“It’s over, I can feel it.” Cherie looked down at her hands as if she didn’t recognize them. “I’ve been kidding myself for a long time now, but he couldn’t have made it any clearer. Not coming to my 40th birthday party sends a pretty big signal. I’m over the hill—time for a newer model,” she groused indignantly. “And after all the effort I’ve put into our marriage. I singlehandedly created a legacy garden. You’d think he’d appreciate that. Ha! It was so great in the beginning…traveling with him while on location…” Cherie shook her head, smirking at some secret grievance. “I’m the one who should be disappointed, not him.”
Madeline was at a loss for words. Part of her felt sorry for Cherie. Another part of her felt she was a spoiled, bitter woman who had expected a lot out of life and had given little.
Regardless of Cherie’s mindset, Madeline couldn’t let her derail the evening. Cherie could cancel the next two days, which would suit her just fine. Her fee was set, come rain or shine or sudden divorce.
“Listen, Cherie—you’ve got some of the world biggest luminaries waiting for you to make your grand entrance. We’ve been all through the Ross thing. You know he’d be here if he could. I can understand you feeling rejected, especially on a milestone birthday. I’m also damn sure you’ll make him pay for his tardiness,” Madeline joked. Cherie looked at her with eyes devoid of hope. “But he’ll be here tomorrow, so—”
“He’s not coming back until Sunday night,” Cherie said sharply. Madeline closed her eyes and let out a pained sigh. “He doesn’t love me. He wouldn’t do this to me if he did!” Cherie whimpered, bursting into tears.
Madeline rubbed her temples and summoned her most commanding presence.
“Cherie…Cherie, stop crying and listen to me,” she said, handing her a tissue to limit the damage. “Whatever is going on between you and Ross at this moment is immaterial. You’ve got ninety-six successful, powerful, pampered people down there waiting for you to dazzle them. You wanted a big Hollywood bash, you got one. No matter what happens to your marriage, if you blow this night, it’s never going to be repeated.”
Madeline got up and retrieved the crystal-laden dress from the clothing rack and thrust it at her.
“Put this on, fix your makeup and get your butt down there before you lose control of the evening,” she said, stunning Cherie into obedient silence. They heard a knock on the door as Sally, the makeup artist, entered.
“Perfect timing,” Madeline said, motioning for Sally to take over. “I’m calling down to the kitchen to fire the dessert. You’ve got ten minutes to get her presentable and get her down there. Ten minutes,” Madeline reiterated for good measure before storming out of the room. She made the call to the kitchen and bypassed the staircase, heading instead to Vivian’s suite.
“Vivian,” she said softly after rapping lightly on the door. When she got no response, she increased the volume. After three attempts, she tried the door handle. It was unlocked.
“Vivian?” she asked as she crept in and closed the door. The lights were on in the sitting room, so Madeline took the liberty of continuing on. “Vivian?” she called out again. Still no response.
She crossed through the sitting room and peered into the bedroom. The lamp on the bedside table shone brightly enough to illuminate the body that lay sprawled across the floor.
“Oh dear God,” she cried out as she ran to Vivian and turned her face up. “Oh God, oh God,” she pleaded, quickly feeling Vivian’s carotid artery for a sign of life. She was about to attempt CPR when she saw the ligature marks across Vivian’s neck.
Madeline staggered to her feet in horror as Vivian’s features came into focus. She could now see in Vivian’s eyes the lost struggle of trying to draw in air. Madeline reached down and touched Vivian’s face. It was unnaturally cool to the touch. She dialed 911, fighting to control her emotions as the dispatcher’s voice came on the line.
TWENTY
Madeline sat in the same chair she had occupied earlier that day, when Vivian recited Walter’s poem to her. Like everyone else now confined to the estate until their statements could be taken, she was in a state of shock.
The coroner had Vivian’s body transported to the County Morgue. Because of her celebrity status and the nature of her demise, the autopsy would be performed immediately. The coroner’s initial conclusion was death by strangulation; that was at least part of the story. His team continued to take photos while a variety of city and county law enforcement officers sealed off the area, searched for clues and collected evidence.
Having been the one who found the body, Madeline had been kept in Vivian’s sitting room, answering questions while desperately trying to put the pieces together for herself.
She was explaining the circumstances of her discovery for the third time when Detective Slovitch arrived. He gave her a look she couldn’t quite interpret: surprised by her presence, but in a way, not surprised, as if becoming accustomed to finding her wherever trouble lurked.
When the sheriff’s deputy was through with her, Slovitch moved in with some questions of his own.
“So, I take it you’re here in the role of event planner.”
“Actually, I was performing two functions here. I was hired by the victim’s daughter-in-law to oversee her 40th birthday party. Two days ago, I was hired by the deceased in my capacity as a private investigator.” Madeline knew her admission guaranteed this was going to be a very long night. Detective Slovitch motioned for her to follow him out of the now crowded suite of rooms to somewhere he could grill her in private.
“Okay, start with two days ago,” he said as he closed the door in one of the guest suites. Madeline took advantage of the opportunity to sit down and kick off her shoes. “Go ahead, make yourself comfortable,” he chided her.
“It’s been a very long day and night,” Madeline said defensively.
“And it’s going to get a lot longer,” Slovitch said as he pulled out a desk chair and turned it around so that he was seated with the chair back to his chest. “Why did Vivian Story hire you?”
Madeline weighed her options. Her employer was now dead, and since the circumstances of her death were in question, she couldn’t very well plead client confidentiality, especially if this was a homicide, which it certainly appeared to be. This, she realized, gave her no options at all.
“Three expensive pieces of jewelry were taken from her room.”
“When did this happen?”
“About ten days ago. They had been missing for a week when Vivian approached me.”
“So, Miss Story hired you to find the missing jewels?”
Madeline considered this. The case wasn’t very straightforward; the identity and background of “Teresa Maria Gomez” was a complicating factor sure to throw this murder into a whole different light. Madeline’s empty stomach churned at the thought of Teresa as the main suspect in a homicide. Could she be capable of such a thing? Madeline had her doubts, but things were not looking good for her. At this stage, she was no longer Madeline’s worry. Finding Vivian’s killer was the top priority.
“Ultimately, yes,” Madeline answered at length. “But her first concern was to find out more about her hired companion. Teresa had worked for a friend of Vivian’s until that woman’s death. She came to work for Vivian straightaway. There was never any vetting process. And as I found out from speaking to the daughter of Vivian’s late friend, she was hired out of a similar set of circumstances.
“So, to answer your question, Vivian wanted me to run a background check on Teresa, see if there was anything in her past that she should know about. I thought then, as I do now, that she suspected the girl of taking her jewelry. If I had come to that conclusion after a thorough background check, I don’t think Vivian would’ve pursued the matter any further.”
“You said the jewels were expensive?” Slovitch asked, taking a pad and pen from his jacket pocket.
“Yes. She hadn’t had them appraised in a long time, but I’m guessing they were worth about fifty grand, each. She told me yesterday when I asked for photos to work from that her son had the pieces insured under his policy when she moved in here last year. It’s possible that he or his carrier know their current value.”
Detective Slovitch’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and took the call.
“What is it?” he asked. After the caller spoke, he put his hand over the phone.
“There’s a woman trying to get in the front gate. She says she’s the housekeeper.” This news came as a shock to Madeline. “Was she on duty this evening?”
“Yes.”
“Let her through and have her wait in the foyer,” Slovitch said. He slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.
“If the housekeeper was on duty tonight, why wasn’t she on the premises when the body was discovered and the house shut down?” he asked.
“That’s a very good question,” Madeline answered. She could think of no reason for Helen to be off the premises. She lived in a cottage on the estate and she was as involved as anyone in overseeing the party.
“I thought she was here all evening. I was looking for her to cover for me so I could hustle Mrs. Alexander along and check in with Vivian.” Madeline suddenly remembered the note in her pocket. She pulled it out and handed it to Slovitch.
“When did you get this?” he asked, his face becoming tense as he realized they had a solid clue to the victim’s death. Madeline thought back.
“My assistant gave it to me around 9:15. I believe Vivian had given it to her right before she and Teresa went to her rooms. According to Lauren, that would’ve been around 8:45.”
“So, half an hour had elapsed between the victim giving your assistant the note and you finding her dead—is that right?”
Madeline’s face colored. She suddenly felt like she was going to be sick. If she hadn’t wasted time waiting for Helen to cover for her, or detoured to Cherie’s room first, could she have prevented Vivian’s death?
She stood up on wobbly legs and bolted for the bathroom. Detective Slovitch bowed his head and let out a strained sigh as he listened to the dry heaves coming from the other room. When he heard muffled sobs, he got up and rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles.
“Madeline…are you all right?” he asked.
Madeline dried her eyes and blew her nose, then opened the door. “I’m sorry. It just occurred to me that if I’d checked on her sooner, Miss Story might still be alive.” Detective Slovitch put his hand on her shoulder, giving it a compassionate squeeze before getting back to police business.
“I want you present when I interview the housekeeper. Is there somewhere else we can convene?” he asked as Madeline slipped her shoes back on her angry feet and passed out into the hallway.
“The library is a good spot, if it’s not already in use,” Madeline suggested. Detective Slovitch barked out a laugh.
“Oh perfect—the housekeeper in the library with the candlestick,” he quipped. “I should’ve guessed.” Despite Detective Slovitch’s sanguine attitude, there was nothing remotely humorous about murder. And now the question blazed in her mind like a neon sign: Who did it?
As they headed for the stairs, they were assaulted by the dramatic sobbing coming from Cherie’s wing of the house. They halted as Detective Slovitch made a call to his partner.
“It sounds like Mrs. Alexander took the news of her mother-in-law’s death pretty hard,” he said when Detective Eames answered. “You doing okay in there?” Cherie suddenly let out a furious shriek accompanied by the sound of something breaking. Slovitch put his hand over the phone.
“Maybe we better speak with the lady of the house first. She might be under sedation before long.”
Madeline was forced to agree with his logic. She knew Cherie could be quite volatile when things weren’t going her way. But the fit she was apparently throwing seemed incongruent with the passing of a family member. It sounded a lot more like Cherie feeling outrage for a betrayal against Cherie.
As they got closer, Madeline felt a growing sense of dread; surely after what had happened, she should be off the hook where her involvement with Cherie Alexander was concerned. Another jolt of anxiety hit her as she envisioned the scene down below: dozens of guests and assorted professionals—from the catering staff to the photographers and videographers to law enforcement—all in a dither, each in their own way trying to escape the bedlam.
What a disaster, Madeline thought as she followed Detective Slovitch into Cherie’s dressing room. And the worst part of it all was the loss of a truly lovely woman. Now the most pressing question was who would want Vivian dead?
That conundrum was promptly pushed from her mind as she came face to face with Cherie. Madeline had already been expecting the worst, but she was shocked by the sight of her client. All semblances of dignity and civility were gone; Cherie’s silk kimono barely hung on her shoulders and did nothing to cover up her wispy undergarments.
“He couldn’t come back for my fortieth birthday—noooo way! Couldn’t possibly hold up the shooting schedule!” Cherie groused loudly for Madeline’s benefit. “But now he’s borrowed someone’s jet and he’ll be here in three hours. It really shows where I rank in the scheme of things,” she said, tossing back what was left in her champagne flute.
Now Madeline understood why she’d been dragged into this scene: the last thing the detectives wanted to deal with right then was a deranged woman. She looked at each man, sighed sadly and took charge.
“Cherie, let me help you get dressed,” she said, picking out a silk shirt and a pair of slacks from her regular wardrobe.
“Dressed for what?” she snarled, pushing the clothes away. Madeline yanked her off to the side, out of hearing range from the detectives who were quite content to ignore the women while they compared notes.
“Cherie, you have to pull yourself together. You cannot throw temper tantrums in front of the police. Listen to me!” she said forcefully, keeping her voice low. “For God’s sake, your mother-in-law has been murdered. You acting like an eight-year-old spoiled brat is not going to make you look so good in their eyes.”
“Why should I care what they think?” Cherie spat, though there was less venom in her delivery this time. She glanced at the detectives, some of her bravado waning.
“Think about this, Cherie. Vivian is dead. Someone killed her. Do you really want anyone thinking you have so little feeling for your mother-in-law? Come on, get a hold of yourself. If Ross sees you acting like this, or even hears about it, you might as well start packing now.”
Madeline’s words finally broke through the self-pity. Cherie’s face crumbled as the reality of her situation hit home. Short, staccato sobs broke free, accompanied by copious tears. Madeline patted her shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to comfort her.
“What am I going to do?” Cherie moaned. “Madeline, what am I going to do?” She sank onto the large ottoman, her eyes locked on Madeline’s, like a drowning woman clinging to a life preserver. “Ross is going to blame me, I know he is. And my beautiful party—a year’s worth of planning—all ruined! Oh God, I wish I were dead!”
Madeline shot Detective Slovitch a look. He responded by meeting her halfway.
“This woman could probably do with some medical attention,” she said quietly.
“We really need to get a statement out of her first,” Slovitch said.
“Has she been any help to your partner so far?” Madeline challenged. Slovitch shook his head.
“I think she’s in shock, which unfortunately for her, manifests itself in rather a narcissistic way.”
“Have you added ‘psychoanalyst’ to your roster of professions?”
“No,” Madeline said, ignoring the barb, “but I’ve spent a solid twelve months with this woman and I
know what makes her tick.”
“Are you speaking as a party planner or as a private investigator?” Slovitch asked.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Right now, I think you need to realize that you’re not really in a position to advocate for this woman.”
Madeline’s mouth opened, but she was unable to speak. Slovitch’s insinuation completely stymied her. Cherie Alexander was a mess; she was a woman who was constantly insecure about her social standing and feared for the future of her marriage. She disguised her bundle of insecurities with a childlike indulgence for wielding power over others, and spending money like it was minted specially for her use.
But was she a murderer? Madeline found the notion almost preposterous. The ‘almost’ part bothered her.
“Well, like you said, Detective Slovitch, I’m not really in a position to ‘advocate’ for her, so I’ll leave it to the pros. Did you still want me to be there when you take the housekeeper’s statement?” Detective Slovitch nodded thoughtfully before cocking his head, a signal for her to follow him.
When Cherie realized Madeline was not going to be staying with her, she panicked.
“Where’re you going? Please don’t leave me! I don’t know what to do.”
“Cooperate with the police. If you have a family attorney, it might not be a bad idea to give him or her a call.” This last suggestion had a sobering effect on Cherie. “And remember that Ross has just lost his mother.” Madeline gave her a look of pity mingled with disgust and left Cherie in Detective Eames’ capable hands.
TWENTY-ONE
“I had been keeping an eye on Miss Story throughout dinner, which is why I went to check up on her when I realized she and that girl had left the party,” Helen explained to Detective Slovitch. Her face was composed as she recounted her movements prior to Vivian’s body being discovered, but her hands gave her away. Her fingers squirmed nervously in their tight grasp, as if trying to wiggle free and escape the interrogation.
Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 02 - A High Price to Pay Page 14