“Yes sir,” the Sargent answered.
“Thank you, Mollie, your information has been most helpful since you and the Sky Cap were the last two people to see Ms. Rosalie Adams alive. You are free to go. Please take my card and let me know if you think of anything no matter how small that may help in this investigation. And as I’ve already mentioned, we must insist that you don’t leave town.”
I headed out the door and in Colombo fashion, I turned and said, “One more thing. Ms. Adams did use some kind of nasal spray before she put on the mask and went to sleep or died or whatever.”
“Hmmm! The tox screen will show what that was. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find a prescription bottle in her purse. Officers are going through her belongings now. Ms. Adams’ entourage arrives tomorrow. Is that correct?”
I took hold of the door handle. “Yes. I booked Ms. Adams and company into the Hilton Gardens downtown. And that’s another thing,” I said. “Why didn’t they come with her?”
“I’m told that they never travel together,” Jonathan said. “Security you know.”
“Of course.” I wondered if Jonathan Olson, Detective, was a fan. There will be a lot of unhappy fans when the news breaks. Mourners will no doubt place flowers, candles, pictures, and the like in front of the city auditorium in her honor. I wondered if the concert would go on as scheduled. It was a sold out affair and no one likes to refund money.
Finn wasn’t allowed in the interrogation room so I brought him up to speed on what Detective Olson wanted. I kept it to myself that the detective and I attended high school together. Finn’s caddy was in the impound lot while they searched it for evidence. The city was spending a bucket load of money on this investigation and I hoped the murderer – if indeed she was murdered – would be found soon and everyone’s mind put to rest.
Of course, this whole episode was a big scoop for the Beacon. A person dying in the back of the Beacon owner’s car with a newspaper employee as a person of interest. I’m sure Lincoln Travers, the curmudgeon’s favorite reporter, was all over this with several articles drafted already. I hoped he painted me as the typical innocent bystander – wrong place wrong time. Or better still, don’t mention me at all.
4
I was still pondering Maggie’s journals when I returned home. I took the family photograph album down from the shelf and flipped through the pages until I got to the Caribbean cruise pictures. Maggie enjoyed this trip better than any other. Since I was the photographer in the family, I’m not in as many pictures as the rest of the crew. Mom must have taken this one where we visited the mansion where they shot some of the scenes from “Some Like It Hot”. Maggie and I watched that movie over and over. We never tired of Joe E. Brown’s last line to Jack Lemon -- “Nobody’s perfect.”
I pulled a shawl over my shoulders. It was one of Maggie’s because I was overwhelmed with her White Shoulders perfume. I remember a quote from John Irving’s Prayers for Owen Meany:
When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.
I never wanted that second day to come. I wanted to have my sister’s memory forever. Just having her scent comforted me in this crazy situation where I was fighting for my reputation and maybe even my freedom.
When our mother was dying with breast cancer, she requested that I read to her from Maggie’s journals. My sister wrote with the elegance of a poet laureate. Mother smiled at Maggie’s sketches that she drew to accompany many of her random thoughts. I never had that skill. How I wish I had paid more attention to Maggie’s writing when she was alive.
She’d have such a laugh that I finally settled down and got that journalism degree. Maggie’s dream had always been to earn an MFA and teach children writing, painting, drawing, and sketching – all the wonders of art and literacy. As for me, I was having too much fun to wonder what I would do when I grew up. Maggie’s death jarred me into realizing the fragility of life.
My cell buzzed and ended the reverie. It was Finn telling me that the Beacon’s Board of Directors had placed me on administrative leave while the Adams’ investigation was ongoing. However, he assured me a base salary and offered my current office for freelance work.
Well at least I’d get paid something. My needs were minimal – rent, phone, and food. Mother’s investments were in my savings if I got in a financial bind. All this time off was a bonus and gave me a window to find out everything there was to know about Ms. Rosalie Adams and the other members of Rock with Rosie. Who were these people? What were their responsibilities? What would Rosie’s death mean to them? What events occurred while Ms. Adams and the crew were in England? What did Rosie eat or drink on the flight and is that important?
I dug out a notepad and proceeded to jot down these questions. Being a sleuth was a lot of work. One question begged another and soon I had a filled a notebook with questions about this case.
I decided to take Finn up on his offer of using my office for freelance work. Research is a vital part of freelance and if I remembered to clear my computer history no one need know what I’m looking into.
5
The following day I plotted my strategy all the way to the Beacon. Finn was behind his computer screen. He didn’t notice me when I shoved my tote into its compartment and turned on my computer. I used my ID and password to get into our system and searched for Ms. Adams’ Delta flight number. I knew the date and time so it was only a matter of elimination. If I could obtain a press pass I could find out who the crew on board was, what food and drink were served on the flight, and who else was on board. I’m sure the police already knew all of this information but Detective Olson was cute but very tight-lipped about the case.
“Hey Mollie. Back at work?” a co-worker greeted.
“No. Just back to pick up a few personal items,” I answered.
I wanted to interview the entourage. This meant I’d have to poke around in order to get their room numbers. We had arranged for accommodations at Hilton Gardens for Ms. Adams and her group. It was the newest hotel in town and close to the Community Center where the concert would take place. How much time does it take to recover from jet lag? Had the police already been to the hotel? What about the media?
When were Ms. Adams’ next of kin coming for identification purposes and to make arrangements once her body was released? Another question. So many questions and the more I probed the more questions arose. A simple pickup and delivery turned out to be a deeply involved mire of unanswered means and motives.
About that time the newspaper employees began arriving. It got Finn’s attention, he spotted me and waved. I nodded back. I had to get my information quickly and send it to my USB before he ambled back here on his way to the coffee machine.
“Good morning, Mollie,” Finn said. “Did you get the message that you are on leave until the investigation is over?”
“Yes. Thanks for that. I wanted to take you up on the offer to use the office for freelance writing. The base salary won’t be enough for my needs so I wanted to research some magazines and periodicals where I could submit,” I said and pretended to look forlorn.
“Since transportation proved to be . . . um not your cup of tea, when the leave of absence is over maybe Dad would let you take a crack at reporting on some of the social events around town? Would you be interested?”
I nodded and managed to contain my enthusiasm.
“I have complimentary tickets to the reunion concert at the Community Center. Of course you couldn’t represent the newspaper, but we could attend. Because of Ms. Adams’ unfortunate demise, they’ve called in REM and the Indigo Girls to appea
r as homage to her memory. Are you interested?”
Was I? Wild horses couldn’t keep me back, but I had to play it cool so I acted mildly interested. “I’d love to. But wouldn’t we still need press passes?”
“Of course. Pick up one from my secretary.”
My mind was spinning. In the last 48 hours I ‘ve dealt with a woman dying in a car that I was driving, been interrogated by the police, met an old classmate, and now was being handed a free pass to a wonderful concert with a guy I’ve had a crush on for months. Could life be any crazier? The question still hung over my head like the sword of Damocles – who killed Rosalie Adams? Why? And most of all why did they pick the car that I happened to be driving?
6
Nowhere compares to June in the south. Creamy magnolias amid polished emerald leaves create an aroma that can’t be duplicated. Gardenias announce their presence with their scent before the blossoms appear.
I try never to miss first blooms of summer. If I do, I feel like part of my year has a hole in it. On mornings like this one, Maggie and I would take Nemo, our rescue dachshund, for walks along the river. He would smell every blade of grass and scamper into the bushes looking for prey. Nemo’s antics always made us laugh. If the weather permitted, we’d take a blanket and relax in the summer sunshine.
Luckily I captured a few of these lazy days on film. Mother took one of Maggie, Me, and Nemo at one of the state parks. I framed it and keep it next to my bed where I see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night.
There in our private world, my twin and I would discuss our futures. Our dreams always ended in us co-owning a business, traveling abroad, and becoming filthy rich. Nemo was always part of the picture. He came to us by way of the animal shelter. He was a pup found in a trash dump. Sleek black coat with piercing amber eyes that would melt your heart. He won us over right away. Maggie named him Nemo after the Jules Verne’s character. We kept him until the ripe old age of ten – a long life for a wiener dog. His terminal diagnosis was diabetes. Maggie and I cried for a week when the vet had to put him down.
It breaks my heart to think of those days now – days lost forever when first Nemo, then Maggie, and then Mother went away. These precious photographs bring us back together and make me smile. That was the summer that I pierced my ears, cut my hair, and bleached it blonde. In the words of my sister, I was “a hot mess.” In my defense it was also the summer of Marilyn Monroe movies and our parents’ divorce. So much chocked into a few weeks. The blonde hair was a step in finding myself, but my twin was always confident in who she was.
Maggie would look at my circumstances and sum it up by saying ‘you’ve got work to do.’ And she’d be right. The task at hand is to find out just who are these three persons who are closer to Rosie Adams than her own kin.
My choices are: Rae who handles wardrobe, cosmetics, and personal items; Kimball who is in charge of sound, background tapes, backup singers, bands, and recording; and Dee the agent who handles all the public relations, marketing, expenses, and the media.
Presumably, the group has recovered from jet lag. I had my girlfriend, Callie, pretend to be my secretary and set up interviews with these three. By this afternoon I should have enough information to fill a book or at least enough to solve a murder.
7
I arrived at the Hilton Gardens ready for the interviews. The concierge called up to the rooms of Ms. Adams’ entourage. I wasn’t allowed any further than the lobby so I spread out my notebook, tape recorder, and laptop. I was ready for anything they could throw at me. At least I hoped so.
Dee and Kimball came down first. I was a little surprised that Kimball was a gentleman and also that they were a couple. Dee said that Rae would give us some time before she made an appearance.
They sat on the sofa opposite me. I asked Dee, “Tell me about yourself.” She took a minute and began what appeared to be a well-rehearsed version of her history.
“I come from a long line of people named McIlhenny. Yes, the folks who make Tabasco©. Our ancestor Edmund McIlhenny married into the family who owned Avery Island. He was put in charge of the agriculture on the island. Somehow he received some capsicum seeds from a Central American source. When the seedlings flourished, Edmund began experimenting with different types of sauces. He named his experiment ‘tabasco’ which is Spanish for ‘place where the soil is humid.’
Dee took a sip of water from her Rock with Rosie water bottle and continued, “Eventually he came up with the perfect formula for the now famous sauce. Encouraged by its popularity, he began bottling it in old perfume bottles and selling it locally. Generations later, my family is still running the organization with my cousins working either full time or over summer holidays.”
“Wow so your family name is McIlhenny?” I asked.
“Yes and No. I am part of the clan, yes. But my father is Tony Simmons, a McIlhenny cousin, who is now head of the corporation. My full name is Deidre Mary Simmons. I haven’t taken Kimball’s name so I am still a Simmons.”
“But the Tabasco business wasn’t for you?”
“I didn’t really have any plans. In 2005 Hurricane Rita hit the Louisiana coast hard. My relatives feared the worst and decided to bolster our business with a 17 foot levee to protect against further storms. Kimball came as part of the construction crew. We met and later got reacquainted at the University of Georgia. After graduation, we married and went to work for Rosie,” Dee looked at her husband as a signal for him to fill in the rest.
Kimball sighed, “Not much else to tell. I spent the summer on Avery Island working construction. Dee and I got to know each other and dated a few times. I studied IT, communications, electronics and audio production at UGA. We were dating when Rosie started up her band. By the time we all graduated, she was bringing in enough on her musical gigs to offer us a job which was a dream come true. We could be together, earn good money, and travel – a perfect gig.”
I jotted notes as quickly as possible thankful that I knew a little short hand plus abbreviations of my own creation. I had also asked their permission to tape the interview and they agreed. So that was my back up.
“Was Rosie in good health?” I asked the duo.
They looked at each other and nodded ‘yes.’
“Did she take any regular medications?” I asked the second question.
“We wouldn’t know any of that personal information. That’s more Rae’s wheelhouse,” Dee answered for the couple.
“Okay I’ll make a note of that. So, what are your plans now? I mean with Rosie gone,” I asked.
They looked at each other before Kimball finally spoke. “I have put out some feelers to a few friends in the business. Not many bands are willing to take on both of us, so our plans are uncertain. Of course, we can’t travel until the investigation is closed anyway.”
I nodded. “How does Rae fit into all of this?” I asked in my most journalistic tone.
“Rae was our suitemate in college,” Dee said. “Her major was fashion merchandising so it only made sense for her to join us. Because of her training she was up on all of the cosmetics and trends that Rosie needed for publicity and personal appearances.”
“A tight little family. Do all of you get along?” I asked and watched for facial expressions.
Kimball looked at his nails and said, “I dated Rae for a month or so when I first came to UGA. That was before she moved in with Dee and Rosie.”
Dee flinched and turned away. I think that answers my question.
As if on cue, Rae came down the stairs. Her jumpsuit couldn’t have been any tighter if it had been painted on. She jingled all the way across the lobby and placed her ample self onto the chair at my left. I introduced myself and struggled to keep a professional composure. No one warned me that Rae could pass for a clown in Ringling’s circus. She made Tammy Fay Baker look like an amateur makeup artist.
“Ms. Rae . . . um I apologize I don’t know your last name,” I said.
“Smythe – with
a y and ending with e,” she volunteered.
“Of course. Ms. Smythe. Could you give us your version of the last 24 hours with Ms. Adams?” I flipped a sheet on my notepad as she began her rambling exploits of preparing for the trip and the words exchanged before Rosie left in a limo to the airport.
“You, Dee, and Rosie had been roommates at UGA, is that correct?”
“Yes we roomed together in college until I changed my career path. I attended cosmetology school and took fashion design classes. I wanted to be in the fashion field and merchandising was a good fit. When I completed the course, Rosie offered me a position with her. At the time she was a rising star in the music industry and that’s how we got so close.” She grinned at Dee and Kimball.
“What was your relationship with Kimball?” I asked.
“Kimball and I dated a couple of times before he and Dee became a couple.”
Okay that check’s out, but again what else could she say with Dee and Kimball right in front of her? I asked her as well, “What are your plans now with Ms. Adams’ demise?”
Rae looked at me strangely as if she’d never considered the fact that she was unemployed.
“You know I haven’t really considered that. I had booked a cruise as soon as this reunion gig was over. Now I suppose I will use the time to make some contacts and perhaps call in a few favors.”
Then something strange popped into my head. For some unknown reason, I asked, “When did you get into town?”
Her head turned and those Cleopatra eyes bored into mine. “Why? Like I said to the police I checked into the Hilton yesterday.”
“I know but when did you get into town?”
“Um. . . day before yesterday I believe. Jet lag has done a number on my brain,” Rae giggled. Was she flirting with me?
“So you came into town the same day as Rosie Adams? Did you travel on the same airline?”
Kiss and Make Up (Silent Partner Book 1) Page 2