Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Late last night—not minutes ago—which meant Finn Ambrose didn’t necessarily have an alibi. Did he or anyone at KINC have a connection to the teacher?

  “According to the report,” Gloria went on, “she was working on a class project, pinning pictures of the Seven Wonders of the World on her wall.”

  “At night?”

  “School’s out. No students to bother her. Beau thought she might have preferred the quiet of the evening.”

  “You talked to Beau about it?”

  “Camille told us. We’re both at the studio.”

  “Gloria, did you interview Miss Tejeda?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “It wasn’t an interview, per se. Not a scheduled one, anyway. About a month ago, she was outside the studio. It was raining. She was holding a sign and—” Gloria sucked back a sob. “I received another note, Aspen! It says Miss Tejeda won’t hurt me again.”

  “Did the author write for your glory?”

  “Yes.”

  Three notes. Three murders. Gloria hadn’t interviewed Miss Tejeda, but she had met her. Was meeting the person the connection? No, the killer felt these people had wronged Gloria.

  I said, “How did you receive this note?”

  “Camille gave me a stack of envelopes. It was mixed in with my other mail.”

  “How did you get the note that referred to Dr. Fisher?”

  “A delivery girl brought it Saturday morning. Camille handed it to me. Why?”

  Different delivery systems. One by messenger, one left on the doorstep, one by mail. Was that significant?

  “Poor Miss Tejeda,” Gloria went on. “Why kill her? She was nice. Kooky. She taught kids, for heaven sakes.” She smacked something. A tabletop. “What do we do now?”

  “I’m not sure. Where are you?”

  “In my dressing room.”

  “I’m on my way to you. Don’t go anywhere.”

  On the drive to KINC, I telephoned Nick at the station. Zook said he was out with Hernandez. They were investigating a new murder. Of a teacher.

  “Tejeda,” I said.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Tell him I called,” was all I said and hung up.

  I tapped the steering wheel with the passion of a drummer. Something was bugging me. When it occurred to me that I hadn’t followed up with Heather about Beau’s sister, I reached out to her and asked if Stacy Simmons had been a patient of Dr. Fisher’s. Heather said she had been, but after a few visits Mrs. Simmons found another doctor.

  “That was over three years ago,” Heather added.

  “Do you know why she wanted another doctor?”

  “I think she was moving to another state. She wasn’t upset when she left, if that’s what you’re wondering. She and my mother hugged.”

  I couldn’t see Beau resorting to murder if his sister was no longer Dr. Fisher’s patient. However, with the coincidence of Camille and Stacy both having been the doctor’s patients, I couldn’t rule out that women in Tom or Rick or Vaughn’s lives—not necessarily wives or sisters—might have ties to Dr. Fisher, too. Friends shared the names of doctors.

  On the other hand, what connection did the KINC employees have with Tony Vittorio and Miranda Tejeda? The murderer hadn’t picked them at random.

  • • •

  I found Gloria in her dressing room rubbing lotion on her hands. Her cheeks were pasty, her lower lip quivering.

  “There it is.” She pointed. Sitting on her bureau was a piece of white bond paper similar to the paper used for the previous notes. Gloria dabbed her nose with a Kleenex. The cuticle of her thumb was even more ragged than before.

  “Is Camille on-site?” I asked.

  “She’s getting a facial. Disturbing her at the spa would be like waking Vesuvius. She should be back soon.” Gloria clasped my hand. “Please, Aspen, you have to find out who’s doing this to me.”

  “And to the victims.”

  “That’s a given. You have to stop this.”

  I donned latex gloves and scanned the note. The paper was yet again nondescript. However, on this one, unlike the others, a string of smudged ink marks marred the left side. My printer would mess up in similar fashion when the toner was low.

  Miss Morning, you are my sunshine. I’ll protect you from those who try to diminish your light. Miss Tejeda will never harm anyone again. I did it for your glory. Keep your heart open for my love.

  Gloria chewed on her thumb. “It’s such garbage.”

  “The killer wrote anyone not just you.”

  “I noticed that, too.”

  “Tell me about meeting Miss Tejeda.”

  “It was in May. Vaughn and I were outside reporting on the rainy weather. We were, you know, mingling, and she was waving at me. I remember because she had this funky wig on and she was carrying one of those religious signs, but the message was funny. It said, Thomas Michael 2:4. I know there’s no book in the Bible with that name, so I asked her about it. She said those were names of two of her special education kids. She works . . . worked”—Gloria’s voice cracked—“with all sorts of challenged children, many with ADHD or autism or speech issues.”

  Rubbing her face, trying to stimulate circulation, Gloria plopped into a chair and cried, “Aspen, what am I going to do? I can’t sleep. The worry, the guilt. These people are dying and it’s somehow my fault.”

  My heart ached for her. For them.

  “Did Miss Tejeda do anything to harm you? Even something as silly as punching your arm or making you sound foolish?”

  Gloria splayed her hands. “No. She was collecting books for her school. Easy readers and such.”

  “Did she make a snide remark?”

  Gloria shook her head.

  “Wait a sec. You said this was in May. Was that the day of the electrical storm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Finn Ambrose come in that day?” His feud with Tony Vittorio gave him motive for at least one murder. Had he witnessed Gloria’s exchange with the teacher?

  “Yes. For a moment. He left after the snafu with our equipment happened.”

  “Was Beau there that day?”

  “Of course he was.” Gloria tilted her head, catching my point. “I promise you, Beau’s harmless.”

  “Were Tom and Rick working, too?”

  Gloria’s gaze searched mine. “Is everyone a suspect?”

  “C’mon, help me out. I’m trying to piece the puzzle together.” I peered at the note once more, trying to read something, anything, between the lines. “Whoever wrote this note had to have seen you and Miss Tejeda talking.”

  “Tom was here. Camille, too. She was not happy about the exchange.”

  Camille. She had been Dr. Fisher’s patient. Could she have written these letters? Could she have killed three people?

  Gloria snatched the paper from me. “This guy says Miranda Tejeda hurt me. She didn’t.”

  “What if you’re his or her proxy?”

  “Her?”

  “A female could be doing this.”

  Gloria gagged.

  “It’s possible that Ms. Tejeda hurt the killer, intentionally or unintentionally,” I went on, “and this is the killer’s way of getting back at her.” In fact, that could have been the circumstance in every murder. The author of the notes had been the victim.

  Gloria covered her mouth. “Miranda Tejeda didn’t deserve to die.”

  “No, she didn’t.” I slumped into a director’s chair.

  “A detective named King wants to talk to me. She’s coming by later. She wants to see the third note. The first one was a fluke, right? And the second hints that there’s something going on. But three?” She held up three fingers. “Why is the killer fixated on me?”

  That was the big question.

  Gloria rubbed her neck. “What a day. Beau breaks up with me and now this.”

  “You two broke up?”

  “We have different dreams.
” Gloria battled tears. “He wants to move to Los Angeles or New York right away to further his career. My agent doesn’t think I’m ready. I need more time in a small market before I can aspire to higher goals.”

  Why was Beau so eager to leave town? I said, “Where is he? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “In the control room editing clips for tomorrow’s show.” She fanned the air, pretending not to care, but I could tell she did. As I opened the door, Gloria said in a pitiable voice, “Help me, Aspen. Please.”

  “I will.”

  I strode to the studio. Through the glass door of the recording booth, I spied Camille in a skintight aqua dress, leaning an arm on Beau’s shoulder. Her face was glowing from the recent facial. She raked her fingernails up the nape of Beau’s neck, but he pushed her away and moved a shuttle knob on the control board with ease. Images of Lake Tahoe played forward and backward in rapid succession on the centermost TV monitor.

  I tapped on the glass door and entered.

  Like a kid caught snitching candy, Camille whisked her hand away from Beau. “Don’t you knock?”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “Could you tell me who delivered today’s mail?”

  “How would I know? It was pushed through the slot.” She swept past me, the essence of roses hanging in the air after she was gone.

  I eyed Beau. “Got a sec?”

  He signaled for me to sit in the swivel chair next to his. “You look good in red.”

  A compliment from him was about as worthless as the fortune in a Chinese cookie.

  Using his left hand, Beau twisted the fader knob. Then his hand flew across the control board, hitting one button after another. With his right, he jotted notes on a lined yellow pad. When a whirring sound began, he set down his pencil and swiveled in his chair. “Okay, I’m free. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Your sister Stacy was a patient of Dr. Fisher’s, the gynecologist who was murdered.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s a bit of a coincidence.”

  “What is? My sister knowing a doctor?”

  “And Gloria getting messages from the murderer about the doctor as well as the other two victims.”

  Beau crossed his arms over his chest. “I think the notes are bogus.”

  “Three murders, three notes.”

  “Gloria could be sending them to herself.”

  “For publicity?”

  “For whatever reason. She has some issues. You’re her friend. You know that.”

  No love lost there.

  Beau crossed to the water cooler in the corner of the booth. “Want some?” When I didn’t respond, he filled a paper cup for himself and chugged it down. “Did Gloria tell you about Stacy?”

  “I asked. She said you and your sister are twins. Do you look alike?”

  “Yup. She’s a five-foot-two strawberry blonde and weighs about a hundred pounds. We look a lot alike. Not.” I’d bet he’d laughed every time he said that. Har-har. He returned to his chair and typed in a message on the keyboard. The computer screen flickered, and the image from the television segment began to play, showing a clean beginning and fade to black at the end.

  “Was there bad blood between your sister and Dr. Fisher?” Heather said there wasn’t, but she might not know the whole story. A hug goodbye didn’t necessarily mean the doctor and Stacy had been on good terms.

  “Anyone has the right to change doctors and not be considered a murder suspect,” Beau said. “End of discussion. Unless you’re accusing me of murdering the doctor to avenge my sister. Are you?”

  “Where were you Friday morning before eight o’clock?”

  “Okay, sure, here we go.” He folded his arms. “I was at the gym. I do an hour of cardio followed by a two-hour stretch class. I go every Friday. Lots of witnesses. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Beau tapped his watch. “I’ve got a lot to do for the evening news.”

  I moved to the door and turned back. “Did you know the teacher who was murdered? Miranda Tejeda?”

  “Nope. You’re not going to blame me or my sister for that, too, are you?” He scratched his chin. “When did she die? Last night? That’s a bowling night. I was with Rick.”

  I peered at the set of one-inch videotapes on the shelves behind him and recalled the DVDs Candace had borrowed from Camille. Was Gloria’s meet up with Tejeda recorded on one of them? “Do you happen to have DVDs of segments filmed in front of the studio?” I asked.

  “All I’ve got are professional grade tapes. Camille has DVDs in her cubicle. Check with her.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  A few minutes later, I knocked on the partition to Camille’s cubicle. When she didn’t respond, I peeked around the corner. The area was as organized as an IRS office. Paper clips in one jar, pushpins in another, and separate containers for pencils and pens. Folders were stacked neatly in the upper right corner. Magazines and newspapers were piled in the upper left. A computer monitor sat squarely in the center of her desk. DVDs, each marked with a date, stood in jewel cases on the credenza behind the desk. The inbox was empty; the outbox, too.

  Before I could think about the legal ramifications, I snatched a few DVDs recorded in April and May, hoping one might show me Gloria’s interaction with Miss Tejeda, hid them in my tote, and bolted out of KINC.

  Chapter 19

  A short while later, I strode into the office, sank into one of the winged-back chairs, and closed my eyes. A doctor, a teacher, a restaurateur. Stringing the words together reminded me of a nursery rhyme. Sick, Aspen. Really sick.

  The sofa creaked loudly. My eyes snapped open. Max stared at me, hands folded in her lap, the hem of her purple muumuu obscuring her ankles.

  “Special education kids have unique needs,” she said, as if she’d joined me in the middle of a conversation. “Some parents can’t handle the pressure.” One of her boys had a severe learning disability. At times, he would overload like a computer and shut down until his brain could reboot.

  I sat up and blurted, “Tripp Ambrose.”

  “What about him?”

  “When I met him, I noticed he had a slight speech impediment. What if he has other challenges? What if he went to school in the Mt. Rose district? What if Miss Tejeda was his teacher? If his father grew frustrated with the teacher’s ability to fix his son—” Another idea struck me. What if Tripp were the killer? No. The only person I could see the poor kid killing was his bombastic father.

  “Pin it down,” Max said. “Go back to Finn Ambrose.”

  “And get answers and alibis.”

  “Also, if I might suggest, you should visit with relatives of the schoolteacher as well as the restaurateur.”

  “I’m sure Nick’s staff will be conducting extensive interviews.”

  “That’s all well and good”—my aunt’s mouth turned up at the corners—“but you have a client to serve.”

  • • •

  On the way to Ambrose Alley, I phoned Tony Vittorio’s widow and made an appointment to meet with her the next day. Then I dialed Mt. Rose Elementary. The principal agreed to see me on Saturday, too. She would be finishing up office work before she took her summer break.

  When I arrived at the casino, I was pleased to learn Finn Ambrose would meet with me. My guess? He hoped to erase the memory of my having seen him wielding a meat cleaver.

  I followed a guard into the exclusive penthouse-only elevator. The guard pressed four digits on the security panel, and we sped to the top floor.

  Finn Ambrose met me at the door to his residence. “Miss Adams. Come in. Please.” His manner was warm, his gaze direct. “You look lovely.”

  Red was obviously my color if two men were offering me a compliment.

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s talk in my study. You want to discuss Gloria Morning?” he asked over his shoulder as he crossed the living room.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dear sweet Gloria. She’s a triple threat. Well educated and
beautiful with high aspirations.”

  Brains, beauty, and goals didn’t typically fit the definition of a triple threat, but I let it slide.

  The sleek décor in the room was tasteful and quite different from the gaudy casino setting. The U-shaped white couch, white satin pillows, and white bearskin rug were eye-catching, but the view, as in The Vista one floor below, was the star. Artists would covet the perspective.

  “Gloria is an astute reporter,” he went on. “I like how she digs deep on each subject she tackles.”

  Finn ushered me into his pine-paneled office, which was more in keeping with the rustic look of most Lake Tahoe homes. A deer antler chandelier lit the room with a warm glow. A sizeable Mission-style desk and mocha-colored leather chairs complemented the log cabin theme. On the far wall hung a black-and-white pinto hide and some Indian artifacts, including an arrowhead collection that rivaled the one given to me by my grandfather. The only thing not in keeping with the theme was the HP printer sitting on the built-in file cabinet. The unit was spitting out copies.

  Finn moved to the printer, placed a new document on the scanner, and pressed Copy. “Forgive me. I’ve got to complete this project. Every minute counts. The bank is demanding info. It’s financial in nature or I’d have my executive assistant handle it. I hope Miss McRae gave you the full tour earlier.” He smoothed his eyebrows with his left pinky, a practiced move.

  “As you know, our meeting was cut short.”

  “Ah, yes, you left in a hurry. A teacher was murdered. That brings the tally to three, doesn’t it? I hear the sheriff’s office isn’t sure it’s the same killer.”

  “Miss McRae said you weren’t available to talk to anyone from the sheriff’s office.”

  “I tried my best, but I couldn’t break free. Sorcha chatted with Detective Sergeant Shaper on my behalf and filled me in later.” He seated himself behind his desk and gestured for me to sit in one of the high-backed leather chairs. A wadded-up shirt lay on one. I chose the other. “Tell me about your arrangement with Gloria,” he went on. “She hired you to look into the notes she’s been receiving, is that so?”