Tripp ambled to the food table and grabbed a bagel. As he was slicing it, Candace sidled up on his left. Tripp accidentally poked her in the ribs with his elbow. She eeked and he immediately apologized.
“My fault,” she said, laughing. She picked up a bagel and introduced herself.
Instantly, the younger Ambrose’s tentative manner changed. Female attention, even teenaged attention, seemed to put him at ease. His words came freely. Living in his imposing father’s shadow had to be a chore.
Knowing I had a few minutes before Gloria’s interview began, I wandered around the soundstage, taking note of the various racks of film equipment and storage rooms while trying to ascertain where the various coworkers were situated. The white-haired man on the catwalk had disappeared. So had the woman in overalls. Tom was brushing dust off a camera lens with a chamois cloth. Rick Tamblyn had joined Gloria on set and was fitting her with a microphone pack.
Inside the booth, Beau was fiddling with audio equipment. Rick left the set, entered the booth, and nudged Beau, who nodded good-naturedly and ceded his spot.
Camille paced the newsroom set, her forehead pinched. Since the “This Is Your Tahoe” segment wasn’t live, I didn’t understand her anxiety. Mistakes could be fixed and another electrical storm wasn’t in the forecast.
“Tripp,” Camille barked and beckoned him with a finger.
Tripp had moved away from Candace and was standing near the office cubicles. Was he trying to listen in on his father’s conversation? He hurried to Camille. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Fetch my stopwatch. It’s on my desk.” She gave him directions.
Like a happy puppy, he trotted off, passing the senior Ambrose as he exited Camille’s cubicle.
Finn Ambrose joined Gloria on set and sat in the designated chair. Mouth moving, Gloria gazed at the twelve-inch screen perched atop Tom’s camera. I’d worked on the live news in high school and recognized that she was reading her script as it scrolled beneath the monitor.
Over a loudspeaker, Beau said, “Ready, babe?”
“Just a sec,” Camille said. “Tripp!” The young man hustled to her and handed her the stopwatch. “Ready, Beau,” she yelled. “Tom, don’t mess up. Gloria, if you’re done with your princess routine . . .”
Finn Ambrose frowned.
Gloria cut Camille a withering look. “Ready,” she said, sitting tall.
“Let’s put one down.” Camille twirled a hand at Beau.
Gloria said, “Aspen, you and Candace take a seat over there. Tripp, you can join them if you like.” She pointed to a trio of director’s chairs, each marked with the word Guest. “Tom, do your magic.” With the calm of a seasoned pro, she patted Finn Ambrose’s knee. “If you don’t like what I ask or you don’t like how you answered, let me know and we’ll reshoot.”
He smoothed the front of his silk shirt. “Ready.”
Gloria spoke into the microphone that Rick had fastened to her lapel, “We’ve got clips of Mr. Ambrose’s casino, don’t we, Rick?”
Over a speaker, he said, “Yep, we’ve got great footage.” I’d expected his voice to be squeaky. Surprisingly, it was a vibrant, confident baritone. Maybe he really was a choirboy. Out of nowhere, I recalled an adage my childhood pastor had often invoked: Busy hands keep a man from doing the devil’s work. Was Rick Gloria’s protector? Had he authored the note?
“And we’re on in five, four, three . . .” Beau’s voice trailed off.
“Welcome to ‘This Is Your Tahoe.’” Gloria smiled into the camera like it was her best friend.
A live display of the interview appeared on the screen to the set’s right.
“Today, my guest is Finn Ambrose, proprietor of the fabulous new casino, Ambrose Alley, located in South Lake Tahoe. Mr. Ambrose—”
“Finn, please.” The man grinned magnanimously.
“Finn, you’ve never owned a casino before. Why start now?”
He opened his hands and refolded them. “Well, I’ve had multiple successes in the restaurant and hotel business. I decided doing both on a grand scale was the way for me to go at this time in my life.”
“Why Lake Tahoe?”
“Can you imagine a more beautiful place to set my new venture?”
As Gloria skillfully led Finn Ambrose through a dialogue about his career and the travails of casino ownership, Tripp slid his chair closer to Candace.
I said to Tripp, “Your dad is coming across great.”
“He always does. He’s very aware of his image,” he added, a trace of bitterness in his tone.
“How old are you?” Candace asked.
“Eighteen.”
“Are you getting ready to go off to college?” I asked.
“No. I’ve been sick. I’m taking classes at Lake Tahoe Community, until, you know, I get caught up.”
A prolonged illness would explain his pallor.
“What were you sick with?” Candace asked.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s over. I’m healthy now. I won’t look like an albino bat for much longer.” He chuckled.
I said, “Gloria mentioned you’re studying American history.”
“Yeah . . . well, no. I was thinking about history as a major, but now I’m thinking I’ll build hotels, so I’m taking some art and architecture classes. I work at the casino, too. Dealing cards.”
I balked. “Aren’t you a little young to—”
“Are you good at cards?” Candace cut in.
“I’ve got good hands.” Tripp lowered his gaze and studied his fingers. “Plus I can remember four decks of cards without breaking a sweat, and I always know who’s got what. My mother could do the same.”
Gloria raised her voice, drawing my attention back to the set. She splayed a hand. “Here’s a preview of the glamour and pampering you can expect at Ambrose Alley.”
As a prerecorded reel began, Gloria leaned toward Finn Ambrose. “We’ll be cutting in a preview of the inside of the restaurant at this point, too.”
“Hope you got a shot of my new executive chef. What a find he is. With a terrific track record.” He winked slyly. “Between us, I stole him from Vittorio’s Ristorante.”
My ears perked up.
Gloria blanched. “Tony didn’t mention that to me.”
“Tony didn’t know. His brother can keep a secret.”
Had Finn Ambrose hired Enzo Vittorio? If so, how come Enzo didn’t mention his new job to Detective Hernandez or to Nick at the crime scene? Was that what he’d been grinning about?
“Finn, I . . .” Gloria swallowed hard. “I guess you didn’t hear.”
“Hear what?”
“About Tony Vittorio.”
Tripp leaned toward Candace and whispered, “Dad hates Tony Vittorio. They’ve owned rival restaurants for years.”
“What about him?” Finn asked Gloria.
“Tape’s rolling,” Beau announced.
“I’ll tell you after,” Gloria said, bad news to be delivered at another time.
“And back in three, two . . .” Beau’s voice trailed off.
With gusto, Gloria dug into the next segment. She teased Finn about his choice of décor, which she explained were antiques from a French bordello mixed with Native American artifacts.
Tripp said, “My mother despised my father’s taste in furniture. She didn’t like anything cheap. Her side of the family, the Virginia City Vogels, came from money.”
Why was he referring to his mother in the past tense? I wondered if she had divorced his father, abandoned the family or, worse, died. Perhaps grief had made him ill.
“What do you think of the décor, Tripp?” Candace asked.
“It’s red.” Tripp shrugged. “My father loves red stuff. I’m partial to the Native American artifacts. I’m part Paiute Indian.”
Candace studied his face. “You don’t look it.”
“Only half. On my dad’s side.”
“Tell me about them.”
“They were bloodthirsty,” Tripp replied.<
br />
“Bloodthirsty?” Candace shuddered.
“Yep. They attacked white settlers as they moved into the Tahoe area during the 1800s. They were always at odds with the Washoe Indians over territorial rights, and when the settlers came, they were tenacious. But they lost, and by 1860 the Paiute lineage pretty much dried up. The Battle at Pyramid Lake, which is northeast of here, was the final blow.”
The young man knew his history.
“A few gentler souls left the tribe and blended with the newcomers. They’re my ancestors.”
“Wow,” Candace said. It was one of her favorite words.
“Dad inherited all sorts of arrowheads and hides from one of our relatives.”
I studied Finn Ambrose and wondered about his Paiute heritage. Had poaching a chef from Vittorio’s Ristorante not been enough for him? Did he kill Tony Vittorio to eliminate the competition? If so, what might link him to Kristin Fisher?
Chapter 11
My cell phone vibrated in my jeans pocket. Nick was calling. I moved away from the set to answer.
“Hi,” he said. “Got a minute?”
“Are you returning my call?”
“What call?”
“I left you a message.” Occasionally, spotty reception made it impossible for a cell phone to record or retain messages. “What’s up? Did you get your Wrangler back this morning?”
“I did and it’s purring. Listen, I’m at the Truckee Hospital.”
Memories of Candace struggling for survival six months ago flashed through my mind. The image invariably made me tense up. “And?”
“Heather Bogart was right. The scalpel that the murderer used was stolen. It turns out the hospital is the source. An employee does daily inventory and one is missing. Detective King is cross-referencing a list of staff and patients at the hospital with the list we compiled for the doctor.”
“And if the murderer wasn’t an employee or patient?” From where I stood, I could see Candace and Tripp whispering and giggling as if they were old friends. “What if the killer was a visitor or a supplier?”
“Good thought. I’ll check those names out, as well.” Nick sounded exhausted. “Where are you?"
“At KINC watching Gloria Morning conduct an interview.”
“Why?” Nick asked, an edge to his voice. He didn’t like Gloria. Not only because she’d covered Vikki’s murder as a newspaper reporter. He also didn’t appreciate her on-screen manner. Her delivery was too perky for his taste.
“Gloria is why I left you the message.” Briefly, I told him about the two notes she’d received and the fact that she’d hired me to delve into it. “Nick, the letters suggest that the Fisher and Vittorio murders are related. Gloria interviewed both people in recent weeks.”
“Are you sure the letters are legit and Gloria didn’t write them to herself?”
I exhaled. I supposed I ought to consider that angle even though she swore she didn’t. “They seem real.”
“Okay.”
I hated how tentative he sounded, as if discounting my instincts. I pressed on. “Have you heard of Finn Ambrose?”
“The restaurateur and hotel chain owner.”
“Yes. He has opened a new casino in South Lake Tahoe.” I told him how Finn Ambrose and Tony Vittorio were rivals and that Ambrose had poached the executive chef from Vittorio’s Ristorante. “He didn’t outright say Enzo Vittorio’s name, but there’s only one executive chef. Remember how Enzo smirked at you and Detective Hernandez, like he had a secret?”
“You saw him smirk. I didn’t.”
“He did. Maybe Enzo and Finn Ambrose conspired together to kill Tony Vittorio.”
“Interesting theory.”
When I returned to my chair, Gloria was concluding the interview. Candace and Tripp, suffering a lapse in their conversation, were watching quietly. As I sat there, I considered the recent letter Gloria had received. Even though Nick hadn’t mentioned a third murder, I itched to read it.
“Thank you, Finn Ambrose.” Gloria turned toward the camera and offered a brilliant smile. “And thank you Lake Tahoe for watching ‘This Is Your Tahoe.’”
“That’s a wrap,” Beau announced from the recording booth.
Camille clapped. “Good show, everyone.” She approached the set, hand extended. “Thank you, Mr. Ambrose.”
He rose and took her hand in both of his. “The pleasure was mine.”
Camille’s cheeks reddened.
Rick tended to Ambrose’s microphone and Gloria removed hers.
“Finn.” Before he could retreat to the green room, Gloria caught up to him and put a hand on his arm. “Earlier, when you mentioned Tony Vittorio—”
“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Finn said. “The restaurant business is a tough one. If he knows what’s good for him, he should expect me to poach his chef. If he paid him better—”
“Tony Vittorio was murdered last night,” Gloria blurted and glanced at me and back to Finn.
“What?” Finn clapped a hand to his chest. “Murdered? How?”
“Stabbed.”
“This is terrible news. Horrible.”
Gloria’s lower lip quivered. “I didn’t want to tell you during the interview.”
“Do the authorities know who did it?”
“Not yet.”
“I can’t believe it.” Finn shook his head. “Tony was a dear man with a great wit. He will be sorely missed.”
Tripp joined his father. “You okay, Dad?”
“I just received tragic news, son. A friend of mine died.” Finn took Gloria’s hands in his. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me earlier. I wouldn’t have been able to finish the interview. You were wonderful, by the way. Keeping that tragic information to yourself and pressing on. Amazing. What do they say in show business?”
“The show must go on,” she chimed.
“That’s it. You were a consummate professional.” Finn started for the exit but turned back. “Please come by the casino anytime. I’ll comp you and a guest for dinner.”
“Goodbye, Miss Morning,” Tripp said.
“Goodbye, Tripp.” Gloria pecked his cheek.
I spotted Beau in the booth. He wasn’t happy with Gloria’s exchange with the Ambroses. Just outside the booth, Tom was ogling Gloria, too, while twisting his camera cord into a knot. Working on a set with adoring men had to be a challenge. I didn’t know how Gloria managed it. But then she hadn’t, had she? One of her ardent fans might be a murderer.
I rushed up to Finn Ambrose. “Sir, before you go, could you spare a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About . . .”
Gloria blanched. “Oh, Finn, I forgot to introduce you. This is Aspen Adams. She’s a journalist, and she’s—”
“She’s not a journalist,” Tripp cut in. “She’s a private detective. Candace told me. She used to be a therapist, but she gave that up and moved here. She lives in the Homewood area, and she went to Stanford University. And she’s part Washoe.”
I glared at my niece. She shifted feet. We’d have to discuss what information was and was not privileged.
“Is that true? You’re a PI?” Finn Ambrose asked me.
“Yes.” I raised my chin, proud of my profession.
“If you want to question me, shall I presume it’s about my relationship with Tony Vittorio? I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you want to know. And I’d love to tell you more about our prickly history”—he offered a winsome smile—“however, right now isn’t a good time. I have an appointment at my casino in a half hour. I’m already running late. Perhaps you could come to my office and we could converse there.” He patted my shoulder as if I were a good puppy and strode toward the exit. “Tripp!”
An uneasy feeling crawled up my spine as I watched Finn Ambrose and his son move toward the exit. If he thought exonerating himself of murder before I could even ask a question was a wise choice, then he didn’t know me very well.
Without so much as a pardon me, Camille butted past me and t
ook hold of Finn’s arm. She escorted him and his son to the lobby while gushing about the wonderful interview he’d given.
Gloria raced to me and guided me toward her dressing room. Over her shoulder, she said, “Candace, honey, we’ll be back in a sec.” Once we were inside the cramped quarters, Gloria said, “So what did you think?”
“Of?”
“Finn Ambrose. Isn’t he chic? And so successful.”
How could I tell her that I was contemplating whether the guy was a murderer?
Dodge and deflect, I decided. “Let me see the letter Camille gave you.” I donned my latex gloves and held out my hand.
“It’s probably harmless.” She grabbed it off the dressing table and thrust it at me.
It was a plain white envelope with Gloria’s name typed to the front and a piece of hair stuck under the flap. “You said you’ve received lots of fan mail.”
“They’re all under here. In a bin. You know”—she rummaged beneath the dressing table—“I think you’re right. The other notes might have nothing to do with the murders. Some kook sent them to me looking for prime-time coverage.” Gloria spoke as fast as her tongue would allow. The stress she was trying to mask was evident around her eyes. “Fifteen minutes of fame and all, right?” She rose. In her hands were at least fifty envelopes, each slit neatly across the top. “None of these are offensive.” She dumped them on the top of the dressing table, found a fresh mini-garbage bag, and loaded them into it. “You can take your time reading them.” She handed me the bag. “But don’t lose them.”
“Gloria, we’ll figure this out. If I have to call in the sheriff, I will. And I’ll be back to ask questions of everybody who works here. I’d like to spend some time with each employee. Alone. That includes your co-anchor, Vaughn Jamison.”
“Are you kidding? He’s passive-aggressive. Milquetoast.”
“He didn’t look very passive-aggressive when he marched past me earlier, although a passive-aggressive person might write letters like the ones you received.”
“But Vaughn wouldn’t kill.”
“I’m not certain the author of the notes is a murderer,” I said, reiterating Nick’s reservations.
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