Clearly startled, Renee stumbled backward, the clicking of her shoes against the linoleum floor dulled only by the slam of the refrigerator door. “Um, searching? Like we’re supposed to be?”
Winnie folded her arms across her chest. “In the refrigerator?”
Some hemming and hawing ensued before Renee regained her composure. “Are you going to tell me you never hid anything in the crisper drawer when you were a little kid?”
“The crisper drawer?” She pulled out her phone, checked her empty message box, and then shoved it back into her pocket. “C’mon, fess up. What were you really doing in there, Renee?”
Another, more amusing round of hemming and hawing quickly culminated in a wounded exhale and a defeated slump to the woman’s bare shoulders. “Okay, okay, I was checking in the utensil drawer when I heard a funny sound.”
Her smile exited her face. “What kind of funny sound?”
“My stomach. So I thought I’d just check and see if maybe there was something I could snack on before we head back to your place.”
“No!”
Renee pulled her hand off the refrigerator door and let it drop to her side. “You know, you can be a real spoilsport sometimes, Winnie Johnson.”
“I know. It’s a gift,” she said while scanning the limited counter to the left and right of the microwave. “So nothing in here, either?”
“Nope. All clear.” The click-clack of Renee’s shoes grew louder as the gap between the two friends lessened. When she reached the table where Winnie was standing, Renee pulled out a chair and sat down. “So you really think this person the comedian hit is related to the guy staying here?”
“They share the same last name . . .”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” Renee ran her hand along the top of the table, stopping every few inches to add a beat to whatever song was suddenly playing in her head. “I’m sure there are lots of Nortons running around the country.”
“True. But if they are related and Colin somehow overheard whatever went down between Sally and Ned, we may have just found a motive for Blackmailer Number Two. Although, it seems that if he’s the killer, he’d have killed Ned instead of Sally.” Winnie turned and made her way into the parlor. To her left was the single armchair Lovey had hid under just days earlier—a maneuver that had earned the tabby a can of tuna fish later that evening. To her right, atop the simple yet adequate desk, was the same stack of fan mail that had intrigued her earlier in the week. “While I wouldn’t trade what I do for anything, it’s gotta be awfully cool to get fan mail, you know? I mean, what better validation can there be?”
“Okay, so you don’t get letters in the mailbox,” Renee said during a break in her mental song. “But you do get numbers.”
She paused her hand on the top envelope. “Numbers? What numbers?”
“The ones on the scales. Of your satisfied customers.”
“Oh, so you’re saying I make people fat?”
“You make people happy,” Renee corrected.
“Happy. I can live with that.” Winnie checked her watch and then her phone but there was still no word from Bridget. “Renee? Would you mind heading over to the magician’s cabin and checking on Bridget? I still think it was smart that we split these last two cabins after how much time we spent in the other one, but she hasn’t sent so much as one text in the last fifteen minutes and I’m getting a little worried. All we have left in here is this parlor and I think I can handle that myself.”
Renee stopped tapping, shrugged, and stood. “Yeah. Sure. No problem. Meet you outside in ten minutes?”
“Sure. Sounds good. And, Renee?”
Renee stopped, her hand on the door. “Yeah?”
“Stay out of the refrigerator, will you?”
“Spoilsport.”
And then Renee was gone, the click of the door in her wake barely noticeable over the sound of Winnie’s own laughter. She allowed herself another chuckle or two and then turned her attention to the stack of letters she was powerless to resist.
Intrigued, she lifted the top envelope from the stack, flipped it over, and removed the yellowed paper from inside. With careful fingers, she unfolded the paper and began to read, her mouth draining of all moisture as the letter she’d expected to read turned into a heartfelt, beautifully written poem about a scarred woman who lived her life behind a mask. At the bottom of the page, with the same pencil that had been used on the rest of the poem, was a single name—Caleb.
She set the poem to the side and reached for the next envelope on the stack. This one, too, showed signs of age—yellowing around the edges, turned-up corners, even a smudge of dirt on the left side. The paper inside was also yellowed with age, the penciled writing faded. She switched on the desk lamp and began to read, the vivid, rhythmic description of the mountainous journey it shared leaving her breathless.
When she reached the last line, she skipped her gaze down to the single name written exactly as it had been on the first poem.
Caleb.
Winnie dropped the mountain-themed poem onto the desk and pulled her phone from her pocket. Maybe Renee was right. Maybe Norton wasn’t a terribly uncommon surname. But the likelihood the name Caleb would just so happen to show up on two poems in Colin Norton’s possession couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
There’s only one way to find out . . .
Tapping her phone to life, she punched in her password and then clicked on her favorite search engine. With fingers that were suddenly far more clumsy than normal, she typed in the words Caleb Norton and hit-and-run and pressed Enter.
Less than a second later, a half-dozen links popped up.
Charlton School of the Arts alum victim of hit-and-run.
Caleb Norton, 22, in a coma after hit-and-run.
No witnesses in hit-and-run of Charlton alum.
Slowly she scrolled through the remaining links tied to the initial details of the tragedy. When she reached the end, she went back to the top and clicked on the first link.
“Charlton School of the Arts alumnus, Caleb Norton, was the victim of a hit-and-run on Piney Street Friday night. Caleb was in town visiting his brother, Colin, a current Charlton student.”
According to the article, the incident was not witnessed and the driver had not stepped forward as of the date the article was written.
She read all the way to the bottom and was rewarded for her efforts with an update posted nearly a year after the initial incident.
“**Update: Caleb Norton remains in a comma with no brain function. The hit-and-run driver remains at large.”
“Actually, he’s here . . . in Silver Lake,” she whispered. She closed out of the link and clicked on the next, the basics of the tragedy the same. Only here, Caleb Norton’s name was highlighted in blue, indicating a link. She clicked.
Like magic, the Charlton School of the Arts website appeared on her screen with “In Memoriam” displayed across the top of the page in quiet, tasteful letters. She took a moment to really soak up the young face peering out at her from her screen—the quiet smile and inquisitive eyes a perfect match for someone who could write like he had and like his brother—
“I was going back and forth between a piece about a mountain and another about a mask, but now that the audition is no longer at play, I will turn my efforts toward submitting both for publication.”
The words ricocheted inside her head with such force, she grabbed the corner of the desk for support.
“A mask?” she whispered. “A mountain?”
No . . .
Shaking the ludicrous thought from her head, she found her way back to the alumni page and the bio on Colin Norton she’d first read while bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Somehow, she’d managed to retain most of it—the awards, the publications, et cetera. But the part about his gift for poetry not revealing itself unt
il after graduation? That part she’d missed.
She scrolled back up to Colin’s picture, his face exhibiting none of the qualities his brother’s had. In fact, where Caleb had exuded quiet wonder, Colin exuded an edge that could best be described as angry . . .
Her phone vibrated in her hand, alerting her to a new message from Renee.
We found something. Meet you outside.
She typed back a reply.
So did I. Be there in 2.
Once she was sure the message had been sent, she deposited her phone back into her pocket and turned her attention to Caleb’s poems. She hated placing them back inside their envelopes, but for now that’s where they needed to be. Still, as she returned them to the pile, she couldn’t resist the urge to soak up one more.
Confident in her ability to read quickly, Winnie reached deeper into the pile and pulled, the cream-colored page that followed wiping any remaining thoughts of poetry from her head once and for all.
Chapter 30
There was no mistaking the utter silence in the car as they passed the retreat center’s van, or the subsequent sigh of relief as Renee turned onto the outer road and pushed down on the gas pedal.
“Oh! My! Gosh! That was so close.”
Winnie took one last look in her side-view mirror and then sank back against the passenger seat. “That was too close, Renee. Much, much too close.”
“You said you’d be out in two. What happened?”
She tried to gather her thoughts enough to answer but was thwarted by heavy breathing from the backseat. Alarmed, she pivoted her upper body until she had a clear view of her elderly neighbor. “Bridget? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, dear. Just a little winded is all.”
“Is your chest hurting?” Winnie asked.
“No.”
“Your knees from having to run like that?”
“No.”
“Your back?”
“No, I’m fine.” Then, after smoothing her carefully selected sleuthing attire (her words), the eighty-year-old broke out in a face-splitting grin. “I haven’t had that much fun in years, dear.”
Renee laughed. “I think I have to agree.”
“You guys are nuts.” Winnie looked from Bridget to Renee and back again before joining in the laughter. “I don’t know how you can run in stilettos, Renee, I really don’t.”
“That, my friend, is my gift.” Renee hit the buttons associated with their respective windows and lowered them enough to let air flow through. “Well, that and eating, unfortunately.”
“You were pretty adept at identifying that green stuff I found in Todd’s top hat.”
Winnie shifted her gaze off Renee and back on to Bridget. “Green stuff?”
“Our magician appears to dabble in far more than just bunny rabbits, Winnie.” Renee slowed at the entrance to the lake, pulled into the public lot, and claimed a parking spot beneath a large shady tree. When the car was in park and the engine shut off, she turned herself sideways in her seat. “Bridget found drugs in this guy’s top hat.”
Winnie released her seat belt and turned sideways in her seat, as well. “Did you find anything else?”
“Anything else?” Bridget lowered her chin to allow a clear view of Winnie across the upper rim of her glasses. “Don’t you think a stash of drugs is enough? Perhaps it’s his secret.”
“It is his secret.”
When Winnie became aware that Renee was staring at her as well, she held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I guess I forgot to mention that our magician dabbles in a little drug dealing on the side.”
“Yes . . . yes, you did indeed forget to mention that, dear.” Bridget slipped her hand inside her tote bag and pulled out her favorite notebook. “When did you find this out?”
“Yesterday. When I picked up Mr. Nelson from his magic lesson.”
“Did Mr. Nelson see it while he was there?” Renee asked.
A group of hikers making their way across the parking lot to their car distracted Winnie for a moment, but with a little prodding from Renee, she got back on track. “No, George told me. He overheard bits and pieces of Sally’s blackmailing session with Todd.”
“He could go to jail for that.”
She nodded at Renee. “And Sally, of course, knew that.”
“So why did we waste time going through his cabin if you already knew his secret?” Bridget asked, her voice a touch huffy.
“In case George was wrong, I guess.” Slipping her hand behind her back, she fixed her fingers on the sheet of paper sticking out of her back pocket—a sheet of paper, in hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have taken. “Did you happen to find anything else?”
“Such as?”
Winnie pulled the paper out of her pocket and brandished it high enough for Bridget to see. “One of these.”
“What is—”
Bridget leaned forward, her hushed gasp cutting off Renee. “I thought you put that back under Mr. Masterson’s mattress!”
“I did.”
“Is that why your two minutes turned into ten? Because you went back to the comedian’s cabin?” Renee asked.
Winnie shook the paper in time with her head. “This isn’t his. It’s Colin’s.”
Bridget’s eyes widened as the meaning behind Winnie’s words hit their mark. “The blackmailer?”
“Listen.” Slowly, she unfolded the cream-colored paper across her lap and began to read, the words as they left her mouth sending a fresh new chill down her spine. “Eh, eh, eh, not so fast, Mr. Plagiarizer.”
“Plagiarizer?” Bridget echoed.
Winnie held up her finger and continued reading. “Your nightmare isn’t over yet. Same terms, same consequence still apply. So if you want to keep hiding behind Caleb’s talent—”
“There’s that name again . . .”
Bridged shushed Renee and then motioned for Winnie to keep going.
“Put the cash in this envelope and place it under the printer in the Business Center. Make sure it’s there by midnight. If you do, your secret will be safe. If you don’t . . .” She refolded the paper and looked up.
“That’s it?” At Winnie’s answering nod, Renee groaned in frustration. “Enough with the cliff-hangers, already.”
Bridget mumbled something about blondes under her breath and then brought the focus back to the letter’s earlier content. “What do you think that plagiarizing comment meant?”
“Caleb Norton is Colin’s brother. According to what I found on my phone, he was critically injured in a hit-and-run accident while visiting Colin during his time at Charlton. He’s been in a vegetative state ever since.”
“Oh, how awful!”
Bridget stalled all further commentary from Renee with a raised index finger. “And Ned Masterson, the comedian, was that driver, wasn’t he?”
“Based on what we found under Ned’s mattress, it sure looks that way. Anyway, near as I can figure, the poems that have earned Colin such recognition were actually written by his brother before the accident.”
It was Bridget’s turn to retract in horror. “He’s been prospering off his brain-dead brother?”
“Again”—she said, lifting the letter into the air—“it sure looks that way.”
“Wow.” Bridget looked down at the still-unopened notebook in her lap and then returned it to her purse, clucking softly to herself as she did. “I wish I could say for certain that Todd didn’t have one of those, but the moment I found those drugs in his top hat, I stopped searching.”
Winnie leaned her head against the partially open window, her own groan not much different from Renee’s. “I probably would have stopped, too.”
“We still have the master key, don’t we?” Renee asked.
Bridget tapped her finger to her chin. “She has a point, dear.”
“I don’t know, you guys. We came awfully close to getting caught just now.”
“True. But we know what we’re looking for now,” Bridget insisted. “And if we make sure Renee is fed before we leave that should move things along even faster”
Winnie willed her lips to keep from twitching as Renee’s cheeks reddened. “I thought I told you to stay out of Todd’s refrigerator.”
“I was hungry.” Renee gestured toward her stomach and the gurgle of agreement it unleashed in the car. “And now, because of you and your silly rules, I’m ravenous.”
• • •
Renee reached into the bag of pretzels, made a face, and then shoved it across the table toward Winnie. “This is empty.”
“It wasn’t when you found it in my pantry.” Winnie swung her legs over the bench and returned to the assortment of snacks she’d spread across the island. “We still have some chips. You want those?”
“Want? Yes. Need? No. Besides, you’re still planning on making those special donuts for Mr. Nelson’s show tonight, aren’t you?”
“I am, which reminds me I probably should start on those now.”
“You do realize, dear, what this encouragement of yours is going to do, don’t you?” Bridget tossed her notebook onto the coffee table and inched her way forward on the couch. “It’ll be like it was after you bought him that book of pranks. Suddenly there were whoopee cushions on my rocking chair, fake rodents on your stairs, and toothpaste in my Oreos.”
Renee let loose a half laugh/half snort. “Mr. Nelson put toothpaste in your Oreos?”
“He did, indeed.” Bridget sniffed, then pointed her finger into the kitchen. “Thanks to Winnie.”
“What? I bought him a prank book . . . He loved it.” Winnie, in turn, pointed at the open snack bags and, at the answering shake of Renee’s head, attached chip clips where needed and returned everything to the pantry. “And, you’ve gotta admit, he got a lot of mileage out of that book.”
“Too much mileage, if you ask me,” Bridget groused. “And now you’re encouraging him with this magic stuff?”
Dial M for Mousse Page 23