Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  He held up a hand. “We’re not dismissing them entirely, but for now we believe we have the right guy.”

  “I want Gloria to be free of this insanity. Can you promise that arresting Vaughn Jamison will end this madness?”

  He didn’t respond.

  I turned to leave and swiveled back. “By the way, I have information you don’t have, but seeing as you won’t return my messages, why should I share?”

  “Don’t get snippy, Aspen.” Nick strode to within an inch of me. “Do you think I got where I am because I’m inept? I’ve been investigating since you were a teenager.”

  I steeled myself for more of his tirade, but he didn’t continue. He turned heel and disappeared into the house. Before closing the door, he said, “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Neither do I,” I muttered.

  Angry that he’d dismissed me, I raced to the Jeep and burned rubber out of the driveway. Cinder barked.

  “Cool your jets, dog!” I shouted, sounding like my niece.

  As I turned onto the main road, I screeched to a stop and pounded the steering wheel. “I hate men! I hate them!”

  But I didn’t really. Not all men. Not Nick.

  • • •

  Needing activity to keep me from turning to the emotional dark side, I swung by the Winstons’ house and picked up the girls for a sleepover. The moment we arrived at the cabin, Candace and Waverly hurtled inside and scooted down the hall to do girl things: hair, makeup, and boy-talk. I knew that might include time on the Internet. I did my best not to worry. I was their age once.

  “Dinner in a half hour,” I yelled.

  “Cool,” Candace said and shut her door.

  I set chicken brushed with olive oil on the barbecue grill, poured myself a glass of wine, and took up residence on the porch accompanied by a notepad, my laptop, and my cell phone. I would show Nick I knew what I was doing. Vaughn Jamison was the wrong guy.

  For a long while, I jotted all the notes I had for my case file. Then I rang up courier after courier and asked whether any of the businesses had delivered a letter to KINC, specifically to Gloria Morning. None had.

  The screen door squeaked. Candace stepped outside.

  “What are you doing?” She drew near and skimmed my notes listing each courier’s name.

  I explained. “And what are you two up to?”

  “Oh, Waverly’s online with Tripp again. Geez. She has a thing for him.” Candace cocked her hip and folded her arms across her chest, what I dubbed the know-it-all stance. “I keep telling her he has a girlfriend and he’s old, but she’s not listening.” She reached past me and tapped my list. “You know, it’d be easy to fake being a delivery girl. I’d swipe the company’s uniform and put it on and who’d question me? Just saying.” She darted back to her bedroom.

  Conceding she could be right, I abandoned my quest to find the delivery service and declared it was dinnertime. The chicken was a little overdone but the cornbread muffins slathered with butter made up for it.

  During the meal, the girls and I discussed movies and music. Surprisingly, they didn’t make fun of my opinions.

  Later, while I was washing dishes, the doorbell rang. Cinder barked like a maniac and bolted toward the door. He scraped the already well-clawed wood.

  Was it Nick, coming to apologize for his Neanderthal behavior? Don’t set yourself up for disappointment, I warned. Even still, my heart rate spiked and my hands flew to my hair to smooth it as I rushed to the door.

  I peeked through the sidelight and felt a prickle of apprehension. Tripp Ambrose stood there in a T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. He hoisted an arty copper desk lamp that was different from the one he’d carried into his father’s study. It featured clear tubes that encased the wiring, its shade merely shavings of metal welded together, which made the shade look like leaves gathering in a windstorm.

  “Hi, Miss Adams. I brought this for Candace,” Tripp yelled.

  I gripped Cinder’s collar so he wouldn’t run out and opened the door. Cinder growled.

  Tripp flinched. “H-h-hi, boy. Friend, not foe.”

  “I think it’s the lamp,” I said and gave Cinder a tug. “Sit. Sit,” I repeated. The dog obeyed.

  Tripp didn’t make an attempt to pet Cinder. “Is your dog going to b-bite me?”

  “No, he won’t bite. What are you doing here, Tripp?”

  “I’m heading to my girlfriend’s.”

  “Candace said she lived in Incline. You sure took the long way to get there. Going north from South Lake Tahoe would have been quicker.”

  “Yeah, but I thought I’d take photographs on the way—I have a photography class at school—and this side of the lake is much prettier. The light was so cool at d-dusk, the way it hit the water on Rubicon Bay. Taking photographs at night is a fun challenge. I bought a quality tripod, and I learned how to work with different film speeds and shutter speeds to capture it best. I must’ve taken over one hundred pix.” He twisted his right foot as he spoke. Nervous energy, I supposed. “Uh, I brought this for Candace.” Tripp waggled the lamp. The clear tubing clicked against the metal rod. The glow from the porch light flickered through the lacy shade. “She emailed me that she didn’t have a reading lamp.”

  “She has one.” My favorite, actually, the one with the deer-etched lamp cover.

  “Well, she knows I make these, so maybe . . .” Tripp peered past me down the hall. “Is she home?”

  “Wait here a minute.” I didn’t ask Tripp inside. I wasn’t happy with the late hour of the visit and was uncertain of his intentions. Instead, I left Cinder standing vigil by the door, with the admonition to stay, while I went in search of my niece.

  When Candace opened her bedroom door, I laughed. Both girls had donned sky-blue facial masques. “You’ve got company.”

  Candace’s face lit up with hope.

  “No, not Rory,” I said.

  Candace’s shoulders sagged with disappointment, her peeve with him over.

  “It’s Tripp. He brought something for you.”

  “A lamp?” Candace clapped her hands in anticipation. She turned to Waverly. “Remember I told you he was an artist?”

  I glowered. “How did he know where we lived?”

  Candace’s eyes grew wary. “Um, email.”

  Way too much information was getting passed around. I would have to put my foot down but not now, not with Waverly over.

  “Go get the lamp, say thank you, and tell Tripp it’s too late to stay.”

  “What about this?” Candace pointed to the masque on her face.

  “You look like you belong in the Blue Man Group.”

  “The what?”

  “A performance art group. If Tripp gets grossed out, that’s on him.”

  Candace giggled and hurried to the foyer with Waverly at her heels, which made me feel better about their intentions with Tripp. I doubted either girl would have risked face-masque humiliation if the visitor were Rory. I followed but hung back.

  Tripp shrieked when he saw Candace and Waverly’s blue faces. “Aliens.”

  “Cut it out. We’re not aliens.” Candace grabbed the lamp. “Ooh, it’s so pretty.”

  Tripp blushed when Candace’s fingers grazed his, and once again warning bells rang out in my mind. Candace was too young to have so many boys fawning over her.

  “Candace, it’s late,” I said.

  “Right.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Tripp. My aunt—”

  “I heard her. It’s okay. I’ve g-got plans.”

  “To see his girlfriend,” I inserted.

  “That’s right.” Tripp smiled shyly. “Um, Miss Adams, don’t tell my dad about her, okay?”

  Candace poked him. “Is he afraid you’ll run off with her?”

  “I’m supposed to be at an AA meeting.”

  Had Tripp skipped other AA meetings? Ones that might give his father an alibi?

  “See you.” Tripp turned to go.

  “Tripp, wait,” Candace cried. “
Sign the lamp for me. Who knows? You might be famous one day.” She raced into the kitchen and returned with a black permanent marker. She handed it to him.

  Balancing the lamp with his right hand, he signed and handed the pen back. “Hey, if you want any more information on Indians, send me another email, okay?” He trotted down the stairs and climbed into a silver Cadillac sitting in the driveway—not a typical ride for a teenaged boy.

  Candace gave me an accusing look. “You know, you didn’t have to hover. It’s not like anything would happen between Tripp and me or him and Waverly. His father has a choke chain on him.”

  I’d bet he did. In fact, I’d bet Finn Ambrose would check the mileage when the kid returned home and give him what-for.

  “Ever since his mom died,” Candace went on, “he said his father never leaves him alone except for when he goes to his AA meetings and school.”

  School. Shoot. I should’ve asked Tripp whether Miranda Tejeda had been his teacher. His father might not know, but he would.

  “C’mon, Waverly.” Candace gripped her pal’s arm. “Let’s check how this looks in the dark.” They disappeared into Candace’s room.

  Despite Candace’s assurances about Tripp, I stared out the front window for another few minutes, wondering about his father, a man so self-centered that he knew nothing about his son’s love life or his son’s passions. Tripp’s concern that his father would find out about his girlfriend seemed valid. The other night at the ice cream parlor, Waverly said that the girlfriend was older. How much older? Where had Tripp met her? Junior college, most likely.

  I headed for the kitchen but stopped when I remembered Candace, or was it Waverly, saying Tripp’s girlfriend lived in Incline Village. Near or on the water. Was it Camille? Had Tripp been the one to send her flowers and not his father? No way. She was twenty years older.

  Don’t be a prude, Aspen.

  That could have been the reason he’d acted sheepishly when Jules had questioned him about the order.

  Chapter 27

  I awoke Sunday morning feeling groggy and agitated. I didn’t know who was sending Gloria notes, and I was still ticked at Nick. Rather than dwell on the negative, I dressed in all white to infuse myself with positive energy, poured myself a strong cup of coffee, and sat on the porch listening to the peal of church bells.

  Candace shuffled through the kitchen door wearing a pair of flannel shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. She shielded her eyes from the sun and plopped next to me on the bench. “He emailed.” Telling by the radiant smile on her face, I deduced that Rory was the he in question. “He wants to take Cinder and me boating. He has a dog that he says Cinder will adore.”

  “I thought you hated Rory.”

  “I don’t. Not really. I know I can make him understand about the . . . you know.” She gripped my forearm and squeezed. “Please say yes. His older sister is going, too. She’ll chaperone. And he said it’s okay if Waverly comes, too. She already asked her mom.”

  “Did she?” I smirked. “Yes, you can go.” Just because my life was off-kilter didn’t mean my niece’s had to be, too, and an older sister watchdog was better than none.

  “Hurrah!” Candace leaped off the bench and tore inside, calling Waverly’s name.

  After breakfast, I decided work was the best way for me to stay on track.

  • • •

  On weekends, KINC was staffed with a skeleton crew. Even the receptionist was off duty. Rick Tamblyn was in the main studio giving orders to an older employee. While he spoke, Rick stroked a newly sprouted goatee and mustache. I smiled to myself. If he was trying to get rid of his choirboy image to appear more mature, he had a long way to go.

  “Excuse me,” I said, following him as he strode into the control room.

  “Sorry. Can’t talk. I’m in the middle of a project. Vaughn Jamison arrested. Who’d have expected that? I’m here four weeks and this is the biggest story we’ve had. I need pictures of his wife, his kids.”

  “Vaughn’s the wrong guy,” I said.

  “Not according to the sheriff.” He perched on the edge of a chair and pressed a shuttle knob on the control board. Images of Vaughn with children, without children, with wife, without wife, scudded across the center screen. “Boy, I love my job. Wait. That didn’t sound nice. I like Vaughn, too, but if he’s guilty . . .”

  “Gotcha.”

  Rick hit a button. An image of Vaughn at his wedding materialized. He pressed another button. The image of Vaughn at his anchor desk appeared on the rightmost TV monitor.

  “Rick, you went with Gloria to do the interview with Dr. Fisher, isn’t that right?”

  He whirled around, looking wary. “Yeah.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “Nice lady.”

  “Did she treat Gloria okay?”

  He held up both hands. “Whoa. Slow down. Tom warned me about you. I did not kill the doctor.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “That’s what you’re implying. FYI, I know exactly where I was when she was killed. So do all the folks in my Bible study group. At Crag Lake watching the christening of one of our believers. I can give you names. Numbers.”

  I smiled. “Got it. Innocent.” He really was a choirboy. “You’ve told the sheriff’s staff?”

  “I haven’t been questioned, but I will now. Vaughn . . .” He twirled a finger. “He’s the one who has to worry.”

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Forget it. I know you’re concerned for Gloria.”

  “Speaking of which, where is she?” I asked. “She’s not answering her cell phone. I figured she’d be here prepping for the week.”

  “She’s at the Golden Sun Spa taking a personal day. That’s Miss St. John’s former business, if you didn’t know. Very chichi. Gloria gets a massage every Sunday.”

  Lucky her.

  “How about Camille?” I asked. “Is she here?”

  “Went home sick an hour ago. Bad cold.”

  Feeling sneaky, I said, “Mind if I use her office to make a telephone call? My cell ran out of juice.”

  Rick pressed the shuttle knob and sped through another section of film. “Be my guest.”

  I stole into Camille’s cubicle. Her television was tuned to a morning talk show. The computer on her desk was in sleep mode. A silver-blue helix danced on the screen. I hit Enter on the keyboard and a request for password emerged. On a whim, I typed in control freak. Nothing happened, of course. I entered KINC. Again, nothing. I tried: news, truth, trust, and scoop. None of the obvious choices worked.

  When I spied a business card for the Golden Sun Spa tucked into the edge of the desk blotter, I typed in Golden Sun and the monitor came to life. I opened the most recent document and pressed Print. The laser printer hummed to life. I waited with itchy fingers while the sheet cycled through. When a page emerged, I snatched it and goose bumps broke out on my arms. Down one edge there were inky smudges similar to the pattern on the third note Gloria had received. Had Camille sent the note to her, or had someone else who worked at KINC?

  I pocketed the paper and continued my search.

  The desk was not as neatly arranged as the other day. In fact, there were so many stacks of business documents on top of it—purchase orders, file folders for vendors, and assorted bills—I questioned whether the woman had anything to hide. Even at home, I locked up my bills and sensitive materials. Perhaps Camille believed no one would dare intrude in her affairs. Or maybe she had been so sick, she hadn’t remembered to stow everything away before leaving for the day.

  At the top of one stack lay a letter from Nielsen Ratings that said KINC Evening News was losing in its time slot. Right beneath the report was the most recent set of financials for the station. Though I wasn’t a bookkeeper, I could see the station was in debt.

  On another stack, I found a file folder with a draft of a letter giving Gloria two weeks’ notice, dated three days from now. Words had been scratched out and others substituted, but the i
ntent was the same. Camille intended to fire Gloria. Would she do so if she were in love with her? Had the note that accompanied the flowers been a mistake?

  I flipped through other documents and found telephone records, credit card printouts, and invoices from local firms. The receipt from Floral Wizard, referencing a delivery a week ago, had been circled. Was that the day Camille had sent the flowers and note to Gloria?

  An ad for Bulova watches popped onto the television, reminding me that I was taking too much time. I peeked around the partition. Rick was hunched over the editing board in the control room. The only other person in the area was a janitor who was emptying garbage cans. The white-haired man I’d seen earlier was gone.

  I jiggled the top drawer of Camille’s desk. Locked. I rummaged around for something to jimmy the catch. A nail file. A letter opener. Nothing. If only I’d thought to carry my toolkit; it was sitting in the glove compartment of the Jeep.

  I spotted the end of a key chain jutting from a zipper pocket of Camille’s datebook. A key might work. I tugged on the metal loop. The datebook flipped open and a set of keys slid out, making me think again how ill Camille must have been to have left the studio without attending to the items on her desk.

  On the inside cover of the datebook, I caught a glimpse of her home address on Lakeshore Boulevard and whistled softly. It was an odd number, which meant the house faced the water. Pricey. Was KINC in debt because she had been funneling money into her personal account to afford such luxuries?

  The morning news host returned to the television screen. Breaking news about a storm crawled in a text-based news blast at the bottom of the screen.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, Aspen. Time’s a-wasting.

  I tried each key in the center drawer lock, which would allow access to all of the drawers in the desk. The third key was the charm. The drawer slid open. Although the top of Camille’s desk usually screamed order, chaos reigned in the drawers. Loose credit cards, packs of cigarettes, and broken pencils filled the top left drawer. In the top right, I found a wad of business cards. The bottommost right contained half a dozen business-related files, one of which stored a one-page agreement of partnership. I breezed through it, noting that if either Tom or Camille died, the other would assume ownership of the entire operation. Simple and direct. No legalese.