Facials Can Be Fatal

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Mrs. Dale peered at her. “What’s your interest in this? You’re asking very personal questions.”

  She gave a sheepish grin. “I’m married to Detective Vail. Sometimes I help him with his investigations. And I feel bad about what happened to Val. I didn’t know her as well as my beautician, but I’d like to honor her memory by getting better acquainted now.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Dale compressed her lips. “I can tell you that Miss Val was a generous employer and a friend. She was really quite shy, more so than people believed. She’d hole up in her studio for hours. Painting brought her peace.”

  “Did either of her parents have artistic talent?”

  “No, but Miss Val got her love of history from her father. He filled her imagination with stories of pirates, Indians, and Spanish explorers. Would you believe she went to garage sales looking for old diaries written by Florida pioneers?”

  “Really?” Marla rummaged in her handbag and withdrew the copied pages in her possession. “Is that how she got hold of Warren Brookstone’s journal? I’ve made a copy.”

  Mrs. Dale’s face paled as she noted the papers in Marla’s hand.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “How did you get that journal?” Mrs. Dale demanded.

  “Val must have left instructions for this book to be sent to a friend in the event of her death. The friend, one of our customers, thought I should pass it on to my husband.”

  “Oh, my. I never guessed . . . I never thought—”

  “Wait. You mailed it to Nadia?”

  Mrs. Dale gazed out the window. “I was following Miss Val’s wishes and figured Nadia already knew what was inside.”

  “Nadia did admit she and Val knew each other’s secrets. Do you know what this is about, Mrs. Dale?”

  The woman’s lips compressed. “All I’ll say is that Miss Val felt torn after she read that book, but she wasn’t at fault for her father’s sins.”

  Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. “Who is the Warren fellow who wrote it? Was it someone Val knew?”

  “Warren was her father. Miss Val took on her mother’s family name after her divorce. Once she’d read those pages, she was glad of her choice.”

  “Did her father share this book with her while he was still alive?”

  “No, Miss Val discovered it while sorting through his things after he died.”

  Marla squirmed with impatience, wishing to get to the heart of the secrets. “What happened during his early trip to Florida?”

  Mrs. Dale plucked at her apron. “Something nobody wanted to talk about, then or now.”

  Marla tried another tack. “I take it Val’s dad married into wealth?”

  The housekeeper nodded, her expression easing at the safer topic. “The mother was a Weston. They made their fortune from Florida’s East Coast Railroad in the 1890s. Miss Val didn’t have an easy childhood, trying to live up to her parents’ expectations. Her sister, Miss Cathy, was better suited in that regard. Miss Val tried to please them once by marrying, but it didn’t work out. She claimed the guy was only after her money and got a divorce.”

  “I hear the former husband remarried and lives in California.”

  “He did all right for himself. I often wonder if Miss Val’s the one who did him an injustice.”

  “How so?” Marla leaned forward, her shoulders aching from inactivity. She wanted to rise and pace the room but maintained her seat so as not to disrupt the flow of conversation. Mrs. Dale seemed eager to talk, as though she couldn’t trust the other staff members enough to confide in them.

  Mrs. Dale’s gaze darted toward the door. “You might ask her friend Nadia that question.”

  Marla let a weighty pause come between them. “Why did Val give this book to you for safekeeping rather than the trustee of her estate?”

  The housekeeper gave her a narrowed glance. “She wasn’t too happy with him, that’s why. At first, she loved the guy like an uncle, but lately she’d begun to suspect he hadn’t fallen far from the tree.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Like father, like son.”

  Marla gritted her teeth in frustration. Mrs. Dale wasn’t going to give up any names. About to whip out the photos on her cell phone that Jason had sent, she had a better idea.

  “I’d love to see an album of Val’s childhood to get a better sense of her personality. I can see Val was much beloved and I’m sorry I never truly got a chance to know her. I already told Friends of Old Florida I’d make a donation in her memory.”

  “That’s kind of you.” With a sweep of her skirt, Mrs. Dale rose. She marched over to a console, opened a drawer, and withdrew a heavy album. “Miss Val was into scrapbooking in her younger days, another manifestation of her artistic talent. She was really quite good.” Beaming with pride like a parent, she showed Marla the large tome.

  Impressed by Val’s creativity, Marla turned the pages displaying photos of birthday parties, childhood milestones, family trips, and school events. A particular face ballooned out to her in one photo with all four family members. Yes, that guy was the spitting image of the man in Warren’s travel journal. So Val’s dad had been the author.

  “Thank you,” she said finally, closing the album. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me. This has been insightful.” True, although Marla had more questions than answers.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. I’ll see you to the door, Mrs. Vail.”

  Marla rose obediently and followed the woman toward the vestibule. “How long will you and the others be allowed to live here?”

  “The trustee has hired us to maintain the place until it’s sold and to prepare the contents for auction. He’s giving us all references. You needn’t worry on our score.”

  “I forgot his name. It’s Mister . . . ?”

  “Sorry, I’m not at liberty to say. He’s mentioned that Miss Val remembered the staff in her will. She was always thoughtful of us.”

  “So I gather.” Aware she’d overstayed her welcome, Marla bid the woman farewell and headed for home. She had a few hours of quiet time to spare. She’d put them to good use by delving further into the journal.

  After taking the dogs for a walk so she could get some exercise, she settled onto the family room sofa with the stack of printed pages. She began reading at the spot where she’d left off. The three friends, having yet to find their idyllic spot, had camped out overnight.

  Early morning found us in the town of Homestead and on individual searches for information. This we did more through force of habit than with the expectation of receiving a good lead regarding our fantasized island. However, the unexpected sometimes happens, and it was Ralph who returned with good news.

  He’d learned that about sixty miles from Homestead, at the extreme tip of the wildest and most desolate part of Florida, rested Cape Sable. Upon settling the state, the Spaniards had planted here an immense grove of coconut trees. These trees had been perpetuated and cultivated for many centuries until a forest extended for miles bordering a beautiful sandy beach. This lonesome site was seldom visited by human beings.

  Marla took a break to get a cup of coffee. Then she read on as the boys made a difficult but uneventful drive that came to a less than satisfactory halt. The details fascinated her, as did the boys’ bravery in exploring the unknown.

  The only water we saw along the way was in drainage canals. At one time, we had a very narrow escape that might have had serious results had our guardian angel not been with us. Racing along the road at breakneck speed, we sped around a curve. George and I gave a simultaneous yell of warning.

  A dozen feet ahead of us was a canal bridged by two narrow planks just wide enough to accommodate our tires. By a quick application of the brakes, which nearly put our heads through the windshield, Ralph managed to bring our car to a quivering stop, mere inches from the waterway. Our crossing was an extremely cautious one. We put another canal behind us and finally came to the widest of them all. This one was filled with racing water of
a greenish, unhealthy color. We had reached the end of the road and took to our feet.

  Equipped with our hatchet and two stout clubs for protection, we paraded single-file along the narrow and barely discernible trail that paralleled the canal. We passed pools of discolored and slimy water to our left. As we continued, these were replaced by treacherous-appearing mud. Gaunt, sun-whitened trunks of dead trees grew from this slimy ooze as if nurtured by its foulness.

  Soon we came to an immense forest of ghostly remains. Some of these trees were twisted out of shape as if they had died in terrible agony. The roots of these once mighty monarchs resembled thick, entwined masses of sleeping snakes. From the few branches that remained, streamers of Spanish moss hung like so many shrouds.

  When we reached the point where another canal intersected the one we had been following, we halted. The turbulent waters rushing together in the middle of the streams made it impossible to wade to the other side. We touched bottom with a long stick and found it to be well over our heads.

  None of us was able to swim well enough to risk battling the rough current. Even had we been able to do so, the thought of hidden alligators would have deterred us. A boat was out of the question. We wasted no further time in contemplating the impossible and hurriedly began to retrace our footsteps to the car.

  Her mood dampened, Marla put down the pages in her hand. Although she hadn’t read anything significant to Val’s case yet, the quality of the writing impressed her. Warren’s vivid descriptions made her feel as though she was there in that awful swamp.

  She picked up her cell phone, needing comfort, and called Tally. She’d meant to check on her friend earlier anyway.

  “I hope I’m not disrupting your Christmas preparations,” she said when her friend answered. “Can you believe the holiday is two days away? We’re still celebrating Hanukkah.”

  “How did your dinner party go?” Tally inquired.

  “It went fine. Brianna likes lighting the menorah. And her parents didn’t make the mistake of blowing out the candles like that year your husband did it.” They shared a laugh. “How is Ken, by the way? Is he taking any time off for the holidays?”

  “No, if anything, work is keeping him later. It’s a busy season.”

  Marla heard the flippant remark with concern. She sensed more going on there. Should she pry? Had Tally learned the real reason for her husband’s late hours? Torn between loyalty to her friend and not wishing to stir a hornets’ nest, she decided to keep silent on the matter.

  “How is little Luke? Is that him I hear fussing in the background?”

  “I just laid him down for a nap. I’ve some more gifts to wrap and then I’m going to rest. How’s the murder case going? The lawsuit with the disgruntled client?”

  “All right.” Marla kept her tone light. “I’ll let you go. We should make a date to get together with the guys after the holidays. If your plans for New Year’s Day fall through in the meantime, you can join us here. We’re having a few people over for a low-key party.”

  “Sure, Marla. Thanks for calling.”

  Marla hung up, a sour flavor on her tongue. Tally was usually so talkative and much more interested in Marla’s investigative activities. Troubled over what might be going on at her friend’s house, she picked up the papers again and read on. The boys’ exploration for a spot of paradise continued. They bought supplies in Miami and then headed north toward Fort Lauderdale. Discovering a dirt road that ran parallel to the ocean, they took the less-travelled path.

  The sight that greeted us when we had driven a short distance brought forth cries of enthusiasm and joy. The sky blue waters of the ocean and a wide expanse of beach stretched into the far distance. In the middle of this panorama of beauty, sitting in splendid isolation, was a rugged log cabin. It seemed to have been built to order for our benefit. A few lonesome coconut trees stood romantically outlined in the reflected glory of the setting sun.

  We approached the door that stood invitingly open. When we entered, it was to find a scene of disorder. Rubbish littered the cement floor. Piles of empty tin cans, old newspapers, sand that the wind had blown in through holes between the logs, and a varied assortment of odds and ends covered every inch. Spider webs stretched overhead, and their disturbed occupants scurried around in great excitement. Thousands of fast-moving ants moved everywhere. Where there had once been windows, now were yawning gaps.

  But this sight did not discourage us. Without bothering to make inquiries regarding the place’s ownership or to consider that we might be trespassing upon private property, we rolled up our sleeves and began to clean house.

  Marla’s pulse accelerated. She felt on the brim of discovering something important. Had these men found an item of significance in this isolated cabin? Buried treasure? Old letters between lovers? An important political document lost to time?

  The inner garage door banged open, and she set the pages down. Brianna rushed to greet her with a radiant face. The teen’s long braid swung as she approached. “Dad let me drive home. I did good, didn’t I?”

  Dalton gave Marla a quick kiss after she’d leapt up at their arrival. “Yes, you were great. I was a nervous wreck, though. I fear the day when you get your own car.”

  “It’s an anxiety every parent has to confront,” Marla said in a soothing tone. “You’ll get through it.” We’ll worry ourselves sick, but we’ll manage. There’s no choice. “I’ve been reading the journal. I got to an interesting part where the boys found their idyllic location at a log cabin on the beach. I have a hunch that’s where they discover something relevant.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Dalton sounded regretful.

  “Don’t be. How was the hockey game? I assume you ate lunch there?”

  “It was great.” Dalton stared after his daughter, already on her cell phone while walking to her room. “She met some kids from school that she knew. One of them was a boy who gave her the look.”

  “What look?” Marla asked with a smile, as though she didn’t know what he meant.

  “You know. What if she wants to start dating? She’s way too young.”

  “Kids hang out in groups these days. It’ll be a while before she goes on a real date. Besides, you’re jumping the gun. Driving lessons are enough for right now.” She tilted her head. “I’ve set the table for Christmas dinner. Have you confirmed the time with your parents?”

  “Yes, they’ll be here. Let’s hope nothing calls me away, although Kat will be on duty for the holiday. So what have you accomplished today?”

  “I went to Val’s house and spoke with her housekeeper.” She sat down at the kitchen table while he claimed a chair opposite. “Mrs. Dale said the staff had been employed by Val’s trustee to prepare things for auction. The housekeeper didn’t mention the guy’s name, but she said Val wasn’t happy with him lately. She’d considered him like an uncle but recently had begun suspecting he hadn’t fallen far from the tree, whatever that means.”

  Dalton nodded as she concluded her recital. “The attorney is due back from vacation this weekend. I’ll stop by to see him tomorrow. He’ll give me the man’s name.”

  “What about the bank where Val had her accounts? Wouldn’t the trustee be listed there?”

  “The account is in her name, not the trust’s. Kat is tracking down Val’s investment accounts.”

  “Listen to this. Mrs. Dale admitted that Val’s dad wrote the journal. Warren Brookstone was Valerie’s father.”

  “Interesting. I hadn’t gotten that far in tracing her family history, especially since her ties relate to the wealthy Westons.”

  “She took her mother’s maiden name after getting a divorce. The housekeeper hinted that something in this journal convinced Val she’d made the right choice.”

  Dalton frowned. “I still can’t guess how Jason Faulks enters the picture. One of the photos he sent you shows Henutt Soe Dum and another man. The second picture shows Howard Cohn speaking to someone at the charity ball.”

  �
�We know Howard must be related to one of the guys in the journal. They look too much alike. Why do you think Jason was interested in them? Could he have been more than a society photographer? Perhaps he was working on an investigative piece and stumbled onto something relevant.”

  “You could be right. Kat is checking into his background. Meanwhile, Detective Monroe from Fort Lauderdale is in charge of that investigation. I’ll have another chat with him to see what he’s learned.”

  “Assuming Jason’s death is related to one of the photos he sent me, that still gives us Yolanda’s husband as a suspect. Did you ask him for the identity of this other person?”

  “He claimed it was a guy he barely knew and stopped to greet.” Dalton thrust his fingers through his hair. “I’ll ask Monroe to have his cyber team search Faulks’s computer files. The photographer must have left notes somewhere.”

  “I should have asked Mrs. Dale if Jason had ever visited Val at her home. That would provide a connection between them.” She rose, too fidgety to sit still.

  “By the way, Kat tracked down the girl from your day spa.”

  She stared at him. “You found Patty and didn’t call me? You know we’ve been concerned about her.”

  “I was waiting until we had more solid info.” His mouth compressed. “Your former assistant used her credit card in Wellington, where she’d recently set herself up in a new rental apartment. The landlord said she’d paid cash for her first month’s rent and the security deposit.”

  “So did Kat interview her?”

  “Yes. When threatened with being considered an accomplice, Patty admitted she’d been paid to mix a substance into Val’s face cream. It was supposed to be a prank.”

  “How could that be a prank? Did Patty think causing Val to have an allergic reaction would be a mild scare?”

  “She didn’t think. The money tempted her. A man on a phone hired her and left a bundle of cash for her cooperation.”

  “Patty must have added the substance the evening before, probably after Rosana left for the day. She would have had access to Rosana’s files, too.”