Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Please,” she begged.

  I agreed.

  “Thank you. Bless you. If that’s all.”

  “Before you hang up,” I said, “may I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, I’m taking care of my mother’s dog. That nice detective said you were worried about him.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, but that wasn’t my question. It involves a patient or a possible patient, so if telling me anything conflicts with your confidentiality agreement—”

  “I didn’t have one seeing as I was the boss’s daughter. Mom was lax that way.”

  “Was Gloria Morning a patient?”

  Heather gasped. “Is that who you’re working for? Miss Morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “She wasn’t a patient. Not ever. She came in that one time to interview Mom, and then my mother went to the studio to do some pick things. What do you call them?”

  “Pick-ups.”

  “Yes. She was very nice. Very professional. She came with a cameraperson.”

  “Tom Regent?”

  “A young man. Very proper.”

  “Rick Tamblyn.”

  Heather giggled. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “Did your mother and Gloria argue or clash in any way?”

  “Not that I know of. Like I said, it was all very professional.”

  After thanking her and ending the call, I couldn’t help thinking about what she’d told me. Rick had met Dr. Fisher. Was that significant?

  • • •

  As I made the turn onto North Lake Boulevard, I got in touch with Edward Bogart using the cell phone number Heather had given me. No use dropping in unannounced. I explained who I was and asked if we could meet. He agreed.

  The motel had looked the same for as long as I could remember: L-shaped, white with green trim, and clean. Though the doctor probably could have afforded a ritzier place, he might not have been able to secure one. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, Tahoe properties were booked.

  As I locked my Jeep, I caught the savory scent of lunch preparations at the Mexican restaurant next door. My stomach rumbled in protest. A protein bar and cup of coffee were not enough to carry me through the day. I would fix that after the meeting.

  Approaching Edward Bogart’s room, my hunger pangs were replaced with apprehension. Was the man a killer? Was meeting him alone a mistake? Nick maintained that Bogart had a solid alibi. On the other hand, he was an adept surgeon who knew his way around scalpels. Could he have driven the distance from Reno to Lake Tahoe in the wee hours of the morning and killed his ex-wife while the child he’d operated on was in recovery?

  For Gloria’s sake, I pressed on. When he admitted me, I would leave the door ajar. No one, however clever, would kill me in broad daylight while people roamed the parking lot.

  When Edward Bogart opened the door, I breathed a tad easier. He was the human equivalent of a mayonnaise sandwich on white bread: white hair, pasty skin, and bland expression.

  I introduced myself.

  “I have ten minutes.” He gestured for me to enter and then moved further into the room and perched on the edge of the bed.

  As planned, I left the door open and took one step inside. “Sir, as I stated on the telephone, Heather asked me to meet with you.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  Man, he was stony. “Because your ex-wife died.”

  “What do you do, Miss Adams?”

  “I used to be a therapist.”

  “But you’re a PI now, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes.” Heather must have given him a heads-up.

  “Are you investigating my ex-wife’s murder? If so, I’ve already spoken with the sheriff’s office. I was in surgery the night Kristin died. Heart transplant for a seven-year-old.”

  “I heard he lived. Congratulations.”

  “She.” He massaged his slender hands as if they were dough. My ex-husband had done the same before and after conducting his brilliant orchestra. His hands were his life. “You have questions, Miss Adams. Ask them, but remember I’m in a hurry.”

  Though my only promise to Heather was to make sure her ex-father was okay, his icicle-worthy demeanor made me want to dig deeper. Questions about motive scudded through my mind. “Sir, according to Heather, you’re mentioned in your ex-wife’s will.”

  Bogart stopped kneading. “Correct. I stand to inherit a portion of her estate. She was supposed to have changed her will years ago but didn’t. She wasn’t a fan of money. She was forgetful about it. I’ve arranged with the estate lawyer to give the whole lot back to Heather.”

  If so, that would be a noble gesture.

  “I care for Heather, despite what she may think,” he went on. “I left her mother because—”

  “Heather said you expected too much of her. She couldn’t rise to the occasion.”

  Bogart’s mouth puckered as if he’d sucked lemon juice. “I can be quite stern, expecting perfection even from a girl as young as Heather was then. I was not an ideal father.”

  “You renounced the adoption.”

  He sighed. “Not my finest hour.”

  At least Bogart recognized his shortcoming.

  “Heather could benefit from that admission,” I said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “One question before I go. Do you know Gloria Morning?”

  He stood up, arms loose by his sides but hands clenched. “I was mistaken earlier. You aren’t investigating Kristin’s murder, are you?”

  If I expected him to be truthful, I ought to be, as well. “No, sir. If I misled you about my intent, I apologize. I represent Gloria Morning, a news anchor for KINC. She has received notes from someone we believe to be Dr. Fisher’s killer.”

  “Don’t know her. Don’t watch the news. If there’s nothing further.” He moved to the door and stood with his hand on the knob.

  The moment I stepped outside, Bogart closed the door and locked it. I bit back a laugh. Had he expected me to bust back in?

  Once I was situated in the Jeep, I rang Heather and told her about the encounter. She was sincerely grateful that I’d reached out to him. I assured her that he was fine. He wasn’t pining for her mother. I also assured her that he was innocent; he had a solid alibi. Lastly, I advised her that he was planning to cede his portion of her mother’s estate to her. I suggested she reach out to the estate attorney to move that along.

  Chapter 14

  Later that morning, after setting a new doctor’s appointment for the middle of next week—it was the earliest she could accommodate me—I drove to KINC. I found Gloria in her dressing room, pacing with nervous energy. “A detective from the sheriff’s office came by. Hernandez.”

  Good. Nick had taken the situation seriously.

  “He checked out the lights and gels and determined the cables were naturally frayed. Due to wear and tear. They weren’t cut. It was an accident.” She flitted from her bathroom to her dressing table to the clothes rack, where she checked the buttons and zippers of each of her jackets and blouses. “He suggested I might be overreacting to the letters. Because you have them, I couldn’t show them to him.”

  “I’m going to deliver them to the sheriff’s office later on. Let’s see what they say after they view them.”

  Gloria whirled around. “Beau thinks I’m hallucinating about everything.” She resumed chewing on her ragged thumb.

  “You’re not. I’ve seen the notes.” I’d dealt with plenty of feverish patients at BARC. Repeatedly, their families explained reality to them, but Gloria wasn’t making anything up. I reached over and pulled her finger from her mouth. “What’s going on, Gloria?”

  “Nothing. I—” She tittered. “I . . . I got another note.” She lifted a piece of white, eight-by-eleven paper and opened it so I could read it.

  Dear Miss Morning, You are so beautiful.

  “That’s it?”

  Gloria screwed up her mouth.

&nbs
p; “There’s no signature,” I said. “No threat. No promise of protection. It’s another fan letter. Pure and simple.”

  “The paper is the same.”

  Sure, the weight of the paper felt similar—all computer paper did—but I didn’t detect a hint of roses.

  “Aspen, I feel like I’m going nuts. I—” Gloria held her finger to her lips and then jerked a thumb toward the dressing room door. I’d left it open an inch when I’d entered.

  Something squeaked in the hallway. Was someone eavesdropping on our conversation?

  Suddenly, the door to Gloria’s dressing room swung open and Rick poked his head in. Collared shirt. Freshly shaven. “Ten minutes, Glo.” He disappeared as quickly as he came.

  Gloria let out a high-pitched giggle. “I’m ridiculous, aren’t I, seeing spies around every corner?”

  Spies, falling lights, and notes. Alarm signals blared in my mind.

  The door swung open a second time, and Vaughn Jamison strutted inside. “Hey, hey, hey.” He balked when he saw me. “Oh. Didn’t know you had a visitor. I’ll come back another time.”

  Gloria stiffened. Was she afraid of Vaughn? Dressed in a bright yellow Hawaiian shirt plastered with huge yellow parrots tucked into blue jeans, he looked tame. No flare-up on the horizon like yesterday. Was it possible he was bipolar and not passive-aggressive?

  “How’s your car?” Gloria asked Vaughn. To me, she said, “Two tires blew out on his SUV on the way to work.”

  “The body shop gave me an estimate,” Vaughn said. “What do you think a paint job for a Chevy Suburban costs? Five k.” He held up one hand, fingers spread.

  “That’s steep,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I skidded along a building and scraped off the paint. Barely held it together. Glad I didn’t take out any tourists. Also glad they still stock the color Tahoe blue.” He peered at me. “Who are you?”

  “Forgive me. I’m a terrible hostess,” Gloria said. “Vaughn Jamison, this is my friend Aspen Adams.”

  As we shook, I was struck by how devoid of energy he was, which made me wonder how he was able to drum up the oomph to perform on camera.

  Gloria said, “Aspen is investigating the letters the murderer sent.” To me, she said, “I let Vaughn read the one about Tony Vittorio.”

  “And touch it?”

  “Of course not.” She pouted, hurt that I’d even think that.

  “It was innocuous,” Vaughn said.

  “Do you happen to get the same kind of fan mail, Mr. Jamison?”

  “One promising to protect me from harm?” He snorted. “As if.”

  “Did you know Tony Vittorio?”

  “Knew of him. Never visited the restaurant.”

  “Was your wife a patient or former patient of Dr. Fisher’s?”

  Vaughn offered a cockeyed grin. “What is this? The third degree?”

  Gloria said, “Answer her questions.”

  Vaughn hooked his thumbs through the loops of his jeans. “My wife is a lawyer with barely enough time to breathe.”

  “She sees a gynecologist, I presume,” I said. “According to the few articles I’ve read about you and your family, you have children. Two boys, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Both delivered in Fresno, California,” he snapped, his calm exterior cracking ever so slightly.

  “Vaughn’s wife is a saint,” Gloria said. “How she puts up with him and his ego is beyond me.”

  His face tinged red. Was she goading him on purpose?

  He stowed his anger and said, “You have aspirations, too, Gloria. Don’t play coy. You’re hoping for the Today Show or Good Morning America. Heck, we all want national exposure, don’t we?” He held out a fist.

  Gloria fist-bumped it, but her spirit wasn’t in it.

  “I have to go. I need to review tonight’s news.” He jutted his chin at the door. “It’s been real, Miss Adams.”

  As contentious as Vaughn and Gloria’s relationship seemed to be, I couldn’t imagine him sending her love notes promising to protect her. Making lights crash down upon her was a likelier prospect, but I didn’t have a moment to consider that notion because Tom Regent rapped on the doorframe.

  “Gloria, got a sec?”

  I wondered how she tolerated the open-door policy.

  “Miss Adams,” Tom said, “what a nice surprise.”

  “Can’t talk, Tom,” Gloria said. “I’ve got to prepare. You understand.” She prodded my shoulder. “You, too, Aspen. I’ll call you later. After the taping, I have to run right out. I have a Skype meeting with my agent in LA.”

  I exited with Tom. When Gloria locked the door, I chuckled. Apparently she did need privacy.

  Tom stared at the door, a hurt expression in his eyes. “I know you’re not a reporter, Aspen”—he ran a finger under the collar of his blue T-shirt—“so if you want to ask me more questions about Gloria and this note thing and the murders, go right ahead.”

  The note thing was obviously no longer a secret. Okay, I could work with that.

  “Did you write the letters, Tom?”

  “Ha! I like how direct you are. Nope. I’m not a writer.”

  “Where were you last Friday morning?” I asked, probing to find out if he had an alibi for Dr. Fisher’s murder. I couldn’t determine his motive, but if he were the killer, I’d figure it out eventually.

  “Depends what time. I get up around five. I’m here by eight. In between I eat, read the paper, watch the national news, and go caving.”

  “I heard you were a spelunker.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you go caving with anyone?”

  “I’m a solo act.”

  So his alibi was iffy.

  “What do you know about the note Gloria received pertaining to Dr. Fisher?”

  “Ho-ho. Coming at me from all angles.” Tom ran his hand along his jaw. “I don’t know anything except it’s written on white computer paper. I don’t even know when she got it.”

  I’d forgotten to ask Gloria about the delivery of the first note and made a mental note to follow up. “How about the lights that fell yesterday, Tom? They almost struck Gloria. What do you think happened there?”

  He yanked his hands from his pockets. “That was an accident.”

  “You left shortly afterward.”

  “For a dentist appointment. Man, having a tooth extracted sucks. Anything else you want to ask me?” He shifted feet. “If not, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “That’s all for now.”

  As I watched him go, I replayed the lights falling scenario. Camille had been on the set seconds before Gloria. Had she been the target and not Gloria? Had Tom set the incident in motion?

  No, Hernandez determined it was an accident. Case closed.

  Or was it? I flashed on Camille handing a fan letter to Gloria yesterday. She said the spiky-haired girl had delivered it—the not a. She’d recognized her, meaning the girl had delivered something before. Was it possible she had dropped off the first note regarding Dr. Fisher? Was she the killer’s accomplice? Did the killer want Camille out of the way so she couldn’t identify the delivery person?

  • • •

  On the way home, with the late afternoon sun blazing through the windshield, I dialed Gloria’s cell phone. I wanted to find out how and when she’d received the first letter. She didn’t answer. The call went to voice mail.

  Next, I checked in with my aunt. She didn’t have any tasks for me today and told me to have a nice evening with my niece.

  Seeing as Candace wouldn’t be home until after the movie, I swung by the sheriff’s station. Zook informed me Nick was in the field with Hernandez and King. I handed the two notes Gloria had received to her. She promised she would personally carry them to Evidence to preserve the chain of custody.

  Minutes later, as I was making the turn south on Highway 28, my cell phone rang. Candace was on the line. Hands-free, I answered.

  “Aunt Aspen!” Candace cried. “Cinder is all right,
but you have to come home right now.”

  Adrenaline shot through me. “What do you mean he’s all right? What happened?” I stepped on the gas, bypassing slower drivers.

  “Someone . . . Someone . . .” She slurped back tears. “Waverly’s mother is here. She—” Candace moaned.

  “Put Wendy on the phone,” I ordered.

  “Aspen,” Wendy Winston said in a forced neutral tone, “everything is fine. Someone played a cruel trick on your dog. He’s scared and shaking, but he’s okay.”

  Driving like an Indy racer, I sped south toward Homewood. As I veered onto my street, a dark blue SUV barreled at me and forced me to the side. Dust kicked up. My tires screeched. I slammed on the horn, as if that would do any good. The SUV disappeared.

  Regaining the road, I tore ahead and into my driveway. Wendy had parked her RAV4 near the cabin.

  I sprang from the Jeep, heart hammering my chest, and yelled Candace’s name.

  “On the back porch!” more than one female shouted.

  I tore around the side of the house and sprinted up the rear stairs. Candace, in denim shorts and crop top, was lying on her belly, hand extended beneath the bench to the left.

  Wendy, who was as tall and curly-haired as her teenaged daughter, said, “Cinder’s huddled under there and shivering with fear. He won’t come to me. There’s a dead squirrel—”

  “And flies. It stinks,” Waverly said.

  “Cinder is tied to the bench,” Candace hissed, not moving from her spot. “I think if he moves, he’ll choke.”

  I crouched down and assessed my dog. His paws were curled beneath him, his eyes wide with fear. The squirrel was pinned in place by wire. Poor Cinder. No creature wanted to lie beside something dead.

  “Hey, fella, it’s okay.” I kissed Candace on the head and said, “I’ve got this. Stand up.”

  She scrambled to her feet.

  Using a gentle voice, I extended my hand to the dog so he could smell me. “I’m going to untie you, fella. But first I’m going to get this squirrel out of here, okay, buddy?” I peered at my niece. “Candace, get me a garbage bag and a pair of garden gloves and wire cutters.”

  She darted away and returned in seconds, letting the screen door slam behind her. She shoved the items at me. I slipped on the gloves and, doing my best not to inhale, cut the wires, and then removed the squirrel, shoved it into the garbage bag, and tied a knot. I flung the bag and gloves and wire cutters to the right to eliminate the stench from the area and reached under the bench again. I swatted at the lingering flies; they dispersed. Then I scratched Cinder’s ears.