Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  My shoulders tensed. Were the two deaths related after all? “What did it say?”

  “‘Tony Vittorio will never hurt you again.’ And now he’s dead!” Gloria faltered. “Stabbed. It’s horrible. Disgusting. The person who signed the letters—both of them—wrote ‘I did it for your glory.’”

  “Do you know who sent it?”

  “I don’t have any idea.” She sounded shaky. On the edge. “Aspen, he knows where I live.”

  “Okay, take a deep breath. Calm down. You have to contact the sheriff.”

  “At this time of night? Are you nuts?”

  “They answer twenty-four-seven.”

  Gloria mewled. “Why would someone kill Dr. Fisher or Tony Vittorio for me? I barely knew them.”

  “You interviewed Dr. Fisher. Did you interview Mr. Vittorio?”

  “Yes. In April. It was very professional. Lots of people were on the set. He didn’t hurt me. He didn’t even raise his voice. Why is this happening to me?”

  I let her self-centeredness slide and didn’t point out that what was happening to her—if anything was really happening—was far less important than what had happened to Kristin Fisher and Tony Vittorio. Each person viewed her drama as primary. I had with my mammogram test results.

  “Have you dined at Vittorio’s?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go with anyone?”

  “My fiancé, Beau.”

  “Is it possible Beau thought Mr. Vittorio was flirting with you or coming on to you?”

  “No way.” Gloria blew her nose. “And Beau doesn’t . . . didn’t . . . know Dr. Fisher.” Gloria sucked back a sob. “Aspen, this is awful. Somebody wrote that he was killing for my glory. Killing.” Her voice skated upward.

  “I can hear you. You don’t need to shout.”

  “I’ve locked all my doors and set the alarm. I’m scared.”

  “I don’t think you need to be. If the notes are sincere, whoever wrote the notes wants to protect you. Not hurt you.”

  She let out a jagged sigh and murmured her agreement.

  “Tell me more about your visit to the restaurant,” I said.

  “I told Tony . . . Mr. Vittorio . . . that I intended to review the restaurant, so he wined and dined me . . . us. Beau and me.”

  She sounded on surer footing now. Was her weeping an act or was I becoming the suspicious type? When I’d begun working at BARC, I’d given everyone the benefit of the doubt. After a year or so, distrust had invaded my soul. How I wished I could do something about that.

  “Why would a killer send me these notes?” Gloria rasped.

  “I’ll bet the killer didn’t send them. As you said, you’re a celebrity. What if a fan heard about the murders and is trying to get your attention?”

  “He got it all right.”

  Again, I said, “You need to call the sheriff. Ask for Nick. He’s handling both cases.”

  “I can’t, Aspen. Can you imagine the field day the press will have if this gets out?”

  How the tables had turned. Gloria was the one who had broken the news about Vikki’s murder. I appreciated freedom of the press, but not when that freedom turned into rumors and innuendo.

  “I’ve got a career to protect,” Gloria went on. “Camille already thinks I’m attracting bad publicity.”

  “Who’s Camille?”

  “Camille St. John. My producer.” Gloria drew in a breath. “I want to hire you to find out who this creep is.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You have to. It’s what you do.”

  “Finding creeps is not what I do.” No, my job was much nobler. I scrambled through garbage for a living and served restraining orders. What would my colleagues from BARC think? Did I care? I’d given up my career as a therapist and become a private investigator so I could help clients solve tangible problems. Gloria had one.

  “Please, Aspen, I need you. I know you’ll keep it hush-hush.”

  Fatigue weakened my defenses. I agreed to come to the television station in the morning after my doctor’s appointment and discuss the situation. Before ending the call, Gloria blessed me with a dozen thank-yous.

  I dialed Nick. He didn’t answer. Knowing he could sleep through a train wreck, I gave up and crawled into bed, but I couldn’t sleep because a disturbing thought was running roughshod through my mind. My aunt had sensed more murders with the same MO would occur. Was she right? Would the murderer kill more people for Gloria’s sake?

  Chapter 8

  At six a.m. Tuesday morning, the alarm clock blared. I awoke with a jolt and realized I’d set the wake-up call early because I had the doctor’s appointment and then the meeting with Gloria. In less than an hour, I jogged with Cinder, showered, and threw on a white blouse and jeans tucked into ankle boots. I even donned a pair of gold earrings and a tad of makeup.

  When I ventured into the kitchen to fix breakfast, Candace was sitting at the table in her nightgown, the dog nestled by her feet.

  “What are you doing up, you goon?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I’m too excited about the beginning of vacation.”

  “Waverly and her mom aren’t coming for two more hours.” Candace and her friend were going hiking. “Go back to bed. Get your beauty rest.”

  “Yeah, okay, you’re right.” She kissed me on the cheek and skipped to the bedroom with a promise to call me when she re-awoke. Cinder trailed at her heels, her devoted companion.

  The doctor’s office was located in an unpretentious gray office building across the main highway from Boatworks, a shopping mall in Tahoe City. Other tenants included a realtor and a tax accountant. I parked in the back and returned to the front along a rocky path overrun by alpine dandelions. Temperatures were already soaring. Brisk air-conditioning, unusual for Lake Tahoe and a shock to my system—we prided ourselves on not needing to use the AC—slapped me in the face the moment I stepped inside the doctor’s office.

  A while later, a starched nurse showed me to a room that reeked of sterile alcohol. I dressed in the two-piece paper gown and waited fifteen minutes until the doctor, whose hair was as white as his attire, walked in. He shook my hand feebly and said in a monotone, “I’m Dr. Coke.”

  He wished he had that much fizz.

  “Aspen Adams.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  If I didn’t watch out, I was going to fall asleep on the spot.

  Coke opened the manila file that he was carrying. “I communicated with the lab, as requested. You do indeed have a lump. It’s dense.”

  I didn’t need to pay another doctor to figure that out. The mass felt like a frozen pea whenever I probed it. The paper that covered the examination table crackled beneath my tapping fingers. “Did the lab say whether the lump was benign?”

  “I recommend that you have an ultrasound.” The doctor turned a page. “We’ll get a better idea of what’s going on after that.”

  “Can’t you tell me anything now?” Patience was not my virtue.

  “It’s a small dense mass.”

  “You already said that.” Tension gripped my shoulders. The man hadn’t looked up from my file. I bent at the waist and peered at him. “Hello, I’m over here.”

  His eyes narrowed and the skin on his neck turned splotchy. “I see you, ma’am.”

  “Please, it’s been a trying week.”

  “Ma’am,” he repeated, his indifference palpable, “we have a date open a week from tomorrow to do the ultrasound.”

  “Nothing sooner?” I couldn’t disguise my exasperation.

  “If you want answers, you’ll have to work within our time frame.”

  My Irish blood surged to boiling point. How could Dr. Fisher’s office have referred this insensitive man? Maybe he was the reason her practice had grown to three hundred patients.

  Clambering off the table, I said, “You know what? I’m going to find a doctor with more warmth. Thank you for your time.” I tossed off the paper bodice.

  Dr. Coke fr
oze, mouth agape. Was he shocked that a patient had the gall to dismiss him or surprised to see me half naked?

  “You can leave, sir,” I said.

  The moment the doctor fled from the room, I slumped into a chair. I wasn’t cruel. The man hadn’t deserved my wrath. I drew in a long calming breath, dressed, and retreated to the front desk to apologize. The office assistant said nothing and asked for my credit card to cover the insurance copayment.

  Head hanging in frustration, I strode to my Jeep. As I was opening the driver’s door, my cell phone rang. I whipped it out of my tote and answered.

  Candace said rapid-fire, “Aunt Aspen? Waverly’s sick. Can I go with you to work? Spending my vacation alone is a bore.” I explained that I was on my way to meet Gloria Morning, to which she said, “Please, please, take me with you. You know I watch her show. She’s so cool.”

  I didn’t want Candace to stay home alone, so I agreed. Minutes later, I picked her up. She was wearing a black floral V-neck over jeans and carrying a pink zipper hoodie, in case she got cold in the car.

  “You look cute,” I said.

  “Thanks.” She hitched her raggedy denim purse higher on her shoulder. “I wanted to dress up a little bit for meeting Miss Morning.”

  On the beginning of the drive north around the lake, Candace gushed about Rory. He loved to ski. He was super smart. And he was handsome. She particularly liked the way he combed his hair. Sort of like a surfer. I’d heard it all before but I didn’t mind. The fact that she was outgoing and not as retiring as she’d been when she’d first come to live with me was a blessing. Halfway to Incline, she drifted to sleep, her head resting against the passenger door.

  The silence provided me a moment to consider Gloria’s situation. Was the killer reaching out to her? Why? Did she personally know the killer? Was it someone close to her?

  KINC, located on the California side of the Cal-Neva border, was the bright spot between two drab buildings. Its dramatic aqua-and-green theme reminded me of the décor in the classic television show Miami Vice. Further down the street hung a sign welcoming motorists to Nevada as well as neon beacons encouraging gamblers to visit various establishments. Nothing about the border area captured the beauty of Tahoe or the natural pleasures one could experience while hiking through the woods or spending time on the lake. The district had been designed to grab the attention of risk takers. But the rent was cheap on the California side, where gambling was prohibited, and for a fledgling company like KINC, saving money was a necessity.

  I parked on a side street, and Candace and I strolled to the entrance. As was au courant these days, a gigantic picture window allowed the passing public to view the news anchors at work on their morning set. KINC’s current catchphrase was: Dare to get up close and personal. A group of people, some with their noses pressed to the glass, were doing just that, even though no anchors were present.

  We entered the lobby. Acting as if she owned the place, Candace crossed to a partition to examine the series of photographs depicting the history of Lake Tahoe hanging on a wall.

  To the right behind a blue lacquer desk sat the receptionist, a lithe young woman with a curtain of orange hair and a nose ring. A multiple-line telephone rested inches from the woman’s porcelain fingertips. On the turquoise wall behind her hung a three-foot chrome logo for KINC. On either side of that were poster-sized photos of Gloria and her co-anchor, Vaughn Jamison, a chiseled blond in his late thirties who, in my opinion, didn’t possess all the mental keys to the kingdom. Could he have sent Gloria the notes? Perhaps he was feeling insecure about his senior position at KINC. Did he hope a scare might unnerve her and make her quit?

  I stepped up to the receptionist. “Hi.”

  “Hey. What’s up?” The young woman smiled, exposing orange plastic braces attached to her almost straight teeth. “I mean, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to see Gloria Morning. My name is—”

  The door leading to the studio burst open and Vaughn Jamison stormed past me, his face blazing red, his fists balled. Perspiration marred the front of his cream-and-blue Hawaiian shirt. “Marie, I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

  “What’s wrong?” the receptionist—Marie—cried.

  “Everything.” Vaughn shot through the exit and veered right.

  Marie said, “Sorry about that. Vaughn can be . . .” She mimed locking her lips. “You were saying?”

  “I’m Aspen Adams.”

  “Oh, yeah. Gloria said to keep an eye open for you.” She pushed an intercom button on the telephone. “Gloria. Miss Adams is here.”

  Seconds later, Gloria stepped through the door by which Vaughn had come. She looked sassy in a hot-pink silk dress, her makeup perfect and her hair glistening with a dose of spray. Heart-shaped earrings dangled from her ears. A matching silver necklace glimmered around her neck. “Aspen, I’m so glad you came.” She clasped my hands and kissed me on both cheeks.

  The receptionist said, “Gloria, Vaughn said he’s taking the rest of the day.”

  “Yeah, yeah. He’s in a mood. I’ll let him cool down and call him later.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s not happy with me. He . . . Oh, never mind.” Gloria turned her attention to me. “Thank you for coming.”

  I studied her face. A wary strain was evident around her eyes. I said, “I’m sorry to see you under these circumstances.”

  “Life can’t always be chatty lunches.” She was referring to our last get-together. She spotted Candace. “Your niece?”

  I nodded.

  “I see the resemblance. She’s very pretty.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gloria glided across the green carpet and thrust out her hand. “Candace, I’m Gloria Morning.”

  Candace beamed as she pumped Gloria’s hand. “I know who you are. I like to watch current events.”

  “Nice to hear.” Gloria gestured to a chair near the receptionist’s desk. “Why don’t you stay out here and chat with Marie.”

  “I’d rather go with you,” Candace said like a conspirator.

  “Fine.” Gloria gripped Candace’s and my elbows. “Marie, hold all calls.”

  We traipsed down a brightly lit hall until we reached a dressing room with a sign on the door that read Miss Morning. Gloria prodded us inside and locked the door with a bolt. Instantly I felt claustrophobic. The room was small and the temperature intense.

  “I’m a wreck.” Gloria caught a glimpse of her face in the beveled mirror attached to the white dressing table. “And I look it.” Frowning, she removed half a dozen dresses from a canvas director’s chair and tossed them over the top of a clothing rack filled with suits and silk blouses. “Have a seat.”

  Neither of us did.

  “What am I going to do?” Gloria asked, her voice cracking. She leaned on the edge of the dressing table, palms grasping the rim. “Please tell me you’ve come up with an idea.”

  Candace was old enough to hear the full story, so I didn’t hold back. “Tell me everything again. From the beginning.”

  “I don’t know any more than I told you last night.” With jittery hands Gloria pulled two nondescript envelopes from a white Dolce & Gabbana clutch that was lying on the dressing table. She thrust them at me. “Here.”

  I donned a pair of latex gloves that I kept in my tote, opened the first envelope, and pulled out the letter, which was typed on a piece of generic white computer paper. A hint of roses clung to the message, suggesting a woman, not a man, might have written it.

  Dr. Fisher will never hurt you again. I did it for your glory. Keep your heart open for my love.

  “Did Dr. Fisher hurt you?” I asked.

  “Of course not.” Gloria attempted a smile, but the corners of her mouth twitched with tension. “She was totally professional. After we completed the interview, we shook hands.”

  “She wasn’t your doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you choose to interview her?”


  “Camille suggested it. She said the woman had a huge practice, and our viewers deserved to know the latest in women’s health.”

  I reviewed the second note, written on the same nondescript paper—no hint of roses.

  Tony Vittorio will no longer hurt you. I did it for your glory. Keep your heart open for my love.

  Gloria sniffed. “Like I said last night, Tony Vittorio never did anything to hurt me. What is this about? Why target me?” She nibbled the cuticle on her right thumb, which resembled raw hamburger. Was chewing it a regular thing or had the habit just started?

  I shook the paper. “This one was delivered to your house?”

  “Yes. The envelope was lying on my doorstep. On the mat.”

  “How did you spot it?”

  “I’d gone out to dinner with a girlfriend. I saw it when I got home at a quarter to eleven. The general public didn’t learn about Tony Vittorio’s murder until the eleven o’clock news. That’s why I know it’s from the killer.”

  Candace said, “Because he had insider knowledge.”

  Gloria nodded.

  “A few others might have known,” I said. “Those who stopped to watch what the sheriff’s staff were doing. Someone could have tweeted it. Where did you eat?”

  “At Sunset. It’s near Garwood’s. Do you know it?”

  I did. It was known for its Pacific Rim cuisine and great view.

  “How did the author of the note know where you lived?” Candace asked.

  Gloria mewled. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. I suppose he could have followed me home from work.” She wrapped her arms around her torso. “Ever since I’ve hosted the ‘This Is Your Tahoe’ segments—”

  “I love it when you do those,” Candace cut in.

  “Thank you.” Gloria giggled spastically, like a boat whose engine wouldn’t turn over. Jangled nerves were to be expected with a scare. “Ever since then, I’ve been getting a lot of fan mail. Until now, I’d appreciated the adulation.”

  The segments highlighted patrons of the arts, restaurants, special interest projects, and interviews similar to the one with Dr. Fisher. I’d seen a number of them. Gloria was incisive, but from what I’d gleaned in reviews of the show, some of her guests had been less than thrilled with the pieces that had aired. That could be why her producer wasn’t happy with her.