“In the kitchen. Want some coffee?”
“Okay, thanks.”
He’s just here for business, she repeated to herself, recalling the last time he’d been in her kitchen. He had been searching for clues that she was a murderess. What did he believe about her now?
She showed him the box of candy, then put on a pot of coffee. The hot brewed aroma filtered into the air, making her mouth water. Time for her early afternoon caffeine fix.
“Where did you find this?” he demanded, his expression serious as he regarded the package.
“On my front stoop. You saw the note?”
“Uh-huh. Any idea who might have sent it?”
“Obviously not you,” she said in a teasing tone.
“Marla,” he began, a warning gleam in his eye.
She sobered immediately. “I just want to make sure those candies aren’t tainted with ... you know.” Shuddering, she turned away to retrieve a couple of mugs.
Ceramic mugs. Like the one Bertha Kravitz had been holding when—
“You’re trembling,” Vail observed, coming up behind her. His big hands rested on her shoulders—warm, strong hands that caused a sudden awareness to swamp her senses, especially when a whiff of spice cologne drifted her way.
She shrugged him off. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not, but you won’t admit it. We’ll talk about that later. Got a couple of plastic bags handy?”
“Right here.” She scrambled in the pantry, moving aside the salad shredder Anita had given her that she’d never used, and the jar of matchbooks collected at various restaurants. She found the Ziploc carton buried behind a pile of aprons.
Vail gave a low chuckle as he surveyed the chaos. “Your pantry reminds me of my daughter. Her bedroom looks neat but that’s because she jumbles everything inside her closet.”
Handing him the plastic bags, Marla sniffed indignantly. “I’m a very organized person. I know exactly where everything is in this kitchen.”
“Naturally.” He bundled up the package wrapping, typed note, and box of marzipans while Marla poured them each mugs of coffee. She noted he was careful not to finger the items himself. A pang of regret forced its way into her mind. Maybe the candy was legit. She could be giving away a perfectly good box of marzipans.
Then again, maybe not.
“Care to sit for a few minutes?” she asked, gesturing at the kitchen table.
“I’d like that, thanks.” Taking his mug, he claimed a seat Marla averted her eyes from his capable hands wrapped around the coffee cup.
“As far as I see it, we have two possibilities here,” he said, taking a sip of his beverage. “One is that an admirer really did send you a box of candy. The other is that these are contaminated. If so, whose pile of dirt have you stirred up?”
When he took her seriously, Marla couldn’t help offering her insights. Clutching her mug, she mentioned her visit to the boatyard.
Vail’s brow furrowed in anger. “What the hell did you go there for? Don’t you think I’m doing my job?”
“I’m sure you are, but I felt a woman might get more information. I’m not as intimidating as you.”
“Intimidating?” he growled.
“You do come across as rather authoritarian. People are more apt to confide in a woman. Less threatening, you know.”
He appeared thoughtful. “Even so, your visit there wouldn’t have given anyone enough time to get a package over here by this afternoon. So if these candies are tainted, someone you’d met previously would be responsible.”
“Right.” His logic made sense. “I did find out that a light-haired woman saw Carlos the day before he vanished. She gave him a pink-frosted cake.”
“A cake. How odd.”
“Don’t you see? She might have been giving him a payoff. Maybe she baked his money into the cake so no one would see the exchange.”
“And presumably, she’s the one who entered the unlocked back door at your salon to put poison in the creamer jar?” He leaned forward. “Just who do you think she is, Marla?”
“I haven’t a clue.” Her fingers tightened on the mug. He was regarding her closely, as though suspecting any moment she’d confess to having contaminated the candy box herself. It would be a clever ruse to throw off his suspicion.
“That woman who works at your salon—Darlene?— she’s got blond hair,” he continued, making her feel a rush of relief that he wasn’t targeting her. “I checked out her address. You might be interested in knowing where she lives ... or rather, with whom.”
“Darlene has her own apartment”
“That’s what she told you?”
“Sure. She dates different guys she picks up on the beach. That’s how she gets her kicks on the weekends. She’s always bragging about her conquests.”
He shook his head. “She’s painted a false picture for you. That tells me she’s got something to hide.”
“What do you mean?” Marla shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She wasn’t certain she wanted to hear his report
Vail watched her carefully. “Darlene is shacked up with Roy Collins.”
“What?” she cried, bolting from her chair. “Darlene ... and Collins? But she just met him at Bertha’s funeral.”
“Apparently not. They’ve been together for a while.”
“Well, bless my bones.” Obviously, Darlene didn’t want anyone at the salon to know about her connection with Roy, but why not? Did it have something to do with Bertha Kravitz? “Do you think Darlene paid Carlos to leave the back door unlocked so Roy could enter the salon?” she asked, resuming her seat
Vail ruffled a hand through his hair. “We didn’t match any prints to Collins, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. As Bertha’s business partner, he stands to gain her half of their publishing company by right of survivorship.”
“That doesn’t prove anything. Wendy inherits her aunt’s fortune.” She paused. “Actually, why wouldn’t Bertha leave everything to Wendy?”
“Bertha’s husband helped to fund the business when he was alive. He brought Roy in as a partner. He may not have regarded Wendy with as much favor as his wife.”
“Well, I’ll talk to Darlene. She might know more.”
“Marla, this isn’t your case,” he reminded her gentry. “I’ll handle things from now on, okay? You’ve already received two warnings, assuming this package isn’t what it seems. We won’t know until the lab report comes in, but I have a bad feeling about it. You were smart to call me.”
She studied him for a long moment. “I’m not used to depending on anyone else, Dalton. I like to do my own footwork.”
“So I’ve noticed. But you could end up like the proverbial cat who was too curious.”
She smiled. “How did you become interested in being a police detective? Was it because you like to be the one in charge? Or do you just like to tell helpful citizens like me to buzz off?”
“I guess you could say I like puzzles.” He lounged back in his chair, seemingly content to linger. “It’s the challenge, you see. The intellectual part is what stimulates me.”
“Really?” He’d surprised her. “Don’t tell me you’re the type of guy who works the New York Times crossword each Sunday?”
“You got it. Now tell me why you became a stylist.”
“That’s easy. I love doing people’s hair. Besides, I get to schmooze and make women look attractive and experiment with different styles. It satisfies a need within me, you know? I have to do it, like an artist who’s driven to paint”
“So you consider yourself to be a creative person.”
She nodded. “A lot of stylists have an artistic side.”
“But you also must like being around people. You work with women all day who treat you as their personal confidante.”
“It’s boring sitting
in a chair for an hour. Sure, customers talk to me. And usually I don’t divulge what they say.”
“Hear anything relevant about Bertha Kravitz?”
Now she knew where he was going. “Nothing important.”
His jaw flexed. “Obviously, you find your work satisfying. Did you always want to go to cosmetology school, or was this something you realized later?”
“At first I wanted to be a teacher. But after the accident—” Marla cut herself off, cursing inwardly. Oh, he’s good, she thought.
“Go on.”
His shrewd gaze made her wonder how much he already knew. “I changed my career direction,” she blurted.
“Why?”
“Because ... because ...” Lord save me. She didn’t want to talk about Tammy.
A series of blips sounded and he withdrew a cellular phone from where it was clipped to his belt “Excuse me,” he said to her before answering. “Vail here.” A pause. “I see. Where and when?” He listened with a grim expression on his face. “Okay, I’m on my way.”
Standing, he regarded Marla with cool detachment. “I’ve got to go. They’ve found Carlos.” He put the phone back on its clip. Taking the plastic bagged box of marzipans, he strode toward the front door.
She hurried to catch up. “Where was his boat? Did he say anything about the murder?”
Vail halted, turning to face her. His eyes were flat as pewter.
“Carlos won’t be telling us anything. He’s dead.”
Chapter 11
Marla’s mind shifted into overdrive. Carlos was dead. Did he die of natural causes? Where had his body been found? Were there any clues to Bertha’s murder aboard his boat?
En route to Zack Greenfield’s office on Monday morning, she barely focused on the road ahead. Her brain filtered through the information from yesterday. Dalton Vail had dashed off, leaving her with dozens of unanswered questions. She’d spent a restless night pondering their conversation and the new possibilities that Carlos’s death presented. Damn, why hadn’t Dalton called her? Didn’t he believe she had a right to know what was going on?
Of course not, you idiot. He still considers you a suspect. Under the circumstances, she shouldn’t expect him to share information with her. Having hoped to gain his trust, she felt a stab of disappointment slash through her. Maybe he liked her, but he wasn’t the type of man to let his emotions outweigh his sense of logic. Trusting her was not something a person in his position could afford.
An alternative explanation arose that chilled her blood. Since she hadn’t heard from Wendy regarding the envelope, it was possible Vail possessed the photographs contained therein. That might explain the mixed signals he generated in her presence. On the other hand, she’d have sensed it if he’d discovered her secrets. Usually she was a pretty good reader of nonverbal cues, and his behavior didn’t suggest any inner certainty on his part that he’d caught her. But even if he realized that motive and opportunity were hers, he still needed to prove she had the means to conjure up an exotic mixture of poison.
What was monkshood, anyway? Some obscure herb? And who would know about such a thing, much less how to turn it into a powdered form not easily discernible? Cyanide was the main ingredient, she recalled. Maybe you could buy it as rat poison, or was that arsenic? Perhaps she should look them both up later, either at the library or on the Internet if such references existed. Any knowledge would be helpful, although she shuddered as an image of Bertha’s death grimace returned to haunt her.
Letting her optimism surface, she thought maybe Wendy had found the envelope but just didn’t have time to phone her. She’d ask Zack about it this morning.
At least traffic heading downtown on Broward Boulevard was light by ten o’clock. She’d figured it would be better to avoid the rush hour. The rest of the ride went smoothly, and soon she was turning into a parking garage.
As she ascended the elevator to the fourteenth floor of a tall office building, Marla reviewed her plan. She’d pretend ignorance about financial matters, which shouldn’t be too hard, considering how she’d learned about the subject in the first place. She’d gleaned her knowledge from whatever pearls of wisdom Stan had condescendingly dropped her way, then continued her education by reading financial magazines until she got too depressed by all of the self-made millionaires interviewed in their articles. Her main investments consisted of mutual funds, bank CDs, and a few individual stocks. She didn’t trust insurance companies or most brokers, so she probably was a good candidate for financial analysis. But that was not her prime purpose in coming. After flattering Zack, she’d tackle him with more personal questions. If she infused just the right amount of innocence into her voice, he might talk freely.
Giving a nervous tug to her navy blazer, she faced forward with a resolute clench of her jaw. The elevator halted, and the door slid open, revealing a reception area dominated by a blonde seated behind a mahogany desk. The woman glanced up at her arrival.
“Hi, I’m Marla Shore. I have an appointment with Mr. Greenfield.” Stepping onto the carpet, Marla eyed the secretary appreciatively. Groomed impeccably, she exuded competence. From her emerald green suit to her button earrings, she was the picture-perfect image of an administrative assistant Even her polite expression showed dignity mixed with discipline.
Holy highlights! Could this be the mysterious light-haired woman who’d visited Carlos at the docks? Marla’s eyes narrowed as she considered the possibility.
“Ms. Shore, please have a seat.” The woman indicated a standard sofa arrangement. “I’ll notify Mr. Greenfield that you’ve arrived. He should be just finishing with his last appointment May I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Much as she’d have liked to hike her caffeine intake, she declined. Already her heart was racing with anticipation, and she didn’t need to be overly wired. “By any chance, were you at Seaside Marina recently?”
Sharp green eyes met hers. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Did you run an errand to Seaside Marina near Port Everglades in the past couple of weeks?”
“Not me, I get seasick looking at the water.” Smiling, she turned back to her computer, effectively closing down any further conversation.
Marla took a seat and picked up a copy of People lying on a table. She flipped it open to an article about a young actress and her latest paramour. Way to go, girl, she thought, reviewing her own love life. None of her male friends exuded an aura of power like Dalton Vail. If not for the murder case, how would he feel about her? Warmth stole upon her senses as she thought about him. Why did the man keep invading her mind? Better to focus her attention on that envelope. It was more important she retrieve the photographs before he learned of their existence.
Reaffirming her purpose, she glanced at her watch, a square-faced Rado with a scratch-proof crystal that Stan had given her on their first anniversary. The dial read ten minutes past the hour. Compressing her lips, she dropped the magazine on the table and tapped a foot to allay tension.
A buzzer sounded, and the secretary lifted her receiver. “Yes, sir,” she said. Signaling to Marla, she pointed to a closed door that presumably led to the inner sanctum. “You can go in now. Go straight down the corridor. Mr. Greenfield will be in the last cubicle to your left.”
Her blood surging with excitement, Marla rose from her seat and headed for the door. She swung it open and stared. Facing her was a wide aisle with executive offices to the right and small cubicles opposite lined like boxes. She’d walked halfway down when a familiar figure emerged from around a corner. Stopping short, she gasped in surprise.
“Ken! What are you doing here?”
Tally’s husband approached, his slate gray suit fitting attire for an insurance claims representative. His wheat brown hair swept across a wide forehead creased with worry lines. Anxious blue eyes gazed at her from a clean-shaven face. Wondering why he was here, she
watched as his mouth curved in a guilty grin. Disaster claims were his specialty, unless Zack’s predicament counted. Not likely!
“Marla, good to see you.”
“Who did you come to visit?” she asked bluntly.
“I had an appointment with Zack Greenfield,” he said, a look of puzzlement crossing his expression.
“What a coincidence. I’m here to talk to Zack, too. I didn’t know you consulted him for financial advice.”
He shuffled his feet. “We went to grad school together in Boston. That’s where we got our MBA degrees.”
Marla raised an eyebrow. “Exchanging stories about old times, were you?”
“Not exactly.” He gave a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Look, don’t tell Tally I’ve been here, okay?”
“Why is that, Ken?” She didn’t like the notion of keeping secrets from Tally. In view of Ken’s nervous mannerisms, she could tell more was going on here than friendly reminiscences.
“I just don’t want her to know. You’re not going to say anything, are you?” he asked, his casual words belying a mildly threatening tone.
“Not if you insist, but I should tell you that Tally is pretty upset with the way you’ve been treating her lately.”
“I’ve got things on my mind. Zack is helping me out, so you don’t need to concern yourself.”
Marla felt hurt by his attitude. Here she was trying to help them, and Ken wouldn’t confide in her. Now she understood Tally’s feelings. How did you deal with a man so stubborn?
“I think Tally would feel better if you shared your worries,” Marla advised. “She’s your wife, and she feels you’re excluding her. It makes her wonder if you’re seeing someone else as in, you know, another woman.” She gulped, hoping she hadn’t overstepped the bounds of friendship.
Ken’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You’re kidding!”
Leaning against the wall, she regarded him calmly. “No, I’m not. Yesterday when you left to play golf, she was sure you were going to meet a lady friend. You’ve been tuning her out lately, and she feels neglected.”
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