Anne wondered just how much she hated her sister.
“I feel sorry for Mr. Harrison. I mean, he was so heartbroken over Fran’s death.”
“I could never figure out if he knew about her flings or loved her so much, he ignored the obvious.”
Anne looked around the room. “This is a big house. Will George be staying on or selling it? What does he do for a living?”
“He was a CPA for years, but now does the books along with the buying for their antique store. He’s also there for all the deliveries to make sure nothing’s been damaged in shipment.”
“That’s right, I remember Fran saying something about owning an antique store. I didn’t pay much attention since I’m not into antiques.”
“It’s called Fran’s Fabulous Finds. She also does—did—a brisk online business with old stuff like that. Personally, I never liked that kind of thing either. Oh, George! You scared me. Back from your walk already?”
Anne jerked in surprise. She hadn’t heard him at all. How long had he been standing there? And what had he heard?
George stared at her, and then smiled. “Yes, just walked in the door. How’s it going? Are you finding what you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Ah, here’s a folder that says ‘chapter correspondence.’” Pam pulled it out. “And two more titled just ‘correspondence.’ I’ll add them to your pile. George, is there a box in the garage, Ms. Jamieson can put them in?”
“Sure, be back in a jiffy.”
Anne closed the drawer in her cabinet. “I think that’s it.”
“Same here. I hope you’ve got everything you need. Can I get you something to drink before you leave? Coffee, iced tea, soft drink?”
“Oh, no thank you. I should get home. I’ve got a lot to do.”
George returned carrying a box with a popular wine logo on it. “Here. Will this do?”
“It’s fine.” She dumped the pulled folders into the box.
“Let me get that for you,” Fran’s husband said.
After thanking Pam for her help, Anne left with George following.
“I hope you don’t take everything Pam says as gospel,” he commented. “She had Fran had a grudge match for years. I’m afraid Pam was jealous of her sister most of her life. I guess this is her way of getting even.”
So he did overhear some of what was said.
“I understand, but it’s really none of my business. Well, thank you for letting me retrieve the files. You’ve been a great help, and once again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Anne slid behind the wheel and waved as George headed back into the house.
What an interesting hour. She’d come away with needed files, learned that Fran had likely been having multiple affairs, and that Pam Waters had hated her sister’s guts.
Hated enough to kill?
****
Anne picked up lunch at a fast food drive-thru on the way home. By the time she pulled into her driveway, the morning was shot and the afternoon didn’t look good either.
She was in the middle of her second taco when her cell rang. Caller ID showed it was Jen.
“Jen, how’s your mother?”
“Doing great. She’s out of the hospital and coming along so well Dad is ready to take over. I should be home on Friday. My question is what’s going on there? Any more about Fran?”
Anne spent the next twenty minutes bringing Jen up to date on events.
“So, Fran was whacked with both peanuts and shellfish? Someone really wanted to make sure she was dead. And you and Nancy found the waiter’s body? You guys have been busy. What else have I been missing?”
Anne explained about Jane Whittaker and the problems with the finances.
“Holy crap! Are we broke?”
“No, but Nancy and Mavis Holloway’s son think they can straighten it all out.
“Lord, let’s hope so. Go on. Any more cheerful news?”
She told Jen about her trip to Fran’s house and her conversations with George Harrison and Pam Waters.
“I’d heard whispers about Fran and her affairs,” Jen said. “I didn’t know about Becky or possibly Terry’s husbands being involved, but at the last holiday party she was flirting hot and heavy with Jane Whittaker’s spouse. Jane, dolt that she is, laughed it off. I have no clue if anything came of it. I also saw Fran batting her eyelashes at—oh, what’s her name, the new board member’s husband, too.”
“Ellie Campion?” Anne’s voice rose in surprise.
“Yeah, I think so. They left the party early. Maybe Ellie didn’t appreciate the president of the chapter hitting on her hubby.”
“I didn’t attend the party. Did you know Fran had an antique store?”
“Yeah, it’s over off Main Street in the old part of town. The stuff was nice, but expensive, and Fran refused to dicker on price, the cheap-ass.”
“Can you remember when you went there?”
“Hmmm, in the spring, I think. Wouldn’t surprise me if she strong-armed friends and relatives to keep the place afloat. Kinda like highway robbery. Any other fun stuff to report?”
“Not yet. Look, Jen, I’ve got to read those files. Call when you get back in town. We’ll all go have lunch.”
“Will do.”
Anne hung up and dumped her now cold taco into the trash, then headed upstairs with the box of folders. So both Jane and Ellie’s husbands had been on Fran’s hit list. Ellie hadn’t said a thing. And how mad was she?
Mad enough to leave the party early.
And Jane had just laughed? She wasn’t the most observant of people. Could she have written it off as a joke or having had one too many?
Or did she laugh to mask a deep-seeded anger? And had she been angry enough to do something about it?
****
At the end of two hours, Anne was ready to pull her hair out. Fran kept damned near every piece of paper concerning the chapter—most of which was non-essential. So far, the contents were business related, not personal.
She pitched the last folder onto the top of the file cabinet. Gary the Gargoyle stared back at her from his perch on the shelf over it.
“Gary, not only was the late, unlamented Fran a pain in the ass, she was also massively OCD,” she told him. The inanimate stone figure’s smirk mocked her.
Five folders marked “correspondence” still sat in front of her. The temptation to turn it all over to Rose was strong, but Anne wasn’t above being slightly OCD herself. As chapter President, she felt it was her duty to at least scan the stuff.
The first two files contained e-mail hard copies—many with hand written annotations by Fran. Most of her comments were not pleasant, especially if the sender had been critical of the chapter and her running of it.
The next two folders dealt with vendors’ correspondence like the hotel where meetings were held and the San Sebastian Inn, scene of the last conference. One letter clearly stated the hotel would not be willing to host another chapter affair anytime soon. Fran’s reply was pithy and to the point—the hotel security sucked and the chapter should have a reduction on the bill because of it. On this, Anne agreed. Several letters were exchanged, but in the end, the hotel got their money.
The last folder surprised her. It was personal correspondence, and had obviously been misfiled. While none of her business, she couldn’t resist looking at it.
Many dealt with the antique store. Fran leased out space to various other dealers—at an exorbitant price. She required a year’s commitment from the seller and treated the contract like that of an apartment—the first and last month’s rent up front. A couple of letters were downright nasty concerning Fran’s business practices. Apparently as store owner, Fran had also taken a twenty percent cut of anything sold. One unhappy vendor accused her of pushing one dealer over another. Fran’s reply had been sarcastic and rude, in the category of prove-it-if-you-can.
The ghost at the meeting popped into Anne’s head. Could it have been someone from outside th
e chapter? Someone Fran had swindled? But would that person have known about her allergies? Or about where and when the meeting took place?
They would if they were also a writer—or a critique partner. Perhaps even a chapter member. It was something to think about.
Also in the folder were long lists of items from all over the country. New stock, no doubt, bought by George Harrison. She wondered if he’d take over the store now.
The last item in the folder gave Anne the answer to one mystery—why Fran needed three grand.
It was an invoice, dated the end of May, from a lawyer delineating the initial cost of his services. Attached was a business card of a private investigator. She recognized the law firm. They specialized in divorce.
****
After dinner, Anne sat at the kitchen table with a notebook. The kids were upstairs finishing homework or messing around with computer games. She picked up a pen, sipped from a glass of white wine, and settled into the chair.
Time to make a list of suspects.
At the top she simply wrote “the ghost.” Underneath that she added the names of Becky Lawrence, Terry Whiting, and just to be thorough, George Harrison.
She also made a notation of “vendor from antique store” at the bottom. She’d go to the store and ask around as soon as possible.
Anne included the names of Jane Whittaker, Barb Hamilton, and Ellie Campion to the list. None sounded remotely capable of pulling off Fran’s murder.
Fran’s critique partners were next. For all she knew, Fran had been hitting on their husbands, too.
She also added “wait staff” to the list. Any one of them could have doctored Fran’s food, but how they’d know about the allergy was still a mystery. The surveillance tape, however, rather ruled out that theory. Plus, Jeffrey Wainwright, the waiter, was very dead. She had no clue if the deaths were related.
By the time she finished, Anne had a column of names, a column of motives, and absolutely no connection between any of them.
She shoved the notebook aside and polished off her wine. That was a useless endeavor. I’m no closer to figuring this out than I was when it happened. I need to take a look at Fran’s Fabulous Finds.
Anne headed upstairs to her office. She hadn’t even bothered to check her e-mail today—not that she wanted to. Everyone in the chapter had an opinion about everything and had no problem with telling her. Some ideas made sense. Others were sheer nonsense. And what was worse, all deserved a reply.
Anne pulled up her e-mail. Luckily, only the Southeast Florida chapter digest had any she needed to answer.
After an hour, the list was whittled down to only four. The next one she opened, however, sent a chill up her spine.
I guess the note on your windshield didn’t get through to you. STOP INVESTIGATING FRAN’S DEATH!!! What does it matter if she was murdered? She’s dead and that’s what counts. Butt out or you’ll regret it!
Anne sucked in a deep breath and looked at the sender’s name—“joeblow” from a popular e-mail provider. She clicked on the name. Four items appeared: copy address, new message, search for messages from…, and add to contacts.
Well, that’s a lot of help. Then a thought occurred. What if this is Susan? Sounds like something she’d do out of spite. I wonder if she’s also responsible for the note. She could be more than just paranoid—maybe borderline total whacko.
Anne didn’t want to deal with her, but rather than delete the message, she saved it. She tapped her fingers on her desk. She’d call Gil first thing in the morning.
Anne finally drifted off to sleep only to dream of tripping over bodies while walking through an antique store with Fran, Becky, Terry, and Jeffrey Wainwright.
****
Gil arrived shortly after the kids left for school. He frowned at the e-mail message. “And you say you also got an anonymous note?”
Anne handed it to him. “It was tucked under my windshield wiper while I was at the grocery store last week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“I should have, but things piled up and I forgot. It seemed kind of childish to me.” She told him of her suspicions the writer and sender of the e-mail was Susan Lynch.
“I don’t care who it was, they followed you.”
“That creeped me out, too. I couldn’t get any info from the e-mail address.”
“Doesn’t take a Rhodes scholar to set up a dummy e-mail address. Anything else I should know about?”
She didn’t like his sarcastic tone, but let it go. Besides, she kind of deserved it. She told him about the personal correspondence that she accidentally picked up at Fran’s.
“She had an antique business downtown. The folder contained invoices, letters, and lists of merchandise. I was going to return it to her husband. Plus I found an invoice from a law firm whose specialty is divorce. There was also a business card from a private investigator attached to the invoice.”
Gil frowned. “Who was it?”
“I can’t remember offhand. I just glanced at it. Why?”
“Some attorneys hire PIs to look into things for clients. The investigator bills through the lawyers. Are the letter and the card in the file?”
Anne bit her lip. “No, since it was in her personal correspondence, I set it aside. I didn’t want to return it to her husband. Fran was dead and he was pretty broken up about it. Why destroy his illusions at this point?”
“Let me have the file and the invoice. I’ll take a quick look and see if there’s anything of a suspicious nature.”
“Is that legal?”
He shrugged. “I may not be able to use anything I find, but it’ll give me an insight to look into her personal affairs.”
“Affairs being the operative word here. Fran played around a lot.”
She ran upstairs and returned with the business folder and the letter.
Gil glanced at the latter with a frown. “This puts a whole new light on things. I’ll contact the attorneys and the PI, see if they can give me anything.”
“I thought there was a confidentiality thing with them.”
“There is, but since the lady in question is dead, the PI might divulge some information.”
She told him about the harsh words between Fran and some of her leaseholders.
“We’ll check on it.”
Anne hesitated. “Actually, I was going to go to the antique store and ask a few questions. I mean, Fran had to have an assistant to cover days she wasn’t there.”
Gil’s eyebrows rose. “You get an anonymous note and a threatening e-mail and you’re going to ask questions? I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll nose around the store, make a few comments, and listen. It’s not like I’m skulking in the shadows and eavesdropping.”
“Annie…”
“Gil…”
He threw his hands up in the air. “All right. I couldn’t stop you anyway, but for the love of God…”
“I know…Be careful,” she finished for him. “Any news on who killed Jeffrey Wainwright?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think it’s connected to Fran?”
“Maybe.”
She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Is ‘maybe’ the only thing you can say?”
He shrugged as his lips curved into a small smile. “Maybe.”
“Oooo, men! Dinner tomorrow night?”
The smile turned into a chuckle. “Let’s go out. Thai all right with you?”
“Sounds wonderful.”
After Gil left, Anne tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. On the surface, Wainwright’s murder and that of Fran had no connection. Yet her intuition told her otherwise. Now if only she could figure out how they connected.
And what about Becky and Terry? They had the motive, but not the means or the opportunity. Unless one or the other was the ghost, which meant they had the opportunity. But the means? Did either of them know about Fran’s allergies? And how could she ask them such a qu
estion?
But first she needed to go to Fran’s shop.
If nothing else, the threatening notes said someone was nervous.
Chapter Twelve
A little bell tinkled above Anne’s head as she pushed open the door to Fran’s Fabulous Finds. To her right was a large counter with a computerized cash register, several business card holders, and free notepads bearing the name of the shop. They reminded her of the kind of freebies set out on tables at conferences. Behind the counter sat stacks of boxes and bags in varying sizes along with reams of tissue paper.
A short woman with gray hair and wearing glasses glanced up from rearranging items in a display case filled with jewelry.
“Good morning, how may I help you? Are you looking for something specific?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” Anne replied. “I’ve never been in before and just thought I’d look around.”
“Be my guest. All booths with a number are leased by other dealers. If you find something you like, just let me know. Many of the vendors will negotiate on price. Everything else is store owned by the proprietor and the price is usually firm.”
Anne thanked the woman and turned to the left. It didn’t take long for her to discover the aisles were cleverly set up in a maze that directed the customer to the larger, more expensive items like furniture, paintings, and silver up front.
The farther she walked, the smaller the items and prices. She rounded a corner and stopped to admire a quilt draped over a quilt stand. Three large armoires formed a wall between the next stall. Two hutches formed the remaining two walls making a cozy area. The hutches contained china figurines. A small needlepoint boudoir chair invited the customer to have a seat, pick up the old book on the table next to it, and read. She sat and closed her eyes, easily envisioning a late Victorian lady indulging in a leisurely moment.
The effect was spoiled by a door opening nearby and the sound of voices.
A Taste of Death Page 16