Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Notes from the killer.”

  “How can you be sure they’re legit?”

  I eyed the HP printer. Would the toner leave a smudge of ink down the left side of a copy? “Because the killer claims he’s doing so to protect and honor Gloria. The notes coincide with all three murders.”

  “So Gloria knew each of the victims?” The smug way Finn laced his fingers behind his head irked me.

  “She interviewed two for her ‘This Is Your Tahoe’ segments. The third, Miranda Tejeda, was in the crowd outside the studio the day you were scheduled to do an interview. The day of the electrical storm.”

  “It was raining that day. We left when the interview was canceled.”

  Why didn’t I trust the guy? Because I didn’t trust anyone. And his answer was glib and quick. Too quick.

  “Miss Tejeda and Gloria had a nice exchange,” I said.

  “You think the murderer witnessed this chat and believed the teacher threatened Gloria?”

  “Possibly. Miss Tejeda was a special education teacher at Mt. Rose Elementary. It’s a nearby school district.” I hoped to see a reaction. I didn’t. “Did she happen to teach Tripp?”

  “We don’t live in that district.”

  “Sometimes special education children are transferred to other districts.”

  “Aha. You picked up on his disability.” Finn aimed a finger at me. “You’re very perceptive.” He took a sip of water from a glass on the desk. “If there had been some kind of intra-district transfer, my wife would have handled it. She dealt with all things that involved education.”

  Of course, the elusive wife.

  “Sorcha says your ex doesn’t live in Lake Tahoe. How can I contact her?”

  The telephone on his desk rang. Finn reached for it but the ringing stopped.

  Within seconds a mature platinum blonde in a flare-skirted dress, chunky jewelry, and stiletto heels waltzed into the room. She was holding a half-filled goblet of white wine. “Finn.” Overly long bangs fell into her eyes. She swooped them off her face. “It’s for you. Your portfolio manager. He sounds grumpy.”

  “Jules, sweetheart”—Finn grabbed the cordless phone receiver as he rose to his feet—“this is Aspen Adams. Get her something to drink, would you?” He gave her a peck on the cheek and patted her shapely rump. “You smell nice. New perfume?”

  “Estée Lauder’s Tuberose.”

  “I like it.” He moved into the kitchen, speaking into the phone as the door closed. “How’re you doing, man?”

  “Want a drink?” Jules jiggled the one she held as if I didn’t understand English and sign language might work.

  “No, thanks.” I rose, eager to inspect the pages Finn had printed.

  “I don’t normally go for it this early, but I’ve got bad cramps. They can lay me up for days at a time. My doctor can’t figure it out.”

  “Mine recommends lots of water.”

  “What’s your guy’s name? Anybody would be better than the guy I go to.” Jules drank a bit more.

  “She’s, um, deceased.” The words caught in my throat. “She was the doctor who was murdered last Friday.”

  Jules blanched. “I’m so sorry. I—” She peered past me. “Hey, Tripp.”

  I swiveled.

  Tripp stood just inside the doorway, bare-chested, his pajama bottoms dragging around his ankles, his eyes at half-mast and puffy. He was barefoot, which was why I hadn’t heard him enter. In his right hand he held a copper lamp that was about two feet tall.

  “Is that new?” Jules asked.

  Tripp murmured, “Yes.” A taller version of the lamp stood by one of the leather chairs, the lampshade punched with holes, letting light spill through.

  Jules winked at me. “Tripp makes all sorts of artistic stuff. He has a real eye for beauty. He takes art classes at Lake Tahoe CC.”

  “So he said the other day.”

  “Oh, you’ve met?” Jules raised an eyebrow.

  “At KINC, when Gloria Morning interviewed Finn.”

  Tripp yawned. “What t-time is it?”

  “Late. If you don’t get a move on, you’ll miss your meeting.”

  “Got a smoke for me before I go?”

  “Absolutely not. Nice try.” Jules chuckled. “Get dressed.”

  “Need my shirt.”

  Jules grabbed the wadded-up shirt from the other leather chair and tossed it to Tripp.

  He caught it with his free hand and turned to leave.

  “Hey, wait, Tripp, come back.” Jules tiptoed to the kitchen door and listened for a moment, and then stole back to the desk. Lowering her voice, she said, “I have to ask you something.”

  “What’s up?” He shuffled toward her while eyeing the glass of wine and licking his lips. My sister, who had an addiction to everything other than work, would do the same thing.

  Jules whispered, “I found an order for flowers in the bills. Do you know to whom they were sent? Was it to her? To Gloria Morning?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Jules glowered. “C’mon. Be honest. Did you make the order? Wasn’t your father man enough to do it himself?”

  Tripp glanced in my direction. Jules blanched.

  Pretending to ignore the mini-soap opera, I inched to the printer and took a peek at the top page. No smudges or ink marks. Dang. I turned back, ready to make my exit, but Tripp blocked me.

  “Sorcha told me you’re investigating on behalf of Miss Morning. It might help you to know that Tony Vittorio’s widow and her brother-in-law are having an affair.” Without waiting for a response, Tripp slinked out of the room.

  As he disappeared, I realized I was holding my breath. That news about Enzo Vittorio and his brother’s widow was a bombshell I hadn’t expected. Was Tripp throwing me a curveball to clear his dad’s name?

  I turned to Jules. “How long has Tripp been an alcoholic?”

  “You could tell?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Two years. He’s been sober six months, but he craves it.”

  That explained why, when I’d first met him, he said he’d been ill.

  “He goes to an AA meeting every night. His father’s been adamant that he does. He even takes him to some of the meetings.”

  “Did he take him last night?”

  “Yes. Thursday nights I go to my book club.”

  “Does Finn stay at the meetings with Tripp?”

  Jules’s gaze narrowed. Was she peeved at me for asking or wondering whether Finn left to have a tryst with another woman when he was supposed to be supporting his son? “Look at the time.” She ran her fingers through tangled locks. “I’m late for an appointment. My hair gal will only see clients after five. Ridiculous.” She headed toward the door.

  Because I wanted more from her, I followed. “Jules, do you work?” I asked. How lame. I could do better at chitchat.

  But apparently I didn’t have to.

  Jules pulled a business card from the pocket of her dress. “Jules Marsh. Private events hostess for Ambrose Alley. “I was a caterer in L.A. My sister was an actress. B movies, mostly. I worked out of a food truck and dished up meals for the actors. Finn met me at a gig and hired me to work for him. Then we . . .” She raised her wineglass in a toast. “Then we fell in love and he asked me to marry him. Engaged for two years and counting.” She coughed out a bitter laugh, which explained the sadness in her eyes.

  The kitchen door squeaked.

  Seconds later, Finn tramped into the office. “Jules, I need to go out. We’re having problems with a lender.” He retrieved the papers that he’d printed and stuffed them into his briefcase. “Miss Adams, I’m sorry to cut our chat short.”

  What chat? He’d avoided me with ease. Max would not be pleased with my interrogation skills. Why should she be? I sure as heck wasn’t. When dealing with my patients, you steer the ship had been one of my mantras. Finn Ambrose had applied my own tactic against me.

  “I hope you’ll come to The Vista as my guest,” he went on. “A
ny time.”

  He left so fast that he wasn’t in the hall when I exited.

  Questions cycled through my mind as I waited for the elevator. Was Tripp capable of murder? Was Jules? Her perfume was rose-scented. Had she sent the notes to Gloria? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Maybe her aroma had transferred to the paper Finn used. Was he connected to all the victims? Was Nick following up on that?

  When the elevator doors opened, I was surprised to see the cab was empty. No guard. Perhaps he was only required to escort me up, not down. The doors closed and the elevator began to move.

  Then suddenly, it plunged.

  Chapter 20

  Every muscle in my body tensed. I tumbled into the back wall. My left shoulder took the brunt. I braced myself with my palms as my life flashed before me. I’d never bear a child. Never save Candace from her mother. Never—

  The elevator screeched to a stop. Had an emergency brake kicked into gear?

  The lights flickered and went out. The walls vibrated, as if the whole unit was hanging by one cord and ready to plummet again. I didn’t scream, worried that I might upset the delicate balance of air and metal.

  After a long moment, the lights came on and something whirred and then cranked.

  The car began to creep downward in short spurts. Each jolt made me catch my breath.

  When the elevator came to a standstill and the door groaned opened, I realized I’d landed safely at the lobby level. I stumbled out and gulped in air. I scanned the area for a guard so I could report the faulty equipment but stopped when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a shorthaired woman in a skintight dress scurrying toward the exit.

  Camille St. John. What the heck was she doing at the casino?

  And then, out of nowhere, Enzo Vittorio darted across the foyer and left through the same door.

  I gazed after them. Were they together? An item? Were the gossipers wrong about Enzo and the widow? Had Enzo and Camille rigged the elevator to kill me?

  Get real, Aspen. My mind reeled with conspiracy theories. In order to time the crash, either Camille or Enzo would have needed to know when I’d left Finn Ambrose’s penthouse suite, which meant that if someone had triggered the event, it would have to have been Finn or Jules.

  “Hi, Aspen.” Sorcha McRae, dressed in black silk blouse and trousers, strode toward me, a smile on her face. “Nice to see—” She gripped my elbow. “Hey, are you okay? You’re as pale as a ghost.”

  “The elevator. To the penthouse. Plummeted. With me inside.”

  “Oh, no. We had it serviced a week ago. I’m so sorry.” She guided me to a chair and made me sit and then marched across the carpet to an attendant. She ordered him to place an Out of Service sign by the elevator door. The two exchanged words. She won.

  When she returned to me, she said, “I’m afraid Ambrose Alley is such a new casino that glitches are the norm. How are you feeling? Do you need water? Ice? A doctor?”

  “I’m fine.” My shoulder was aching, but the rest of me was intact and my heart was beating normally again. I gazed at Sorcha, curious whether she might supply Finn Ambrose’s alibis for all three murders, seeing as he’d blown me off. “Did you hear the news? A teacher was murdered. Odds are by the same killer.”

  “How horrible. You can’t think Finn had anything to do with it.”

  “I don’t know what to think. Do you know where he was last night? Was he taking his son to an AA meeting?”

  Sorcha pursed her lips. “You know about Tripp’s illness?”

  “I figured it out.”

  “Then yes, he was. He does so nearly every night.” Sorcha swept her hair over her shoulder. “Look, I don’t have time to talk right now—there’s a crisis in the ballroom—but if you ever want to grab a bite to eat, I’m up for it. I’d love to know more about the life of a PI.”

  “How about tonight?” No time like the present, and in a casual atmosphere she might divulge more about her boss. “The Tavern in Homewood.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Seven?”

  “Perfect.”

  • • •

  I swung by Waverly’s house and picked up Candace who couldn’t stop raving about her trip to Virginia City. The train ride. The tour guide. The history. As she carried on, a sheriff’s vehicle passed me. Quickly, I made a U-turn. The sheriff’s station was only a mile away.

  Zook was sorting manila folders into the horizontal file drawers. She coughed and blew her nose with a tissue. When she saw Candace and me, she smiled. “Hi, Aspen. Nick’s busy.”

  “Could you let him know we’re here? It’s important.” I wanted to talk to him about Finn Ambrose and his son, and I wanted to know whether Nick or anyone on his team had tracked down Ambrose’s ex-wife.

  “Sure thing.” Zook disappeared through the door leading to the jail and rooms at the rear of the building.

  My stomach grumbled. To keep myself from thinking about how long it had been since I’d last eaten, I paced the narrow hall outside the reception/records office and read the posters pinned to the corkboard. I grinned when I read that the Truckee Junior College was offering summer night classes for administration of justice, jewelry making, and keeping Tahoe blue. Talk about a diverse program.

  “Psst, Aunt Aspen.” Candace beckoned me. She was peering through the reception window. “See the file at the top of the inbox?”

  The file’s cover was tilting toward us, propped up by the myriad other items in the inbox. “What about it?”

  “Can you read the yellow Post-it notes that are attached to it?”

  “No.” My eyesight wasn’t bad, but I couldn’t make out writing at that distance.

  “It’s for Dr. Fisher’s investigation. Mud was found in her office as well as bits of clay and metal and brown horsehair.”

  “Horsehair? Not dog hair?”

  “That, too. Boy, the notes sure are CSI technical. The sticky note for dog hair mentions with roots and without roots. What does that mean, without roots?”

  “My bet, you can test DNA on hair with roots but not on hair that is, say, cut off.”

  The burly jailer stepped out of the office to the left and veered toward us.

  I grabbed Candace’s elbow and steered her away from the window.

  But Candace persisted. “I learned on CSI that police could figure out whether the killer owned a pet. Do you think that’s why they’re collecting all the hair evidence?”

  “Absolutely,” the jailer said as he stepped into the foyer, a set of car keys in hand. “A good techie can even determine which hairs come from which species.” The guy must have had supersonic hearing.

  Swell. I felt my neck and cheeks flush. Nick would be ticked to the max if he knew we’d been snooping.

  “Good night, ladies.” The jailer turned right and pushed through the door leading to superior court.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Candace went on, “that the notes the killer wrote to Gloria were childish.”

  “Are those posted on the file’s cover, too?”

  “Nah, some reporter read one on the radio today. Waverly’s dad thought it was sick.”

  It was sick. Where had the reporter obtained it? Had Gloria or someone else at KINC made a copy and leaked it?

  Just as Candace and I turned toward the reception window, Nick and Zook entered the room through the rear doorway. Zook pointed in our direction. Nick looked horrible. His eyes were lackluster. His skin was taut across his cheeks.

  I offered a supportive smile.

  He joined us in the foyer and kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry, Aspen, but I don’t have time to talk.”

  “Gloria received a third note.”

  “I’m well aware.”

  “Also, I went to Ambrose Alley and asked Finn Ambrose whether his son, who’s slightly challenged, might have required a special education teacher. He ducked my questions, and then, when I got into the elevator—”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really can’t talk. We have a suspect in custody. Not
Ambrose. I’ll call you later.”

  As he returned inside and crossed to the rear door, I spied Vaughn Jamison standing in profile in the hall. He was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt and jeans and his hands appeared to be cuffed behind his back. He looked panicked.

  Chapter 21

  On the drive home, Candace’s cell phone rang. She answered and mouthed Waverly to me. A second later, she tapped and held the Mute button. “Some kids are going to the movies. Can I go, too? Waverly’s mom will chaperone.”

  “I thought we’d have dinner with a new friend of mine.”

  “Please?” she mewled. “They’re at the theater now.”

  I gave in, not because Candace begged—I was determined not to be a pushover—but without her at dinner, I might stand a better chance of prying information from Sorcha. “Grab two twenties from my wallet.”

  Moments later, as I pulled into the cinema parking lot, I tensed up. The area was jammed with teenagers. Where was Wendy Winston? Waverly materialized beside the passenger door.

  “See you,” Candace said to me and darted from the car. She wasn’t interested in her friend. She was scouting the crowd.

  I didn’t spy an Adonis, which was how Candace had described Rory, but he had to be there. His family vacation was over. Refusing to allow Candace to be part of a huge group without supervision, I decided to park. I didn’t think she had duped me. Waverly’s mother must have had a conflict.

  “Aspen.” Wendy dashed up as I was attempting to turn the car around. “Sorry.” She was out of breath. “I had to park a block away. After the movie, I’m taking the girls to the ice cream parlor. My treat. Okay?”

  “Of course, but you and your husband are doing too much.”

  “We’re happy to. Waverly needs the company and I adore Candace.” She squeezed my forearm. “I’m so glad you took custody of her. She’s terrific. You’re doing a bang-up job.”

  I didn’t feel like I was doing a bang-up job, especially given the extra hours I was putting in on Gloria’s case, but I gratefully accepted the compliment.

  A short while later, after stopping at home and changing into a sky blue sweater and skinny jeans, I strolled into the Tavern. The hostess seated me at a table on the patio. The temperature was perfect, not a hint of a breeze. The guitarist was playing a soft-toned melody. The evening crowd was subdued. An outboard boat with skier in a wetsuit sped by on the lake. I shivered, knowing how chilly the water was until August.