Grateful for the exterior walls and the side yard that separated them, Winnie dropped her head onto the table and tried not to sigh directly into the phone. “Mr. Nelson had another magic lesson at the retreat center this afternoon and I was his ride home.”
All moans of pain ceased. “No meal was involved?”
“No meal was involved.”
“You came straight home?”
She considered mentioning the pair of curbside chats along the way, but decided it was best to keep those to herself. “Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Is there something I can do to help you with your back?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t you know, the pain has subsided, dear. But I’ll let you know if that changes. Anyway, after I listened to your message confirming the whole blackmail thing, I decided to do a little digging of my own.”
“On the computer?”
“Partly. That gave me the questions to ask when she was sitting across from me at my desk.”
Winnie lifted her head. “You had her in your office? How?”
“Under the guise of an article about her puppetry, of course.”
Of course . . .
“I noticed, during the prep work I did before her arrival, that much of the attention she’s garnered was born on the exquisite detail of her puppets—puppets she claims to have designed herself—and the vibrant stories they tell. Yet when I had her here and started asking specifics about her process, it became clear to me she was full of hooey.”
“I don’t understand.”
“During the fall semester of Abby’s last year at Charlton, she studied abroad. In Salzburg. While she was there, she ventured off one weekend to a small, economically challenged outlying town. There, she met a man named Mohsen Bietak, a grocer who reminded her of her grandfather. The two struck up a friendship during the months Abby was in Salzburg and she came to learn of his penchant for woodworking. When she told him of her dream to be a puppeteer, he surprised her with a marionette he’d made. Better yet, he used that marionette to tell her the kind of stories that stick with a person . . . the same exact stories that have put her on the marionette map in this country.”
“Surely she’s given him credit all this time, yes?”
“Mohsen Bietak’s name has never come up in even one of Abby’s interviews . . . until now. And only because I figured it out myself.”
Winnie shivered despite the July temperatures that warmed her apartment to almost saunalike status. “Tell me you didn’t confront her, Bridget . . .”
“I can’t, dear.”
“Can’t confront her or can’t tell me you didn’t?”
“I’m a newswoman. Of course I confronted her.”
“Alone?” she snapped.
“It’s a Saturday, dear. The paper only runs on a skeleton crew.”
“So someone else was there . . .”
“In the bowels of the building, perhaps.” Bridget yawned in Winnie’s ear and then followed it up with a dramatic stretch. “But danger is part of the job.”
Winnie tapped her fist on the table’s edge in frustration and stood, her destination as much about peace of mind as anything else. When she reached the window that afforded a view of her neighbor’s parlor, she willed the light shining through the partially drawn curtains and the voice in her ear to ease the sudden knot in her chest. “Did she get angry when you confronted her?”
“No, she cried like a little girl who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.”
She cried . . .
“I take it this will destroy her career?”
“Destroy? Probably not. She could have the greatest stories in the world at her disposal and still make them fall flat if her puppetry skills weren’t good. But they are. And she needs to see that as enough.”
“Doesn’t sound like a motive to kill someone,” she mused.
“I agree, dear. But someone had one.”
Winnie took one last look at Bridget’s house and then wandered back across the kitchen toward Lovey’s empty food dish. “Does she have any idea what Sally was holding over the poet or the comedian?”
“No. But she’s willing to help so she can go home.”
She continued over to the floor vent and listened. No snoring.
“Winnie?”
“I’m still here.” She listened one more time and then headed for the front door. “She could just tell the cops herself. Unleash them on the whole blackmail angle . . .”
“She doesn’t want her secret getting out before she can tell her parents, face-to-face.”
“Ahhh, and she can’t tell them face-to-face until the killer is found and the rest of them are cleared to leave Silver Lake.” With one hand on the phone and the other on the railing, Winnie descended the stairs and stopped outside Mr. Nelson’s door. “Did she have any ideas on how she might be able to help us?”
“As a matter of fact, she does. And it involves a very specific window of opportunity.”
Winnie knocked once, twice, and then dropped her hand to her side. “Care to share?”
“How does access to the master key sound?”
The smile that normally accompanied the telltale sound of Mr. Nelson and his cane froze midway across her face. “Master key? To what?”
“The cabins.”
The thumping stopped just as her heart began to pound. “Which cabins?”
“All five of them, dear.”
Chapter 28
They were barely out of the driveway the next day when Renee let out the kind of squeal that might have netted some unwanted attention if 90 percent of the people on Serenity Lane weren’t either hard of hearing or napping. “I don’t know about you, Winnie, but I’m feeling all Thelma and Louise right now, aren’t you?”
A cough from the backseat drew Renee’s eyes to the rearview mirror and a hint of red to her otherwise tanned cheeks. “Oh. Right. Sorry about that, Bridget. I’m feeling all Thelma, Louise, and . . . Nancy Drew.”
“Aw, c’mon, can’t I be Nancy? Please?” Winnie stole a glance at Bridget through the split between Renee’s front seats and then waved the semiserious question away before her neighbor could even respond. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this. Breaking and entering is a crime.”
“Only if we get caught, dear.” Bridget pulled a notepad from her oversized purse and flipped it open to the first page. “Which we won’t. And besides, it’s not really breaking and entering if you have a key. Which we do.”
“A key only one of them knows we have.” Winnie swung her gaze back onto the road before fixing it on the woman behind the wheel. “You sure you’re okay with all of this? Leaving Ty with Mr. Nelson? Letting us drag you into something none of us should be doing in the first place? And using your car while we do it?”
Renee turned left at a four-way stop and then right at the next street. “Do you know what I had planned for the day before you called? Laundry. Smelly ten-year-old soccer boy laundry. So, really, getting to do something that will allow me to inhale without gagging is a welcome surprise.”
“Glad we could help.” Winnie pointed out the next direction and then, realizing Renee knew how to get to their final destination, dropped her hand back to her lap. “Based on what Bridget is telling me, we have a very specific amount of time to work with, so I think it makes the most sense for us each to take a cabin. If we come across something we think is important, we’ll ring each other’s cell phones.”
The sound of turning pages drew Winnie’s attention to the backseat occupant once again. “Does that sound good to you, Bridget?”
“I’m thinking, if we stick together, we can go through each cabin faster and without the worry of having to stop and call every time something looks remotely interesting.”
“That makes sense. We’ll do it that way, then.”
Renee slowed to allow a pedestrian to cross the street and then returned her attention to the rearview mirror. “So whose cabin are we going to check out first? The hunky mime’s?”
“Winnie has already vetted him, and I’ve already vetted the puppeteer, so the focus is on the other three.”
The squeal was back. “Vetted? Oooh, this sounds so official, doesn’t it?”
“No, official would have us driving a police car and wearing blue,” Winnie pointed out, only half joking.
Renee, in turn, dropped her chin to her chest to allow a quick self-inspection and then returned her attention to the road in time to make the necessary turn onto the outer road. “I figured black was best for being discreet.”
“And your choice of footwear?” Bridget challenged.
“I opted for my three-inch stilettos instead of the four-inch. They’re easier to run in if that becomes necessary.”
Bridget leaned forward as if she were going to tie her shoe but, instead, used the opportunity to roll her eyes and make a face outside the watchful eye of the driver. When she caught Winnie staring, she merely shrugged and returned to her original starting place.
“Anyway, let’s go over what we know so far.” Winnie stopped, held her index finger in the air, and cocked her head toward the floor. Sure enough, her phone was vibrating inside her purse. “One second, ladies . . .”
She glanced at the screen and felt the smile that raced across her mouth in response. “Hi, Jay.”
“Hi, yourself. Did you sleep well last night?”
“Hardly.” Then, realizing how that could be misconstrued in light of their ongoing situation, she rushed to clarify. “I’m just helping Bridget with a little problem.”
She didn’t need to turn around to know at least one of Bridget’s eyebrows had shot upward.
“Anything I can help with?” he asked.
“No, I think we’ll be fine.” The turnoff to the retreat center was growing closer by the minute but still, she wasn’t ready to say good-bye. “So, um, what are you doing today? Anything fun?”
“The big interview is supposedly going to run on this evening’s installment of Hollywood Tonight. Caroline will be glued to the television, waiting for her mother’s segment, I’m sure.” And then, after a momentary hesitation, he continued. “You could come, too. I’d love that, actually.”
“Jay, I—”
“No, hear me out. We could sit in the kitchen and talk while she’s waiting for the interview. When it comes on, we could either watch it with her or stay in the kitchen and keep talking. Makes no difference to me.”
“Thanks, but I think you should probably watch it with her. And besides, I kind of owe Mr. Nelson a magic show.”
“A magic . . .” His voice disappeared for a moment only to return in between groans. “Oh no. We blew that off on Friday night, didn’t we?”
“We sure did.”
“Oh, Winnie, I’m so sorry. We got so sidetracked with Caroline’s antics that I lost sight of everything else. Was he upset?”
“He was. But we talked and he’s forgiven me. However, I promised him when I dropped off Lovey this morning, that I would be front and center for his magic show at eight o’clock this evening.”
“Ready to be amazed and dazzled,” Renee interjected.
Winnie laughed. “That’s right, I promised I’d be front and center and ready to be amazed and dazzled at eight o’clock this evening.”
“That didn’t sound like Bridget just now.”
“Because it wasn’t. That was Renee. She, too, will be attending tonight’s evening of magic with her dapper young man, Ty.”
“And Bridget?”
She peeked over the seat at Bridget and simply waited for her answer.
“I’ll be there. But I won’t clap.”
Jay’s laugh tickled Winnie’s ear and reignited her smile once again. “I heard that.”
“She’ll clap. Somehow, someway, I’ll make her clap.”
“Good luck with that one.” The sound of his breath in her ear warmed her all the way down to her toes. And when he spoke again, it was as if his words provided the hug she craved more than anything at that moment. “Anyway, I don’t want to ruin all your girl time by keeping you on the phone too long, but if you find yourself with a little time on your hands at any point between now and the magic show, give me a call, okay?”
“I will.” She shifted the phone to her opposite hand and peered out at the passing scenery. “I’m really glad you called, Jay.”
“Good, because I’ve been thinking about you since I woke up.”
“Oh? That’s nice to hear.” And it was. Even though she knew Jay had feelings for her, and had for several months, it never hurt to get verbal confirmation. “I’ll talk to you later.”
When she was sure the call had ended, she leaned over, shoved the phone back into her purse, and straightened in her seat, the smile she felt on her lips reaching deep inside her soul.
“So I take it you two talked things out?” Renee asked.
“Last night. We still have an uphill climb where Caroline is concerned, but we’re going to climb it together.” She felt the car slow as the turnoff for the retreat center came into view, igniting a fresh new set of nerves and the shiver that accompanied them. “Bridget, are you absolutely sure they all went to Beans for breakfast?”
“Abby confirmed it via text message not more than ten minutes ago. She said the shuttle bus driver had just dropped them off and that he said he’d be back to get them at one thirty.”
Winnie directed all eyes to the dashboard clock as Renee navigated the first rut in the retreat center’s driveway. “Okay, so that means we have two hours, tops. If we can find what we need to find in half that time, even better.”
• • •
Winnie was rooting through a stack of magazines in Ned’s sitting room when Bridget let out a yelp from the cabin’s modest bedroom.
“Bridget?”
“I found something!”
Dropping last year’s issue of Modern Art back into the misshapen basket at her feet, she met up with Renee in the hallway and, together, they headed down the short hall and into the lone bedroom.
“He caused an accident.” Bridget shook a sheet of cream-colored paper at them. “And he ran.”
Winnie inched around Renee and crossed to the edge of the bed where her view of Bridget and the piece of paper was better. “What are you talking about? And what is that?”
“Blackmail, exhibit A. I found it between the box spring and the mattress.” Bridget lifted her gaze to the ceiling and muttered something under her breath.
“What was that you just said?” Winnie asked.
“I called Mr. Masterson a bloody fool.”
“Because . . .”
“Because anybody who has ever written in a diary knows about that hiding place.”
Renee plopped on the edge of the bed closest to the door, nodding as she did. “She’s right. It’s where I kept my diary when I was a kid.”
Bridget waved the paper at Winnie. “See? It’s as I said—he’s a bloody fool.”
“Can I see it?” Winnie asked.
“It’s why I called you in here, dear.” Bridget handed the paper to Winnie and then removed her glasses from her nose for a quick eye rub. “Read it out loud, so Renee can hear, too.”
“Okay, sure.” She took a moment to soak in the details—the standard-looking, albeit cream-colored printer paper, the standard type font, the crease marks left behind by its initial trifolded status—and then began to read aloud.
“Eh, eh, eh, not so fast, Hit-and-Run Man. Your nightmare isn’t over yet. Same terms, same consequence still apply. So if you want to keep running from what you did to Caleb Norton all those years ago—”
Winnie returned to the name, read it aloud
again, and then looked up to find Bridget’s forehead scrunched in thought. “Caleb Norton? Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure we can find out.”
Renee placed her hands above the bed and then pointed their attention back to the letter in Winnie’s hands. “Don’t stop reading.”
“Uh, okay . . .” Pushing the name from the forefront of her thoughts, Winnie searched for her veer-off point and continued reading. “Put the cash in this envelope and place it inside the third book from the right on the middle shelf of the Quiet Room. Make sure it’s there by midnight. If you do, your secret will be safe. If you don’t . . .”
The bed squeaked as Renee leaned forward, eyes wide. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! It’s getting really good!”
“That’s all there is.”
Renee turned to Bridget. “But she didn’t finish the sentence. I want to know what’s gonna happen if he doesn’t put the money in the . . .” Raising her hands in surrender, Renee shook her head. “Okay, I’m an idiot. She left it that way to make him squirm.”
Winnie looked again at the letter, the first three sentences confirming her gut reaction in a most unsettling way. “Eh, eh, eh, not so fast, Hit-and-Run Man. Your nightmare isn’t over yet. Same terms, same consequence still apply . . . Sally didn’t write this. Someone else did.”
“What do you mean, some—”
“You’re right!” Bridget snatched the letter from Winnie’s trembling hands and read it aloud again. When she reached the end, she looked up at Winnie. “Someone took over where Sally left off, continuing the blackmail she started.”
Renee pushed off the bed and came to stand beside Winnie. “Okay, but who?”
“Her killer,” Winnie and Bridget said in unison.
Chapter 29
“Well, it looks like our poet isn’t versed in diary stashing the way Ned . . .” Winnie stopped, narrowed her eyes on the open refrigerator, and cleared her throat loud enough to halt the verbal inventory being conducted by her stiletto-wearing friend. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Dial M for Mousse Page 22