by Penny Warner
“Anyone else?”
“Well, I know Wolf has hit on her, too, but she fanned him. That’s why I thought she might be gay. Wolf’s a stud, you know, even for an old guy. I wouldn’t kick him out of the covers. But Celeste wasn’t interested. Then when Lacy’s husband died, Celeste spent so much time with her, I thought there might be something more between them, you know? Oh, God, I shouldn’t be saying this! It’ll be in your paper tomorrow!”
I smiled reassuringly. “No, no. I just want to know more about her so I can write a good story. I won’t put any of that personal stuff in it. The information I print has to be fact, not opinion. You don’t think Celeste and Lacy were, uh, more than friends?”
She held her nails up for scrutiny. “Nah. But even if they were, it really doesn’t matter, you know, just so it doesn’t involve me. Gross. I’d die if some woman came onto me. God.” She giggled again behind her hand, her nails forming a kind of glittery fan.
“Jilda, do you have any idea what happened to Lacy? Do you think someone around here might have had a reason to kill her?”
Jilda rubbed the imaginary lipstick off her teeth, ran her tongue over them, and smacked her lips. “I really don’t know. I wish I did. I’m totally dying to find out who did it. God, what if it is someone in town? If she was messing with someone’s husband or boyfriend, I wouldn’t blame them, you know, if they got even. I might have done it myself if French hadn’t come back. Well, maybe not killed her exactly. But I would have been real, real mad.”
After phoning the locksmith to order a new set of locks for my diner, I thought about stopping by Croaky Wheeler’s to see about Lacy’s five-thousand-dollar check. I could use a few more megs for the computer and the Chevy would look a lot cherrier with some body work. But I decided to hold off. The money wasn’t really mine. And it might obscure my reasons for trying to figure out what happened to Lacy.
I headed for the mortuary. The place was beginning to feel like my home away from home. Not a good feeling.
Celeste was conferring with an elderly woman when I entered. The woman looked distraught, forcing a brave smile through tear-rimmed eyes. Celeste caressed the back of the woman’s hand, working her magic. Gazing intently into the grief counselor’s eyes, the woman seemed to pour out her heart to the nurturing friend of the bereaved. No wonder Celeste was so good at her job. She knew how to listen.
Celeste caught sight of me, dipped her head slightly in my direction and gently pulled back from the distressed woman. I watched her give the woman’s hand a couple of let’s-wrap-it-up pats, then write something down on her business card. In a few moments Celeste walked the grieving client to the door of Memory Kingdom, arm around her as if she were a grown daughter comforting her aging mother.
Celeste closed the door and wiped what might have been a tear—or a dust particle—from her eye. “Poor Mrs. Kossow. She’s lost without Allen. Just lost. I hope I can help her. No family to speak of. She’s going to be so lonely. That’s the worst part for most of these women.”
Celeste seemed genuinely concerned. Or maybe she was using skills garnered from years of working in Hollywood. After all, wasn’t everyone in L.A. trying to become an actor, working the restaurants and beauty salons and morgues on the side until that all-important call came from the studio?
“She lost her husband?” I asked.
Celeste smoothed the front of her silk blouse, as if brushing away all contact with the woman who had just left. “Cancer. He was seventy-eight years old. She’s only sixty-nine. She’s still got lots of life left in her. I hope we can spend a few hours together. I really think I can help her.”
“Through counseling?”
“I hope so. Many widowed people are without friends or loved ones at that age. They can always use someone to talk to.” Celeste sighed. “So what are you doing here, Connor? I hope you haven’t had bad news.”
“What? Oh, my aunt. No, thank goodness. I’m here on another matter, Celeste. It’s about Lacy Penzance.”
Celeste looked puzzled. She crossed her arms in front of her.
“I wondered, since you knew Lacy so well, if you could tell me more about her. I’d really like to write a thorough story about her. You two were fairly close before she died, weren’t you? All I know is she did volunteer work, she was a pillar of the community. Then recently, she began to make herself more attractive. She may have been dating someone these past few weeks.”
Celeste turned abruptly and motioned for me to follow her. Once inside her office, she closed the door and offered me the chair across from her desk. She pulled up her own chair and sat down.
“Listen, Connor, I can’t say too much. You understand. I did speak with her as a counselor, so what we shared is confidential. Although Lacy and I were friends until recently, I really didn’t know that much about her either. She was a very private person.”
“What do you mean, until recently? Did something happen?”
Celeste picked delicately at her bangs. “Not really. We just stopped getting together after a while. She … said she was … ready to handle things on her own. It was for the best. I had done all I could, really.”
“There wasn’t a problem between you two? A falling-out?” I asked, boldly going where I had no business.
Celeste’s eyes locked on mine, her expression a mixture of hurt and anger. “No! Of course not! Look, these things just come to an end eventually. It’s not a permanent relationship. I simply help people through some hard times. When a client feels she doesn’t need counseling anymore, she moves on. Lacy was ready to face the world again, and I encouraged her. There was nothing more to it than that.” Celeste rose briskly from her chair. “Now, if there isn’t anything else—”
At that moment a phone line lit up and Celeste picked up the receiver, irritation crossing her face. “Hello?”
I tried not to stare openly at her, but I did steal surreptitious glances at her mouth from time to time. I caught “When did he get out?” “Are you sure?” “Where?” and “When the monkey spanked four wrestlers,” which I’m fairly certain isn’t what she said, but it sure looked like it.
She hung up the phone and gave me a blank stare. “Where were we? Oh, yes. You were about to leave.”
I pushed on. “What about French? Wasn’t he seeing Lacy recently?”
Celeste looked stunned. “What? Heavens, no! At least, not to my knowledge. French has a thing for that little waitress over at the café. Everybody knows that.” She resumed her seat. “Besides, Lacy wouldn’t have been interested in him. He’s not her type.”
“Who was her type?”
Celeste began to respond, then caught herself. She flushed and glanced away. “Someone like Reuben, I guess.”
“Celeste, did you know she’d had facial surgery recently?”
Celeste shrugged. “What’s that got to do with—”
“She was planning to have a prenuptial agreement drawn up by her attorney. I think she had met someone special in the past few weeks. Someone she may have planned to marry. And no one seems to know anything about it.”
Celeste looked down at her blouse and brushed more invisible lint from the front. “Look, Connor, I told you. I really don’t know that much about the woman. Sure, she changed a little after Reuben’s death. She took more interest in her appearance. She wanted to be attractive again. She started seeing some men. That’s normal, even healthy. I don’t know anyone she was specifically involved with, but I don’t think it was important. Frankly, it was none of my business. And it’s really none of yours.”
She was getting a little touchy. I decided to change tack.
“Sorry for all the questions, Celeste. Just trying to do my job. I guess I’m getting a little frantic about my deadline. And I’m tired of all the speculation. It would be nice to know the truth, you know?”
Celeste nodded almost grudgingly.
I looked at my watch. “God, I’m exhausted. I don’t know where you get all the energy to do everything you do, Celeste. You
never look tired. Even your hair is always perfect.”
Celeste became self-conscious and gave her curls a shake. Today her hair sported a lovely cast of magenta that nearly matched her outfit.
“Well, I don’t have as much time as I’d like, but …” Celeste left the words hanging and tucked her hair behind her ears.
I went on. “Of course, your hair is always perfect because you’re a trained stylist. I bet you did a lot of actors’ hair while you were in Hollywood.”
Celeste visibly perked up at the question. She sat up taller, grinned, and resumed her friendly demeanor.
“Yeah, lots! Alec Baldwin was a regular customer of mine. He has really thick, straight hair. I did Angela Lansbury for a while, until she won that Emmy for Murder, She Wrote. Then she started going to José Eber. I guess she wanted to look more like Fabio. I did Cher a couple of times, Bruce Willis—not much to work with. And a bunch of actors you probably wouldn’t know by name but you’d recognize their faces.”
“Did you ever do any acting yourself, Celeste?”
“Oh, a little, not much. Got a cereal commercial once. And a bit part in a Steve Martin film. I was a hooker. I did some stage work at small theaters in the Valley, but I really wanted to be in films. I gave up after a while, though. Too much competition. I made more money doing hair.”
“Do you miss hairstyling?”
Celeste looked out through the half-open blinds of her office, thought a moment, then said, “Sometimes. But I really love grief counseling, helping others through their difficult times. To tell you the truth, I’d love to have my own funeral business someday. I’m saving my money. I think I really have a knack for making people feel better.”
“You want your own business?” I must have looked more than just surprised.
“Why not? A woman can do as well, if not better, in this business. I thought I’d start with one, maybe somewhere on the coast, and try to franchise after that. There are a lot of older people retiring to the Mendocino area. Or maybe Carmel. Very popular with retirees.”
“Will Wolf be involved in your plans?” I tried to sound casual. I guess I needed to work on nuances.
She looked at me, astonished. “Wolf?”
“I saw you talking with him the other day, at the funeral. And in the office when I stopped by for the tour—wasn’t that him on the phone? You two seem to be friends. I was just curious.”
She appraised me with an up-and-down look, as if seeing me for the first time. She seemed to gather her thoughts before she spoke.
“Truthfully, Wolf is a pain in the you-know-what. And no, he will not be a part of my future business. The guy is such a … such a gold digger.”
I sat waiting for her to continue. She finally did, weighted by the uncomfortable silence. Me, I’m used to it.
“Well, if that’s all—”
“It’s odd, you know, how he found Sluice in that grave just after the old guy fell in. I wonder why Wolf was at the cemetery at that hour. Does he have relatives buried there?”
“Honestly, Connor, you ask very strange questions. I don’t know anything about Wolf Quick. All he ever thinks about is that gold business of his. It’s really becoming a bore. And frankly, so is this conversation. Now if—”
“I like your ring,” I said quickly. She had begun twisting and turning the gold ring on her finger as she spoke about Wolf. She stopped when I made the comment. “It’s so different. Did Wolf create that one?”
She let go of the ring and picked up some loose papers on her desk, as if to hide her hands. “Yes, I guess so. I can’t remember. I have a lot of jewelry. Hard to keep track of where it all comes from.”
“You know, that day I saw you talking on the phone, I think you were talking about a ring.”
Celeste’s hands stopped fiddling. “You’re quite the little lip-reader, aren’t you? That was a private conversation, you know, and it’s rude to eavesdrop, even if you are … well …”
“Deaf?”
“Wolf and I were just having a little argument over a some jewelry he wanted to sell me. I wasn’t interested, but he is a very pushy salesman. You want some advice? Get your jewelry at Goldie’s in Whiskey Slide. They aren’t so hard-sell there. More like us here at the funeral home—soft and unobtrusive, yet informative and supportive. Stay away from Wolf if you want a good deal. In fact, stay away from him period, if you want my advice.”
Wolf, the used-car salesman type? I didn’t see it. He didn’t even get off his stool for the first five minutes I was in his store.
“Did Wolf know Lacy—”
She cut me off. “You know, Connor, you don’t act like you’re trying to find out more about Lacy for your newspaper. You act like you’re trying to find out the dirt on her, or maybe who killed her. And I’m beginning to get the feeling you think I fit in the picture somewhere. So if you’re implying—”
I laughed, probably too loud, and shook my head. “No, no, I’m just trying to fit a few loose puzzle pieces together. I—”
“Listen, I didn’t have anything to do with Lacy Penzance’s death, if that’s what you think. I came to love her like a sister. I did all I could to help make her feel better. When I accomplished that, we went our separate ways. For you to think I might have been involved in her death somehow is just—”
“I wasn’t implying—”
“Connor, I have work to do.” She stood up again and walked to the door, waiting for me to follow. It gave me a moment to think. I wondered what Celeste’s motive might be if she really were a suspect. Blackmail? Did Lacy know something about her that Celeste didn’t want revealed? Jealousy? Money? Did Celeste want more than her share for the grief counseling and funeral services?
I stood up and met her at the door. “Celeste, do you have idea who might have wanted Lacy dead?”
“No! Of course not! But it certainly wasn’t me. If you must know, I have an alibi, if I need it, which of course I don’t. I was with someone that night. When, and if, the sheriff decides to question me, I’ll tell him all about it. As for you, none of this is your business. So why don’t you leave this investigation up to the police, Connor. Stick with what you know best. Writing obituaries.”
She closed the door in my face.
“Celeste Camborne, aged thirty-two but looking much older, passed away this afternoon, a victim of excessive cellulite and chronic split ends. She was mourned by a couple of people who didn’t know her that well. Her funeral will be held at the mall, pending—”
The door opened and Dan appeared in the doorway.
“What are you working on?”
“Oh, nothing. Just an obituary.”
“Somebody else die?”
“Not yet.”
He looked puzzled. I changed the subject. It wasn’t worth explaining my technique for blowing off steam.
“Ready to go?” I shut off the computer screen and stood up. Enough wasting time. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder.
“I’m ready.” He held up a file folder. On the cover was the name “Rio Vista.”
“Where did you get that?”
“It was in Boone’s filing cabinet, in the back where he keeps the discontinued files.”
“Is there anything inside?” I took it from him and flipped it open. Nothing.
Dan combed his beard with his fingertips. “Empty when I found it.”
I looked at him and said nothing.
“So, you don’t mind if I come along?” Dan asked.
I had a moment of second thoughts about sharing the ride with him to Rio Vista. After all, we had different agendas. Maybe very different. And he might be in the way. Or at the very least, distracting. I didn’t want to be distracted, especially after the other night.
“It’s fine. But I’m kind of curious as to why you want to go there.”
“Like I said, I think there’s a connection to my brother in all this. These empty file folders are related to Lacy Penzance in some way. Her file was empty. Risa Longo’s file
was empty. Arden Morris. Now this one. I want to check it out.”
I didn’t have a good reason not to take him. Just some vague feeling of discomfort. And I couldn’t identify the source. We seemed to be following parallel paths—was it all part of the Lacy Penzance puzzle? Or did Dan have something else going on?
I rode my bike home, checked on Casper, then got into the Chevy and drove back to the office to pick up Dan, waited a few moments while he grabbed some things, then he followed me to my Chevy. I drove the two or so hours southwest to the Sacramento Delta, an area composed of a thousand miles of waterways connecting fifty-five tiny islands. Dan listened to the radio while I watched the scenery change from dry brush and volcanic rock to cattails and river moss. I turned off Route 160 at the central valley river town of Rio Vista and pulled out a map.
The town hadn’t changed much since the gold rush days. Levees along the two-lane, meandering roadside were built to control the flow of the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers. They were the work of Chinese laborers who had come to work the railroads, then turned to fishing and canning when the tracks were complete. Most people traveled by boat, up and down the waterways where Humphrey the Whale once made his historic appearance. Restaurants like Sid’s, Doc’s, and Al’s sold a lot more beer than wine.
Arden Morris’s three-story Victorian home jutted out from the river, surrounded by lush lawn and colorful snapdragons, roses, and California poppies. As we drove down the narrow driveway, I spotted a couple of gardeners trimming shrubs and pulling weeds along one side of the landscaped yard.
Sitting on the verandah, reading what looked like a Danielle Steele novel and sipping a drink that matched her raspberry outfit, sat the woman I presumed to be Arden Morris.
She looked up when we stopped the car. Setting down her book and drink, she stood, placing a hand over her brow to shade the sun, and greeted us cautiously as we let ourselves through the gate of the white picket fence.
“Yes?”
We climbed the three white steps to the porch. I introduced myself and Dan. Arden Morris brushed her fluffy red hair back from her face with raspberry tinted fingernails, and offered a stiff, raspberry smile. Although she was still slim and shapely in the tight jumpsuit, I judged by the tiny lines on her face and hands that she must be in her late fifties, early sixties. I gave her one of my extremely vague, all-purpose business cards and began my spiel, hoping we weren’t breaking too many laws for impersonating Nancy Drew and Joe Hardy.