Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I laughed. “Because they treasure their friendships, and exchanging ideas helps them work out problems.”

  “I suppose.”

  I pecked her cheek. “It’s time to go to sleep. Good night.”

  “Uh-uh. Not on a bet. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and anyway, I don’t have school and I’m on vacation. I want to watch some of these.” Sassily, she snatched the controller from my hand. “Put in another one.”

  I found one marked V and G with Crowd on the Street, May. Was this the meet up with Miranda Tejeda that Gloria had alluded to? I pressed Play.

  On the screen, a throng of people, some huddled under tarps, others under umbrellas, gathered around Gloria and Vaughn, both of whom were in slickers. Rain drizzled steadily.

  “I hope you liked Rory,” Candace said. “He’s—”

  “Hush for a sec. This might be the tape featuring the special education teacher.”

  Gloria and Vaughn stood in front of KINC shaking hands and chatting with the people. They asked general questions like “Where are you from?” and “What brings you to Lake Tahoe?”

  A pair of teenaged twins held up a sign: It’s our birthday. A dowdy couple flashed a colorful poster: Just married. Some guy blasted Vaughn with a squirt gun. Vaughn wiped his face and glowered at Gloria as if it were her fault. She stifled a laugh.

  From the right, a woman in a multicolored wig with big pink eyeglasses and a needle-thin nose appeared on camera holding a sign that read Thomas Michael 2:4. Miranda Tejeda.

  Gloria peeked at Vaughn, who was busy interacting with the squirt gun guy, and then approached the woman. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I don’t remember that passage in the Bible.” She held a microphone in Tejeda’s direction.

  “It’s not in the Bible. These are two of my special education kids. I’m a teacher. Reading is everything.” Deftly, Tejeda pulled a second sign from behind the first. It featured an address for the Mt. Rose School District. “Please send one easy reader book to this address. You’ll be helping tons of hopeful children.”

  Gloria grimaced. I wasn’t sure why. Donating books was a good cause. Perhaps Camille had ordered no on-air promos, and Gloria knew her boss would hold her responsible. Maybe, because of this exchange, the killer thought the teacher had harmed Gloria’s career.

  My landline telephone rang. I jolted. Only bad news came after midnight. Candace raced into the kitchen to answer. I followed her. A second after she said hello, the color drained from her face.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Mom.” Candace turned her back to me and said, “What do you mean?” As she listened, she curled a strand of hair around her index finger. “I don’t know.”

  I tapped her on her shoulder. “What don’t you know? Do you want me to talk to her?”

  “She wants me to visit her.” Candace handed me the phone and fled from the room.

  “Hello, Rosie.”

  “Well, Tree Stump, how’s it hanging?” Years ago, my sister gave me the nickname. She believed naming me after an aspen tree was ludicrous. She’d added the word stump as a joke because I was shorter than her by a good six inches.

  It didn’t faze me. I had thick skin. “What do you want?”

  “I miss my little girl. I want to see her.” Her words slurred together, meaning she was either drunk or high. Swell.

  “We’ll set a date, but right now, it’s late. We’re going to bed. Good night.”

  She cursed me. I hung up.

  Chapter 24

  Six a.m. arrived hours before I was ready. Even though my knee still smarted from the run-in with the bruiser and my shoulder ached from the elevator plunge, I ran with Cinder. I followed the run with a steaming hot shower and then dressed for my morning interviews in ecru linen trousers, jacket, and white silk blouse.

  After breakfast, I reviewed emails. Before heading north, I informed Candace that Gwen was coming over. She protested, but I insisted. I told her it was for Cinder’s sake. Opal was on an adventure with her father. When I reminded her that I was taking Waverly and her hiking later, she stopped grousing.

  The drive to Tony Vittorio’s home was one of the prettiest I could remember. White puffs of clouds decorated the blue sky. The sun, blazing from the east, cast a glittering golden ray across the lake. Just shy of Incline Village, I turned left and weaved into the hills until I reached Pinto Court.

  The Vittorios’ house was elegant from the street. Flower beds were packed with purple milkweed and lavender pansies. Stately pines bordered the driveway.

  Mrs. Vittorio greeted me at the door. Despite the fact that her eyes were red and her tawny hair was unruly, she was a handsome middle-aged woman. Her tunic top, which she wore over leggings, was cockeyed because she had fastened the buttons wrong. With her left arm, she held a black Shih Tzu. In her right hand, she clutched a well-used tissue. “Please come in, Miss Adams.”

  “Thank you for seeing me.” The scent of spaghetti sauce, heavy on the garlic, filled the house and stirred my taste buds. I handed her a business card. “As I said on the phone, I’m a private detective working for Gloria Morning.”

  “She interviewed Tony, you know. He was very pleased with the interview. He said it boosted—” Her voice caught. “Boosted the business.”

  Mrs. Vittorio led me across the parquet foyer to a living room adorned with overstuffed chintz chairs and a gold brocade sofa piled with pillows. I sat in a chair while Mrs. Vittorio fluttered around the room, fixing this, straightening that, like a butterfly searching for nectar. The dog didn’t seem to mind her hyperactivity.

  When her gaze returned to me, she shook her head. “Forgive my rudeness. Do you want something to drink?” She set the Shih Tzu on top of a satin pillow.

  “No, ma’am, thank you.”

  “Ma’am. Please. I’m not old enough to be your mother. Call me Viola.”

  “Viola.” I knitted my hands together, eager to continue. “Have you heard that Gloria Morning has been receiving notes from the murderer?”

  “Yes, it’s on all the news channels. How terribly gruesome. The killer is in love with her, they say.” Mrs. Vittorio sat on the sofa and stroked the dog’s back.

  “One of the notes mentioned that the killer—or the author of the notes, at least—believed your husband might have hurt Miss Morning.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Are you familiar with the other victims, Miranda Tejeda and Kristin Fisher?”

  The woman stopped petting the dog and fiddled with the buttons on her blouse, as if suddenly realizing they were out of order. “Miss Tejeda. Yes. She taught special education. Enzo, my husband’s brother, knew her. She taught his children in grade school.” Viola clucked her tongue. “Such a shame.”

  The front door slammed, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps crossing the foyer.

  “What’s a shame?” Enzo Vittorio strode into the room, his eyes alert and his square jaw tense. In his black boots and black button-down shirt tucked into black trousers, he appeared ready for a showdown. All that was missing was a black hat. “Who are you?”

  “This is Miss Adams. She’s a private detective.”

  I rose and extended my hand. Enzo clutched it and kissed the back. Oily didn’t come close to describing him.

  “She’s working for Gloria Morning,” Viola went on, “to find out who is sending the notes to her.”

  “I heard about the notes,” Enzo said. “Seems fishy. Gloria can be quite fanciful.” Something flickered in his eyes. The Shih Tzu hopped from his pillow and rubbed against Enzo’s ankle. He gave the dog an irritated shove.

  I returned to my chair and patted my lap. The dog leaped onto it and nipped my hand with its razor-sharp teeth. “Ow!”

  In a flash, Viola swooped up the dog, returned it to the pillow on the sofa, and sat beside it. “There, there.”

  There, there? The little mongrel had bitten me. I would swear the cur grinned at me.

  Viola said, “We were talking about one of the victims when you c
ame in, Enzo. Miss Tejeda. You remember her? She taught the children.”

  Enzo crossed to the sofa and sat beside his brother’s widow. “She was a good teacher.”

  “Were you disappointed with her instruction?” I asked.

  “Until they met her, the children struggled. She taught them to read. They read a lot now.”

  “Not enough,” Viola cut in. “Teenagers should read more. What do they do all day? The Internet. The video games.”

  “The funeral’s tomorrow,” Enzo said, switching topics.

  “For your brother?” I asked.

  “For him as well as Miranda Tejeda. I cannot go to both.”

  Tears welled in Viola’s eyes. She dabbed them with a tissue. Enzo patted her thigh, the gesture aboveboard yet intimate. I recalled Tripp’s comment. With Tony Vittorio out of the way, could love blossom between these two?

  I shifted in my chair. “Viola, you said on the telephone yesterday that you’d met with the sheriff’s people. I’m sure they asked you the questions I’d like to ask, but can you think of anyone who might have killed your husband?”

  “That no good Finn Ambrose.” Enzo cursed.

  “Enzo, we don’t speak that way.” Viola clasped Enzo’s hand. “Thirty years ago, Mr. Ambrose and my husband were good friends. They met in Reno, right after Tony and I came to America. Tony was a cook in Italy. He wanted more. He dreamed of owning a restaurant. He worked as a chef for Mr. Ambrose in Reno and, within a year, he opened his own restaurant. A bistro. Mr. Ambrose was his backer. It became a success, but Mr. Ambrose had bigger ideas for Tony.”

  “Bigger ideas.” Enzo snorted.

  Viola said, “Tony didn’t want to expand, but he gave in. He agreed to sell the bistro and aim higher. It is the American Dream, no?” She tucked an errant hair behind her ear. “The next restaurant failed. Wrong location.”

  “Too big,” Enzo muttered.

  “Tony went broke.”

  “Thanks to his wife, Mr. Ambrose was wealthy enough to sustain the hit,” Enzo said with a bite. I recalled Tripp saying his mother had come from money.

  “Mr. Ambrose invested in his next big idea,” Viola said, “and it became a huge success.” She gazed at the ceiling. “Everything he touched, other than my Tony’s restaurant, turned to gold.” She motioned to Enzo to continue, but he remained silent. “My husband saved every penny. When he was finally ready to open a restaurant in Lake Tahoe, guess what happened? Mr. Ambrose moved here to show him up.”

  “That’s when I came to America. To support Tony.” Enzo thumped his chest.

  “Yesterday, I spoke with a woman who knows Finn Ambrose well,” I said. “She told me their feud was for show. She said, ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ She stated they were friends and cooked up the rivalry.”

  “That’s a lie,” Enzo hissed.

  Who was I to believe? Were Enzo and Viola casting doubt on Finn Ambrose to hide their own nefarious plan?

  I focused on Enzo. “I hear you’re going to work for Mr. Ambrose at his new restaurant.”

  Viola shot him a look.

  “I was going to before . . .” He swallowed hard. “Before Tony died. No longer.”

  Maybe he hadn’t gone to Ambrose Alley for an encounter with Camille. Perhaps he’d gone there to quit.

  I said, “Viola, did your husband start a smear campaign against Mr. Ambrose?”

  “Never.”

  Enzo scowled. “Tony never said anything bad about anyone.”

  “Who stands to inherit from your husband’s death?” I asked the widow.

  “I do.”

  “What about your children?”

  “We had no children,” she answered. Grief flickered in her eyes. “I am infertile.”

  That might explain why she hadn’t been Dr. Fisher’s patient. On the other hand, even infertile and post-menopausal women needed regular checkups to rule out ovarian cancer.

  “Do you or your wife inherit as well, Mr. Vittorio?”

  “My wife is deceased, and no, I do not inherit.” His jaw ticked with tension. Was he hooking up with his sister-in-law to seize his share of the wealth?

  “Sadly, there will not be much to inherit,” Viola said. “The restaurant is in dire financial straits. Without Tony to run it, we will have to close. I’ll be lucky if I can keep the house.”

  Enzo smacked his thighs and rose to his feet. “If that is all.”

  Viola rose with the dog and trailed him to the foyer.

  I followed.

  At the door, I paused as a thought occurred to me. “Sir, how well do you know Gloria Morning?” A moment ago, he had used her first name. That smacked of familiarity.

  Enzo glanced at Viola and back at me. “I met her once. At the restaurant. She asked to meet the chef. My brother introduced us.”

  “You called her fanciful.”

  “I watch her on the news. She is, how do you say, pert. She has no gravitas.”

  I moved on. “One more question. Where were you Thursday night?”

  Enzo arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Viola’s face pinched with worry. “That is when Miranda Tejeda was killed, is it not? Miss Adams is trying to establish your alibi. You are a suspect in Tony’s murder. If the same person committed all the crimes . . .” She splayed her hands and then cupped them in prayer. “Tell her, Enzo. You have an alibi. Don’t be ashamed. Be proud.”

  Enzo squared his shoulders. “My son wants to become a priest. I do not, for the life of me, understand why. God let me down—let us down—when my wife, his mother, died.”

  “She died in childbirth,” Viola added.

  “As a result, I left the Catholic Church. My son?” He sighed. “He wishes, as I said, to become a priest. I am not happy about his decision,” Enzo said, “but it is his to make. That night, we were at St. Francis of Assisi on Mt. Rose Highway from seven until eleven speaking with Father Horton.” He opened the front door. “Goodbye, Miss Adams.”

  Chapter 25

  In view of the family’s sad history and Enzo’s solid alibi on the night Miranda Tejeda died, I removed him from my suspect list. Even though he might be good for his brother’s murder, I truly believed there was one, and only one, killer.

  The principal of Mt. Rose Elementary School turned out to be a thin woman with a tight smile. She gazed at me from behind her tidy desk, hands folded. As I regarded her, my heart thundered in my chest and my chair felt as hard as the cement on the playground outside the window. Memories of the few hours I’d spent in detention as a girl zipped through my mind. Not good memories. In record time, I’d learned to follow the straight and narrow.

  “What else can I tell you that I haven’t already told the sheriff? Miranda Tejeda was notorious for keeping late hours,” the principal said in answer to my question. “She was dutiful, kind, and funny, although she was a bit of a loner. Very few friends. She often said she didn’t want to waste her love on anyone but her students.” Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes. She plucked at a loose thread on the collar of her beige dress and refolded her hands. “Dedicated, that’s what she was. Dedicated.”

  “Tell me about the day Miss Tejeda visited KINC.”

  The principal gave me a recap that matched Gloria’s account—the chat in the rain, the sign with the request for books.

  “Myriad books arrived in the ensuing weeks. Miranda was thrilled.” She sighed. “Senseless. Her death is senseless.”

  “Yes,” I murmured, wishing I could console her but knowing she would shy away from a hug. “Would it be possible to get a record of the students Miss Tejeda has taught over the years?”

  “Detective King asked for the same thing. Why would anyone need it?”

  “A disgruntled parent might be a suspect.”

  “No parents were ever unhappy. At least, none that I know of.”

  “I would view the list on-site, if that would help.”

  The principal said, “I’ll have my assistant provide one and set an appoin
tment with you, but as I told Detective King, you’ll have to be patient. My assistant is on vacation for two weeks. We’re bare bones during the summer.”

  Two weeks? How many more victims might there be by then? Didn’t King demand a speedier resolution? Perhaps she and Nick already had a suspect in mind for this murder.

  I pressed on. “Does Miss Tejeda have family nearby?”

  “Sadly, no. Miranda was an orphan. Her parents died over twenty years ago.”

  “Who’s arranging the funeral? It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “That would be me. If that’s all?”

  The principal rose and returned to the filing cabinet she’d been reorganizing when I’d arrived, ending our interview.

  • • •

  When I returned to the office, I found my aunt in the yard weeding a bed of declining daffodils. Her fingers were filthy.

  We moved inside and for the next few minutes as she made coffee I filled her in on my meetings, starting with the Mt. Rose Elementary principal.

  “What’s your takeaway?” Max poured coffee into two mugs and joined me at the table.

  “Either the murderer killed Miranda Tejeda because of a personal connection or the killer believed Tejeda’s request for books on camera jeopardized Gloria’s career.”

  “Go on.”

  Next, I shared all I’d learned from Enzo and Viola Vittorio—the possible affair and the fact that the restaurant was in dire financial straits, taking monetary gain off the table as a motive for murdering Tony Vittorio. I mentioned the conflicting report about Finn Ambrose’s relationship with Tony Vittorio. His head of security believed they’d been good friends, but the Vittorios said Tony held no love for Finn. I added that Enzo’s wife had died in childbirth and that Viola Vittorio was infertile, thus making it more than likely neither had been Dr. Fisher’s patient.

  “Lastly,” I said, “Enzo Vittorio has a pat alibi for the night Miranda Tejeda was killed.”

  My aunt grinned. “You are a bundle of information. I’ll have Darcy track the money angle. If that proves true, I agree, you can mark Enzo Vittorio off your suspect list.”