat peek around the corner. “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t even think about trying to hiss me off this bed, Your Highness. This is my bed and I’m not giving it up tonight. No way, nohow.”
Lovey took a tentative step inside the room and then stopped to lick her nether regions.
“Thanks for that image as I’m contemplating sleep,” Winnie groused. Yet even as she flounced back against her pillows in disgust, she knew it didn’t matter what Lovey or anyone else did at that moment. No, the notion of sleep was but a dream once again. Only this time, instead of wondering why Jay wasn’t calling, she kept rewinding back to the car ride with Mr. Nelson, again and again.
There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. The blackmail theory made sense. In fact, it was the only thing that made sense. Well, that and the fact that Sally must have been really angry about something to swap her beloved status for that of a blackmailer . . .
“At least Abby was smart enough not to hold Sally up as her reason for everything, eh, Love—”
Winnie sat up tall.
Nooo . . .
Like her former six-year-old self at news of a fresh bag of flour in the kitchen pantry, Winnie was off the bed and through the bedroom door faster than Lovey could lower her hind leg back to the ground.
Chapter 19
She was just punching in Renee’s number when the voluptuous blonde strolled through the door with an open compact in one hand and a tube of lip gloss in the other.
“I know, I know. I’m late. Again. But I’ve got a better excuse this time.”
Lowering the phone back to the table, Winnie ran a quick visual inventory of her friend and coworker.
Pixie haircut (as pixie-ish and flawless as usual) . . .
Emerald-colored eyes (no sign of the puffiness that coincided with a night spent thinking about Bob) . . .
Cute summer dress (formfitting and cleavage enhancing)—
“Mr. Nelson slipped out the front door and waylaid you out on the street again, didn’t he?” Winnie swung her leg over the wooden bench and stood, her purpose and destination uncertain. “You really need to remind him that when he sees you at eight o’clock, it’s because you’re here for work.”
“And crush his little bow tie–wearing heart?” Renee slacked her arm just enough to allow her purse to slip down to the floor before returning her attention to her reflection in the two-by-two-inch mirror. “That’s your M.O. Winnie, not mine.”
Winnie stopped en route to the window and eyed her friend again. “If you’re referring to what happened on the driveway yesterday morning, I had a delivery to make, as you well know since you were the one texting me that little fact every two seconds.”
Renee smacked her lips together, inspected the result, and then dropped her lip gloss and the compact onto the key table by the door. “See, now I thought you’d let that little poke roll right off your shoulders this morning.”
“So you weren’t being serious?”
“I. Wasn’t. Being. Serious.” Renee wandered over to the refrigerator, peeked inside, and emerged with an apple and a leftover piece of cinnamon cake from Beans. “Shouldn’t you be bouncing off the walls with unrestrained excitement or something instead of being so—so grumpy?”
Winnie continued to the window only to turn around and make her way right back to the table. “I’m not being grumpy. I just didn’t exactly sleep last night.”
“Do you think that was advisable when”—Renee pulled the apple from her mouth and stared at Winnie—“Wait a minute! You were with Greg last night, weren’t you?!?!”
“At the comedy show, yeah.”
Renee chased a droplet of apple spray down her chin with her finger and returned it to her mouth. “Did he like the dress?”
“I don’t know. I guess. Why?”
“D’uhhh.”
“Would you please stop?”
Renee set the cinnamon coffee cake down on the island and then headed back toward the cabinets. “Humor me this one last question first—did you come straight home afterward?”
“Of course I came straight home, Renee. Where else would I go?”
Rolling her eyes, Renee returned to her apple and her daily inspection of any and all potential breakfast offerings. “Gee, I don’t know. Silly me, I guess.”
She ran her hand along the as-of-that-moment empty order pad and tried hard to keep the building yawn at bay lest it take on a domino effect. “I spent most of the night on that”—she pointed at the computer and yawned.
“Did Lovey steal your bed again?” Using her mouth as an apple holder, Renee reached into the cabinet, extracted a glass, and helped herself to orange juice. Then, with the glass in hand, she returned to the island and its view of the Lovey-topped window hammock.
Winnie followed Renee’s gaze to the brown and white tabby blissfully unaware of the conversation unfolding around her sleeping form. “Actually, no. Believe it or not, she seemed to want to be near me last night.”
Renee polished off the apple and tossed the core in the wastebasket. “Is she sick? Do we need to take her to the vet?”
“Gee, Renee, thanks, thanks a lot.”
“Grumpy, grumpy . . .”
With a shove of her hand, she moved the order pad closer to the phone and lowered herself back down to the bench. “I’m not grumpy, Renee. Distracted? Yes. Grumpy? No. At least I’m not trying to be.”
Renee gathered up her cake and her juice glass and joined Winnie at the table. “Look, Winnie, I know you want today to be like something out of one of those old movies. Jay running through a meadow . . . arms outstretched . . . overcome with joy at the very sight of you . . . I get it, I really do. And I want that for you, too. But if it ends up not being that way, maybe you should see that as a sign and back off a little. This stuff with Caroline is his to figure out. And if he’s unwilling or unable to unearth a little basic respect in that kid, then maybe you’re better off knowing that now. Before you invest any more of your heart than you already have.”
Winnie held her hands in the air. “Whoa. Whoa, slow down a minute. We weren’t talking about Jay.”
“Isn’t that why you didn’t sleep? Because you�
�re excited?”
“Excited?” She heard the confusion in her own voice and waited for Renee to explain it away.
“Jay is coming home today, isn’t he?”
Winnie’s hands hit the table just before her forehead. “Oh no. I . . .”
Renee’s ensuing gasp was cut short by her own words. “Are you telling me you forgot?”
“No, I knew when he was coming home, I just . . . um . . . temporarily misplaced the specific details.”
“Which means you forgot.”
Slowly, with the help of her palm, Winnie elevated her head off the table. “I temporarily misplaced the specific details,” she repeated. “Kind of like you do with your start time each morning.”
“Oooh, good one!” Renee took a bite of coffee cake, made a funny face, and then returned it to its to-go container. “Seems to me Beans is in need of an entire dessert menu rescue.”
“It’s not completely awful.” Winnie pointed at the juice glass and, at Renee’s nod, took a quick sip. “It just needs a bit more cinnamon, some sort of streusel, a drizzle of icing, and a bit more milk.”
Renee shoved the container to the side and reclaimed her orange juice glass. “I was late because I was putting goody bags together for Ty’s just-because party tomorrow. I still need to find another little thing or two to put inside, but they’re coming out cute, if I do say so myself.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Winnie snapped her fingers. “I get to pump the mime tomorrow!”
“And you’re going to make some cute desserts, right?”
Uh-oh . . .
“Yeah, yeah, sure. We can decide on those later. After lunch.”
“You forgot the party, too, didn’t you?” Renee accused.
“No. I temporarily misplaced the specific details.”
Renee leaned forward and pointed her finger within centimeters of Winnie’s nose. “Okay, Winnie, spill it.”
Dial M for Mousse Page 15