Who Killed the Pinup Queen?

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  She picked up the ice cream, and polished it off while she thought. “First off, I’d ask the person I got the picture from. Which I did, but Bill Hawks couldn’t identify him. He did say he’d ask around, but I haven’t heard from him.”

  “So?”

  “So I can check in with him.”

  “Shouldn’t you be making a ‘to-do’ list?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, but took the pad and pen he handed to her. “Fine. Item One: Call Bill Hawks.”

  “What would you do next?”

  “Ask anybody I thought might know. Which would be Sandra, Sandra’s niece Lil, Miss Barth, Louise, and Frankie.”

  “Louise? The lady from the soap opera? And who’s Frankie?”

  “Don’t ask. I can’t tell you.”

  He looked confused, but said, “Okay, not asking.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “I didn’t get to ask Sandra because she was already dead. I did ask Miss Barth, who said she didn’t know, but now I think she was lying. I also asked Sandra’s niece Lil, Louise, and Frankie, but none of them knew.”

  “Do you need to follow up with any of those last three?”

  “I think Frankie was telling the truth, so I don’t think a follow-up would help, but I’ll call Louise again.” She added that to her list. “And Lil . . .” She thought back to her last conversation with her. “Lil seems worth another try. She’s an odd duck, and I’m not sure she was telling me everything she knows.”

  “Well?”

  “I’m putting it onto the list.”

  “Who else?”

  “The guest stars at the fund-raiser are around the right age, so I may as well ask them, too. Which would put the Ambrose brothers on the list as well. Miss Barth knew them, and she knew the guy in the picture, so maybe they knew him, too.” She added them to her list.

  “Anybody else?”

  She was about to say that there wasn’t, but then she had an idea. “Yes! The fans.”

  “Poisoners have fans?”

  “No—Well, actually, they probably do, but I don’t want to know about it. I was talking about pinup fans. I can post the picture on Joe’s Lost Pinups site, and ask if anybody can identify him, maybe one of the surviving camera club members. In fact, there are about half a dozen sites I could post to.”

  “Wouldn’t that be tantamount to painting a target on your forehead?”

  “I won’t use my real name,” she said indignantly. “I’ll set up a Hotmail account for the responses so nobody will know it’s me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I know a guy who does Web security—he’ll help me set it up.”

  “Okay then, if you’re careful.”

  “Always.”

  “What first?”

  “Can I have some more ice cream?”

  Chapter 35

  Lying is an indispensable part of making life tolerable.

  —DALE EVANS

  TILDA was late getting home, which meant that Colleen had already gone to bed, and she followed suit. For whatever reason, she slept just fine, which she desperately needed, and even got up early the next day. She’d intended to get going on the picture hunt as soon as she completed the trifecta of showering, dressing, and eating, but when she checked her e-mail, she found a snarky reminder from Nicole that she’d promised to deliver a memorial piece about Miss Barth to Entertain Me! by noon. For once she was grateful to Nicole. With so many other things on her mind, she’d totally forgotten, and it wasn’t easy to put everything else aside to write the kind of piece Miss Barth deserved. Assuming, that is, that Miss Barth hadn’t had anything to do with any of the murders. Tilda decided that if she did, she’d just have to put that in a later article. For this piece, she stuck with the positive stuff. The time stamp on the delivered story was 11:55 AM, which was considerably closer than she liked to cut it.

  With that out of the way, she took a brief break for a ham sandwich and then turned her attention to her to-do list from the previous night. She started by reordering the items so that she could begin with the tasks that she expected to be quick and easy, hoping that she’d find out what she needed with one of those, and not have to move on to the tricky ones. She should have known that wasn’t going to happen.

  First up was a call to Bill Hawks, but instead of Hawks, she got his wife Jazz, and when Tilda didn’t want to leave a message, the woman’s reaction hinted that her reputation for jealousy was not unfounded. To keep Hawks out of trouble, she came up with a spur-of-the-moment excuse about wanting to interview him for Not Dead Yet, a senior citizen’s magazine she’d sold work to before. That reassured Jazz, and she promised to have him return the call. After she got off the phone, Tilda decided it actually wasn’t a bad idea, so she wrote a query letter and zapped it off to Not Dead Yet. After all, Jillian hadn’t given her a job yet.

  The next supposedly quick-and-easy item was to talk to Louise Silberblatt. Unfortunately, Louise didn’t answer her home phone or her cell. Tilda did get in touch with the publicist of A Life Worth Living, only to find out that Louise was going to be in conference with the writing staff for most of the afternoon. Apparently the actress was going to get a new storyline, and Tilda had a hunch she knew what it was going to be about. Though she was pleased for Louise, she’d have been happier if it had happened a week or two later. As it was, all she could do was leave messages for Louise.

  Next on the list were Lucas McCain, Christopher Hale, and Aaron Stemfel, the three Cowtown guest stars who’d attended the fund-raiser. For them, Tilda’s approach required a certain amount of what reporters like to call pretexting, which was remarkably similar to what most people call lying. Tilda used the same line she’d used with Miss Barth: She had a photo of a Cowtown guest star that she couldn’t identify, and wondered if they could take a look at it. Fortunately they were all at home and willing to let her fax or e-mail the cropped photo right away. Unfortunately, none of the three recognized the man.

  At least that’s what they said. Any of them could be lying—it was hard enough for Tilda to detect an actor’s lies in person, let alone on the phone. But for the time being, she had to accept it, though she did do a Google search to find pictures of each of them when they were younger, just to confirm that none of them could have been the poisonous photographer himself.

  Next were the Ambrose brothers, but she couldn’t reach either of them on their cell phones or at the hotel, and was hesitant to leave a message. She’d have to try again later.

  That left Lil Sechrest. Tilda dialed her number.

  “Lil? Hi, this is Tilda Harper.”

  “Oh, hi, Tilda.”

  “How are you doing? Have you managed to get your aunt’s condo cleared out?”

  “Just finished over the weekend. I had to put some stuff in storage, because I don’t have room, but it’s empty now and I’ll be putting it on the market soon. I thought about moving in myself, but I just can’t.”

  “I don’t blame you. By the way, I was wondering if you ever found those missing pictures.”

  “Pictures?”

  “The ones Sandra showed me the day she—That last day.”

  There was a pause. “Oh, yeah. I found them.”

  “You did?”

  “They were there all along, under the couch. I guess they got shoved there by the EMTs or the cops.”

  “Lil, I was there, and there weren’t—”

  “Okay, then by the burglar. He knocked them off or something.”

  “What burglar?”

  “The burglar who killed Aunt Sandra! That must have been what happened.”

  “I thought nothing was stolen.”

  “He got scared and ran after—After what happened.”

  Tilda honestly couldn’t tell if Lil was lying to her or to herself, but saw no reason to argue with her about it. “Were all the pictures there?”

  “Sure, of course. Why wouldn’t they be? Why would a burglar steal photos? I don’t know why the police won’t leave me a
lone and go look for the burglar!”

  Now Lil was sounding kind of scary, and Tilda remembered what she’d told her about being a rape survivor. She didn’t know much about posttraumatic stress, but she was fairly sure it could show up unexpectedly, especially when aggravated by another trauma. Say, for instance, the murder of a beloved aunt.

  “Never mind,” she said as soothingly as she could. “It’s not important. How’s the job hunt going? Has Vincent found anything for you?”

  “Actually, I decided I’m not ready to think about that right now. Maybe in a few weeks.”

  Tilda was surprised, since she’d sounded so enthusiastic before, but said, “That’s good thinking. You should take some time before rushing into anything.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. Taking some time.”

  Tilda waited a minute for her to continue, but when she didn’t, she said, “Well, let me know how you’re doing, or if there’s anything else I can help you with.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks. But I’m fine. I need to go now.”

  Tilda hung up, then tried to figure out if Lil was lying, in deep denial, or just screwed up. Maybe a combination of all three. But for the first time that day, she felt as if she might be onto something. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any idea of how she could get anything else out of Lil without making her freak out even more, and she wasn’t willing to do that.

  Still, she didn’t cross Lil’s name off her to-do list.

  No messages from the Ambrose brothers had come in, so the only thing left on her list was posting the photo of the poisoner online. In deference to Cooper’s concerns, first she called her computer security expert, Javier, and after she bribed him with various bits of swag she’d been saving for just such an occasion, he walked her through creating a secure online identity. After that, it only took a few minutes to post the three best photos of the poisoner to Joe’s Lost Pinups site, along with a plea that information about the man be sent to her new e-mail address. Then she spent about an hour surfing the Web, and ended up posting the photos and request on half a dozen other sites.

  With that done, and with no responses to any of the messages she’d left, it was time to call it a day. When Colleen got home a little while later, the barrage of questions began—apparently she’d heard about Miss Barth’s death at the Hillside and since Tilda had been there, thought she should share every single detail.

  Tilda willingly answered the first few dozen questions, not for Colleen’s benefit, but for her own. She was hoping that if she thought about the evening’s events, she might remember something helpful. But she didn’t remember anything except why it was she didn’t usually bother to answer Colleen’s questions—the woman was never satisfied. Finally she pretended to be overcome by emotion and went to hide in her bedroom, where she sampled viral videos on YouTube for the rest of the evening. And while her dreams were filled with odd images as a result, she didn’t think that any dead pinup queens managed to sneak in. Evidently her subconscious was happier with her progress than she was.

  Chapter 36

  Nowadays it’s okay for the woman to ask you out—like it was ever up to you anyway.

  —COWBOY ETIQUETTE BY TEXAS BIX BENDER

  THE phone woke Tilda the next morning, but she didn’t mind. It was Bill Hawks, talking in a whisper so that Jazz wouldn’t hear him. He said he was sorry not to have been in touch sooner, but while he’d tracked down two of his old camera club buddies, neither of them recognized the man in the picture, and he didn’t know anybody else he could ask. She thanked him for his time, promising to be in touch if she got a bite from the magazine editor she’d queried.

  Despite her earlier speculations about him, she was willing to scratch Hawks off her list, and it wasn’t just because she liked him. One thing she relied on when investigating stories was her instinct, and that instinct said that a man who had to whisper to conceal an innocent phone call from his wife just didn’t have what it took to sneak off and kill two women. Besides, it was physically impossible for him to have been the mystery photographer—the nose was all wrong.

  Just as she got out of the shower, the phone rang again. This time it was Louise, who was bubbling over with the news of her new storyline, which was indeed going to be about her character’s past life as a pinup juxtaposed against a modern story of the problems caused by sexting. Unfortunately, the news about the photo wasn’t as good. Louise had shown it to some unnamed friends, but nobody knew the man.

  Tilda marked it down as another dead end. Instinct again. Louise might have had some secret reason for killing Sandra and showing up at the funeral to dance on her grave, but she must have known before Saturday night that the writers on A Life Worth Living were interested in the new storyline. Tilda didn’t think an underused actress would risk losing that opportunity just to commit murder.

  There was still no word from the Ambrose brothers, but when she got onto her computer, she was pleased to see that she had a dozen responses to the posting of the poisoner’s photo. Unfortunately, four were spam; three were from people who didn’t care about the man but who wanted more pictures of Sandy Sea Chest and Virginia Pure; one was a rival reporter who smelled a story; one helpfully identified Sandra for her, though her post had made it plain that she already knew who the women were; two suggested that he was in fact the professional photographer who’d staged the photo shoot; and one gave a name Tilda had never heard.

  She ignored the spam, requests for more photos, and rival reporter, but did send polite thank-you notes to the people who’d tried to help. She didn’t think the guy could have been Red Connors, the pro photographer, because surely Bill Hawks or Louise Silberblatt would have recognized him, and it only took a few minutes to track down a site with pictures of Connors and verify that. At the time of the pirate/maiden shoot, he’d been forty years old, stout, and naturally, had red hair.

  That left her the all-too-brief message with the new name:I think that man was Arthur Wilson.

  It was signed “PhotoFan.” Tilda sent a reply asking if PhotoFan could provide any additional information, then hit the Web to see if she could track down Wilson herself. An hour later, she admitted defeat. It was just too common a name—she needed more.

  Though she’d requested responses be sent directly to her, she suspected that people would have left answers on the various bulletin boards on which she’d posted the photos, and a visit to Joe’s Lost Pinups Site confirmed it. The boards were filled with speculation. But weeding through the posts there and on other sites turned out to be wasted effort—the notes she’d received directly were the cream of the crop.

  Tilda knew from past experience that sitting around and waiting on responses would make her crazy, and what she really wanted was somebody to talk to about what was going on. She couldn’t use Cooper—it was Tuesday, so he was on deadline. Her next choice was June, but there was no answer at her house, and she remembered something about a school book fair.

  That left Quentin, and while he hadn’t been particularly supportive on Sunday morning, she was willing to give him a second chance. She got him at work, and though he didn’t have time to talk then, he suggested dinner, and they agreed to meet back at Not Your Average Joe’s in Burlington.

  As soon as she hung up, Tilda checked her watch. Not quite noon. Dinner was at six thirty. Even allowing for primping and travel time, she still had over five hours free. She could either waste time waiting by her computer and phone, hoping for a useful response, or use her time productively by taking care of housekeeping, office chores, or getting her car inspected. She went with Option A but, to her credit, she hated herself for it.

  Nothing worth noting happened for the rest of the afternoon.

  Quentin was waiting for Tilda at the restaurant with a smile and a kiss, and between the reception and the margarita the waitress delivered with admirable speed, she was soon feeling almost human. After they’d given their orders, she was able to respond politely rather than with a snarl when Quenti
n asked about her day. “Tedious, frustrating, and mostly unproductive. How about yours?”

  “Promising.”

  “Did you make a breakthrough in the lab?”

  “In the boardroom, actually. We hope to be making some changes soon at the foundation. Big changes. We got a preliminary estimate about how much money the fund-raiser brought in, and it was a huge success.”

  Tilda looked at him.

  His face reddened. “That was incredibly callous, wasn’t it? Here I am talking about money after that poor woman died.”

  “It’s okay,” Tilda said. “Miss Barth wanted to raise money for you guys, after all. I think she’d be glad.”

  “I hope so. I’d like to think she’s watching us now.”

  “Then I should sit up straighter. She always struck me as a stickler for posture.”

  “I bet you’re right. Of course, I didn’t know her as well as you did.”

  “I don’t think anybody knew Miss Barth all that well,” Tilda said. “She was pretty self-contained.”

  “I haven’t seen anything more in the paper about an investigation, so I guess the police are satisfied that it was an accident after all. That must be a relief.”

  She shrugged.

  “You don’t still think—”

  The waitress interrupted by arriving with their mustard-crusted chicken, which was just as well. Tilda wasn’t liking his tone of voice.

  Once they were alone again, she said, “Can I ask you a medical question?”

  “It depends. If you want advice about a spot on your elbow that won’t heal, I plead the Fifth, but if you want to play doctor, I’m all for it.”

  “Neither. Well, playing doctor sounds fun, but I have something else in mind. I want to know about death certificates.”