Paint the Town Dead

by Sybil Johnson

  “Denial-of-service attack. Doesn’t really matter if it was my fault or not, I’m a convenient person to blame.”

  “Remind me what that is again.”

  “In this case, the Akaw’s website was flooded with requests from multiple computers, so many that the server couldn’t handle it. The result, no one could access the hotel’s website.”

  Liz whistled. “So no one could book a room or find out about the hotel, right? Sounds like a protest to me.”

  “The protesters could have organized it. Wouldn’t be hard to do.”

  “They certainly seem to have it out for both you and the Akaw.”

  Liz glanced over at a nearby table where a hotel employee was setting out newspapers for guests to read. She walked over to the display of papers and brought back a copy of that day’s Vista Beach View, scanning the front page as she made her way back across the lobby.

  “Look at this.” Liz pointed to a headline below the fold on the front page. “Veronica wrote about the convention. She mentions VivEco and even put in some pictures.” She handed the paper to Rory who skimmed the article.

  The piece featured a short account of the first days of the OPS convention, including a photo of Stella Nygaard modeling her camera and another of Viveca striking a pose on the trade show floor with the name of her booth prominently displayed in the background. In the interview with Viveca that appeared alongside her photo, the woman talked about her former career as a painting teacher, and how, when she’d decided to return to the business after eleven years, she’d started the eco-friendly painting product company with her new husband’s help.

  “What’s this?” Rory pointed to an article above the fold on the protesters plaguing the Akaw. “It says here the group protesting denies setting off the alarm the other day.”

  “Of course they’re going to say that. They don’t want to get in trouble.”

  Rory summarized the rest of the article for her friend. A confidential source told Veronica hotel security footage showed a member of the Akaw’s maintenance staff pulling the alarm. All of the staff had been questioned, but no one had taken responsibility for the act of sabotage. “I wonder who the confidential source is.”

  “I’ll ask Veronica the next time I see her,” Liz said. “What does it say about the stink bomb? Do the protesters deny doing that too?”

  “No, they take credit for it. Sound a bit proud of it, actually. Seems odd, doesn’t it? That they’d take credit for one and not the other.”

  “Maybe all this new information will help the police figure out who threw that rock through your window.”

  “I doubt it. It’s just a bunch of anonymous statements. They can’t arrest everyone.” Rory’s thoughts turned back to the alarm. “I wonder if someone was masquerading as a janitor. That’s what I would do. Wouldn’t be hard to put on some coveralls over your clothes, set off the alarm, take off the coveralls and blend in with the rest of the crowd exiting the hotel. But you’d have to get rid of them somehow.” She turned the problem over in her mind. “They could have put them in the hotel garbage. If the trash hasn’t come, they might still be there. I wonder if anyone’s thought to look through it.” She placed the newspaper on the table between their two chairs.

  “Maybe Dashing D knows.”

  After a moment of thought, Rory dialed the detective’s number. He listened patiently to her theory about the protesters and the coveralls. “Interesting,” he said after she finished.

  “So you’ll look into it?”

  “We’ll add it to our list of things to investigate. While I have you on the phone, I thought you’d like to know that we’ve closed your friend’s case. We’ve determined it was an accidental overdose.”

  “What about her medicine? Did you analyze it?”

  “It checked out. Nothing suspicious about it. The concentration is fine and the amount left in it is consistent with an overdose.”

  Rory opened her mouth to ask a question, but before she could say a word, the detective said, “No fingerprints on the bottle other than your friend’s, either.”

  “So that’s it? You’re not going to investigate anymore?”

  “We’ve done everything we can. As far as we can tell, there’s nothing suspicious about her death. Unless new evidence comes to light, the case is closed.”

  Rory hung up and puzzled over the news. With everything she’d learned about the medication, she didn’t see how her friend could have overdosed. If bad medication wasn’t the culprit, then the only other conclusion she could come to was someone had dosed Jasmine with Xyrem. She couldn’t let that person get away with it. If the police weren’t going to investigate, she would.

  “Did I hear right?” Liz said. “The investigation’s over?”

  Rory relayed everything the detective had told her to her friend.

  “We need new evidence so he’ll reopen the case. We’ve got to think like the police. Phone records. Email messages. Alibis. Means, motive, opportunity.” Rory ticked the last three items off on her fingers.

  “We won’t be able to get access to phone records and emails, but we can look into alibis and motives,” Liz said. “We need suspects. Who would want to kill her? You know if the police were investigating, the first person they’d look at is Peter.”

  “From everything I’ve heard, the spouse is the prime suspect. He did have easy access to her medication. But he loved her, why would he want her dead?”

  “He might have wanted out of the marriage. Must be hard being a spouse of someone with her condition.”

  Peter had said as much when she talked to him earlier, Rory thought. “There is such a thing as divorce.”

  “Maybe he thought he’d look like the bad guy, divorcing someone who had a medical condition she had little control over. Or he’d taken a boatload of life insurance out on her,” Liz continued.

  “There must be other possibilities.” Rory frowned in concentration. “But right now I can’t think of a single one.”

  “Looking at where she went since she arrived at the hotel might help. Didn’t you talk about tracing her movements?”

  “That’s right. Let’s see.” Using the memo app on her cell phone, Rory took notes as she talked. “She checked into the hotel on Monday. We had dinner at my parents that evening. Tuesday she had a meeting with Nixie right before she worked on the trade show floor that night.”

  “Anything unusual happen there?”

  Rory cast her mind back to the early shopping opportunity, trying to remember everything she’d seen and heard. “Not that I noticed, but I wasn’t working with her. I was in my mom’s booth and she was across the aisle at VivEco. It was pretty busy. We talked a few times, joked around. If anything unusual happened, I didn’t see it.”

  “Okay, what about Wednesday?”

  They both remained silent for a minute, each picturing the awful moment when Jasmine collapsed in class.

  “She called Peter during the alarm and told him about it,” Rory said, breaking the silence. “That’s about all I know. I’m not sure what classes she was signed up for. We should probably find that out.” She’d just typed Jasmine, class schedule in the app when her cell phone quacked. She stared down at its display. “Mom wants to know if I can help in the VivEco booth. I’ll see what Viveca and Hulbert know.” She quickly texted back she’d be right there, said goodbye to Liz and, taking the newspaper with her, headed to the trade show floor.

  Chapter 11

  When Rory reached the VivEco booth, she found Hulbert working by himself. Half a dozen customers stood around, clamoring for attention. She stowed her painting bag under a nearby table and, after a few instructions, started ringing up purchases while he answered questions. When the bottles in the display racks had dwindled and there was a lull in business, she helped him replenish the supplies. She reached in one of the boxes underneath the table and brought out bottles of varnish with a blue label.

  “Not those,” Hulbert said. “We had some problems w
ith the manufacturing process. Didn’t realize what happened until we got here and someone complained. Get the others, the ones with the green label.”

  As they restocked the shelves, Rory asked, “How’s Viveca doing?”

  “As well as can be expected. To tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about her. Jasmine was like a daughter to her.”

  “They became close after Jasmine’s mother died.” Rory tried to pull one of the cardboard boxes out from under another table, but it was so heavy she couldn’t make it budge.

  Hulbert easily maneuvered the box into the open where they could get at its contents.

  Rory smiled gratefully at him. “Viveca was very supportive of Jasmine. She always appreciated that.”

  “No one ever talks about the father. What was he like?”

  “He’s still around. Jasmine doesn’t—didn’t—see him very often. He was embarrassed by her condition. Didn’t want her to go anywhere, do anything. Didn’t even want her to go to school. Her mother—and, afterwards, Viveca—encouraged her to live as normal a life as possible.”

  “That explains a lot,” Hulbert said. “Has anyone called him to tell him the news?”

  “I assumed Viveca had.”

  “I’ll ask her when she gets back. She’s being interviewed by the press right now. She should be here soon.”

  Rory took the copy of the View out of her tote bag and handed it to him. “Did you see this article? There’s a nice picture of Viveca in front of the booth.”

  Hulbert skimmed the paper, then placed it on a nearby table and returned to his work. “Nice bit of publicity for the company, too. She’ll be pleased. The interview she’s doing now is for an online painting blog.”

  “I wish I’d been able to spend more time with Jasmine that last day. I hope Viveca got to see her.”

  Hulbert shoved a box underneath a table and brought out another one. “Jasmine worked the booth in the morning, before she went to class. Seemed worried.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “Something to do with convention finances, I think. She did the books, you know. Doesn’t matter, anyway. It was all just a horrible accident. That’s what the police told us.” He lowered his voice. “Everyone’s relieved they ruled it an accident. The life insurance won’t pay off if she committed suicide, you know. And Peter could use the money.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Hulbert looked confused. “He had to get a second job to make ends meet. I thought you knew. Some sort of maintenance work, I think.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, at the hotel.”

  “Are you sure? Maintenance work isn’t exactly his cup of tea. If he needs more money, why doesn’t he pick up more accounting work?”

  “I never thought of that. When I saw him dressed in coveralls going into one of the ballrooms, I assumed he was working here and was too embarrassed to tell anyone about it.”

  “When was this?”

  “That last day, during the alarm. He was going into the Zuma ballroom. That’s where Jasmine had her class, right? I thought he was checking to make sure she got out safely.”

  “And you’re positive it was him?”

  “I only saw him from a distance, but it sure looked like Peter to me.”

  “You know, there was an article in the View about the protesters.” Rory picked up the paper to refresh her memory. “It says here the man who pulled the alarm was wearing coveralls. They saw him on the security video. Couldn’t see his face, it was obscured by a ball cap. Was Peter wearing one?”

  “You don’t think he set off the alarm, do you? Why would he do that? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know. It could have been one of the protesters. Maybe the police will find some evidence when they dig through the hotel trash. Whoever pulled the alarm might have dumped the coveralls.”

  “I hope it wasn’t Peter.” Hulbert glanced at his Rolex. “Thanks for your help. I’ve got some workers coming, but they won’t be here for half an hour. Can you stay?”

  “No problem.”

  Before he could say anything else, a woman entered the booth and asked about the advantages of the eco-friendly products. While he gave his sales spiel, Rory continued to ring up purchases. As she worked, part of her mind wondered why Peter felt the need to take on a second job and if he’d been the one to set off the alarm.

  Rory and Hulbert were kept busy until Viveca returned to the booth. As soon as he saw her, the man’s face lit up and he reached under a table, producing a single red rose, which he presented to his wife.

  “Oh, Hully,” Viveca said and smiled for what Rory suspected was the first time since her niece’s death.

  While the two employees that followed Viveca into the booth started working, the painting teacher turned to the younger woman and said, “Thank you. I appreciate your being here. Be sure to keep track of your hours. We’ll pay you.”

  Rory waved away the offer. “No need. I’m glad I can help. I heard the news about the investigation being over.”

  “Thank God. They’ll be releasing her body soon, and we can finally have a service for her.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  After saying goodbye to everyone in the VivEco booth, Rory gathered her things and headed off the trade show floor toward the convention office to see what Nixie had to say about her meeting with Jasmine. Outside the Manhattan ballroom, she found an impromptu shrine to her friend. Bouquets of flowers, pictures, and painted pieces clustered around the legs of the memo board that stood outside the ballroom entrance.

  As Rory bent down to study a collage of photographs, she heard raised voices coming from the other side of the partially open door. Moments later, a teenager about Liz’s height in a camisole and tight-fitting jeans yanked open the door. “You need to do the right thing,” the girl said to Nixie before brushing by Rory and heading down the hallway.

  When Rory entered the ballroom, the overpowering smell of a floral perfume filled the air as if someone had spilled an entire bottle on the carpet.

  “Hi, Rory, what can I do for you?” Nixie said.

  Rory cleared her throat. She hated this part of running a business. “I haven’t received payment for my last invoice yet for the convention’s website. I was wondering if you got it. I mailed it a month ago.”

  Elbows on the table, Nixie put her head in her hands and groaned. “I thought Jasmine took care of that. Let me see if I can find that invoice.” She was looking through a stack of folders when her cell rang. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this. I’ll be right with you.” Nixie pressed her phone to her ear, frowning at whatever the caller had to say. After she hung up, she looked up at Rory and said, “There are no trash cans in any of the classrooms. Can you believe it? All of the students have to fill their painting buckets in the bathroom. And there’s nothing to dump the dirty water into. The cans were there when I checked the rooms earlier today. Apparently, someone from the hotel hauled them off without replacing them. It’s one problem after the other with this place. Getting the kinks worked out, I suppose. Could you—”

  Before the woman could finish her sentence, Gordon walked into the office, his head buried in his own cell phone.

  “Never mind, Rory. I have to take care of this problem first, then I’ll write that check for you. I’ll get it to you as soon as I can. If you need to talk to me about anything else, I’ll be back later. Otherwise, Gordon will be happy to help you.” Nixie gestured to her son who was now sitting on a chair behind the table, his thumbs working overtime on his phone’s display. She turned to him and said, “I’ve got to take care of something, so stay in the office. When I get back, we have to talk about that girl you’ve been dating.”

  Nixie’s son barely glanced up. Rory walked out the door with the convention organizer. As she passed the memorial, she stopped to place the necklace she was wearing around the photograph of Jasmine at the display’s center. She pressed her middle and index f
ingers to her lips, then touched them to the photograph.

  Overcome by emotion, Rory headed outside for some fresh air.

  As soon as she reached the sidewalk, she encountered the man with a goatee and tattoo on his neck she’d seen leading the protesters the day she couldn’t get into the parking garage. His presence reminded her of the damage to her window. He tried to give her a flyer, but she waved it away.

  “Why should I support a group that threw a rock through my window?” Rory said.

  For a moment, the man was taken aback by her comment, but he soon rallied. “We had nothing to do with any rocks being thrown or houses being egged. None of us in the group does anything that causes damage. We’re just trying to get the word out about how unfair the owner and builder of the hotel have been.”

  While they talked, passersby stopped and listened to the conversation. Before long, a sizeable group had gathered around the two of them. The man took the opportunity to hand out flyers to all of the bystanders.

  “What about the stink bomb? I read in today’s View that was your group,” Rory said.

  “That was different. We didn’t hurt anything. Just making a point. The hotel has been stinking up our lives, so we stunk up theirs.”

  “What about the guests of the Akaw? That wasn’t exactly pleasant for them. They didn’t do anything.”

  “Collateral damage. All of the protests would go away if the hotel’s owner would take some responsibility. Houses were damaged and many people who’ve lived in this city for years can’t afford to repair them. Many of those are senior citizens who’ve contributed to Vista Beach for decades.” The man’s voice grew louder and more strident, attracting even more pedestrians.

  The press of the crowd around the two of them made Rory nervous. “You’re not taking responsibility for the false alarm the other day,” she continued. “People could have panicked and been hurt trying to get out of the building.”

  The man shook his head. “That wasn’t us.” In a much softer voice, he mumbled what sounded to her like “wish we’d thought of it.” In a tone that carried down the block, he continued his tirade against the hotel, addressing the crowd instead of her.