Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  The sound of the janitor pushing a broom near the office made me jerk upright. I slid the drawer shut, locked the desk, returned the key to the datebook, and peeked out the door. When the janitor was gone, I slipped out, hopeful that Gloria could fill in the blanks.

  Chapter 28

  When I entered the Golden Sun Spa, I became acutely aware of the pressure in my shoulders and neck. Could I ever use a massage. Soon, I promised myself.

  Marble and brass fixtures abounded. White tile with an imprint of Grecian columns graced the entry. Beethoven’s 9th resonated from speakers. I asked an attendant who was lighting a cluster of vanilla candles if she would page Gloria. The attendant hesitated, but when I explained that I had vital news for her, she responded with lightning speed.

  Gloria appeared a minute later, hands shoved into the pockets of a white terry-cloth robe, a look of disgruntlement on her face. “I’m just about to get a massage.”

  “We need to talk.”

  She beckoned me to follow her down a softly lit hall. When we entered the massage room, she dropped her robe and slid naked under the sheet on the massage table. With her face mashed into the donut-shaped face cradle attached to the head of the table, Gloria said, “What’s so important you had to find me now?”

  “You received flowers.”

  “I get lots of them.”

  “From Camille.”

  Gloria turned her head sideways. “That witch wouldn’t squeeze an extra nickel out of her budget for me.”

  “The florist confirmed the delivery. The note said: ‘I love you.’”

  “That’s a good one.” Gloria rolled her face back into the donut hole. “You don’t have anything new, so you decided to tease me. Ha-ha. Very funny. Go away.”

  “I’m not kidding. You never received them? They were sent a few days ago.”

  “Roses were delivered. No card at all. No ‘I love you.’ No ‘To Gloria,’ so we set them on the receptionist’s desk.”

  “Didn’t you question the florist?”

  Gloria peeked at me, her face flushed with confusion. “Identifying the sender fell into the black hole of paperwork. They were flowers, for heaven’s sake. Stop tapping your foot,” she said, and then amusement replaced the confusion on her face. “Are you saying Camille sent me a token of love?”

  I didn’t know what to believe. Truthfully, Camille being in love with Gloria didn’t make sense. It certainly didn’t go with the postdated dismissal letter.

  The door opened and a bronze-skinned woman wearing a white and gold running suit stepped inside. When she spotted me, she shrieked.

  “Don’t worry,” Gloria said to the masseuse. “This is a friend of mine. You can start.” She kicked a leg free of the sheet.

  The masseuse tucked the sheet under Gloria’s leg, but her jerky attempt at massage belied her calm.

  Gloria said, “Can we talk about this later, Aspen, please? I’ve got so many knots I feel like a macramé project.”

  “Sure.” The fumes from the vanilla candles were giving me a headache anyway.

  “Camille in love with me.” She snorted. “That’s rich.”

  As I opened the door to leave, Gloria said, “Speaking of flowers, Finn Ambrose sent me roses with the note Loved every minute. That irritated Beau no end. Serves him right, though, since he’s two-timing me with Camille.”

  So she did know.

  • • •

  A chorale of wind chimes greeted me as I sauntered up the path to Camille’s exquisite lakeshore home. Countless pots of geraniums filled the corners of the porch. Clippings from plants, soiled gloves, and cutting shears lay nearby. A pair of gnomes guarded the door. Truth be told, I hadn’t expected Camille to cultivate such a homey atmosphere.

  The instant I rang the doorbell, a dog barked. A jet-black Labrador ran at the window and pressed its nose to the glass.

  “Zorro, back away.” Camille, clad in a blue chenille robe, opened the door and held the pooch at bay with her foot, but he broke free and charged me, tongue hanging out of his mouth.

  I presented my palms and let him lick away. “Nice collar,” I said. It was black and studded with quartz and other polished rocks.

  “Bought it at one of those street fairs. It’s supposed to be therapeutic for his hips. What do you want?” Camille’s nose was chafed. Wads of tissue were spilling out of the pockets of her robe.

  “The station said you were home with a cold.”

  “They gave you my address?”

  “I was making a call from your office—my cell phone wasn’t working,” I said in explanation. “Sometimes I wonder why I even carry a cell phone. Can you hear me now?” I said, making light of the advertisement that used the slogan. “Anyway, your datebook was open. You’d penned your address inside. A PI takes every opportunity—”

  “You have a lot of nerve.”

  “I have a job to do. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the notes Gloria has been receiving.”

  “Such nonsense.”

  I attempted an apologetic look. “It’ll just take a few minutes. May I come in?”

  Camille turned away but left the door open.

  Enter at your own risk, I mused.

  I stepped inside and admired the rough-wood beams, Berber carpet, and L-shaped sofa overflowing with throw pillows. A floor-to-ceiling picture window offered a grand view of the lake. Nothing matched the domineering woman I’d met at KINC, not even the sounds of Johnny Mathis singing “Twelfth of Never” on the stereo.

  Camille clicked a button on the remote she was holding. The front door shut automatically.

  “Who knew you could afford all this by starting your own news station?” I joked. “Want to start another? I’ll manage it for you.”

  “When I sold the spa, I invested in the stock market and made a nice nest egg.”

  That confirmed what Tom had said.

  “Unfortunately, KINC is running me into the ground, if you must know.” So she admitted to having a financial problem.

  “Why do it then?”

  “I don’t want to massage bodies for the rest of my life.”

  “Do I smell mint tea?” Enjoying a cup of tea might give me more time to ask questions.

  “You want some?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Camille blew her nose and slogged through the living room, Zorro at her heels. I followed her into her sizable kitchen, which was stocked with top-of-the-line appliances and utensils. Cocoa granite counters and black Spanish tiles added warmth and class.

  On a small couch in the adjoining room, Camille had constructed a nest of blankets. The TV was tuned to the news. Was she dedicated to her job, or was she trying to keep up with the latest on the murders and, thereby, stay ahead of the investigation?

  The teapot let out a shrill whistle. Camille filled a mug with water, added a teabag, and handed the mug to me. “Let’s get some sunshine.”

  I followed her to the porch.

  The azure water moved in a steady pattern, north to south. Delicate whitecaps rolled across the top. On any given day, the view would relax me. Unfortunately, I was wound tightly. I wanted to solve this madness. For Gloria’s sake.

  I sat on a rattan chair and sipped the tea as Johnny Mathis started to croon “Misty,” my mother’s favorite song. I waited for Camille to speak. She didn’t. Instead she set her mug on a mosaic table and plucked dead leaves from a geranium, reminding me of Viola Vittorio, too restless to sit, too edgy to provide direct eye contact. Years of counseling had taught me to remain mute until the patient opened the conversation.

  After a long while, Camille caved. “Okay, ask.”

  “Let’s start with the messenger who delivered the murder-related notes to Gloria at the studio.”

  Camille blew on her tea and took a sip. “A young woman showed up Saturday to deliver the first one. Gloria received the second at home on Monday. I think the third came with the regular mail Friday. I suppose it could have been dropped through
the mail slot.”

  “Which delivery service did the girl work for?”

  “Let me think. She wore a cowboy shirt, jeans, and a bandanna. It was a uniform.”

  Wearing Western garb was a cute gimmick. Customers wouldn’t confuse the messenger with the UPS or FedEx guys. “Can you describe her in more detail?”

  “She had spiky purple hair and a fit body.”

  “If I recall, you said a girl with purple hair delivered a regular piece of fan mail the first day I came to KINC.”

  “Yes, she’s delivered to us before. The company she works for is”—Camille gazed at the lake—“Nevada or Bust. That’s what it said on her shirt.”

  “Do they also deliver flowers?” I was fishing to see if Camille would confess to the bouquet she had sent Gloria.

  “Don’t have a clue.”

  “Does Gloria receive a lot of flowers?” I sipped my tea.

  “Yes. She has a big fan base.”

  “May I ask why you aren’t happy with her performance?”

  “Who said that?” Camille pointed the shears at me. “Rick? He drives me nuts. The dope has been here a month and thinks he’s God’s gift to television.”

  “Not Rick.”

  “Who, then?”

  I didn’t respond. “Gloria said you think she’s attracting bad publicity.”

  “She is now.”

  “Rumor has it that you’re considering firing her.”

  Camille worked her tongue inside her cheek. Was she trying to figure out whether I’d seen that particular document on top of her desk? “I might threaten now and again. Being the boss is all about intimidation. I’ve got to keep the troops in line. But with the contract Gloria has—she had a top-notch agent work out her deal—she won’t be leaving unless for cause.”

  “Could the fact that a murderer is sending her notes be cause for dismissal?”

  “Not a chance. Our ratings are up. All sorts of people have tuned in because of the murders.”

  Based on the Nielsen report I saw, I’d wager that many had tuned out, too.

  Camille tugged a marigold plant out of a pot and waggled the dirty mass in my direction. “I hate these. They constantly require deadheading. I’ve told my gardener not to plant them, but does he listen?” She peered at me. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Are you jealous that Beau’s in love with Gloria?”

  Camille coughed out a laugh. “As if. I know you saw me toying with him, but that’s our thing. There’s no chemistry between us. I do it because it irks him.”

  And irks Gloria.

  I said, “I heard Beau wants to move to a big city to advance his career.”

  “Beau’s staying in Tahoe for the moment.” Camille’s eyes glinted with annoyance, but she stifled it and returned to her plants, snip-snip-snipping them into submission. “Tahoe isn’t a sinkhole. It’s a good market.” She attacked another batch of dead flowers. “Beau needs to learn more before he’ll get bigger offers.”

  For a moment I wondered if I was wading through some freakish production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream where everyone was in love with someone else . . . who wasn’t in love with him or her. Including Tripp.

  “Finn Ambrose’s son is cute,” I said.

  “He’s sweet.”

  “Did you know he has a girlfriend who lives near here?”

  “Goody for him.”

  I didn’t detect an inkling of interest, which made me breathe easier.

  Camille yanked a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “These questions have nothing to do with Gloria receiving notes. Get back to the point or leave.”

  I couldn’t dance around the topic any longer. “I have reason to believe that you sent Gloria flowers a week ago.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  Zorro, picking up on his mistress’s distress, sprinted to her side. He snarled at me. So much for Mr. Friendly.

  I pressed on. “I was checking out another lead and—”

  “I never sent flowers.” Camille kicked a flowerpot. It flew in my direction and hit me squarely on the shin.

  “Ow!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” She disappeared into the house and returned with a bag of frozen peas. “Use this.”

  “Thanks.” A bump was already developing beneath my white jeans. Dang. I was becoming one of the walking wounded with nothing to show for my trouble. I took the peas and applied them.

  Camille said, “Look, Miss Adams—Aspen—I discovered a charge on my credit card. I did not make it, if that’s what you’re referring to. I called the credit card company to complain. I’m assuming your next question will be did I send her the notes? No. I have not sent her notes about any murders. I do not have feelings for Gloria. I do not swing both ways.”

  “Really? I heard you made a pass at a female employee at your spa.”

  Camille frowned. “She misread my intention. Please leave.”

  “One more thing. Dr. Kristin Fisher was your doctor, was she not?” I asked.

  “At one time.”

  “You suggested Gloria interview her.”

  “True.”

  “Any ill will between you and the doctor?”

  “Are you accusing me of—” Camille thrashed the shears at me. “That’s it. I did not kill Kristin or anyone else for Gloria’s glory. Get out. Now.”

  I sprang to my feet and made a beeline for the exit.

  Camille pursued me. “The nerve.” She beat me to the front door and held it open. Zorro stood like a sentry by her side. “You are not welcome at KINC again. Do you understand?”

  Chapter 29

  Next door to Nevada or Bust Delivery Service, which was located in Incline Village Shops, was Mom & Pop Café. I couldn’t have been happier. My stomach ached with hunger. I purchased a small green salad with chicken and ate every bite before walking along the wooden boardwalk to search for the mystery delivery girl.

  A chime signaled my entrance into the mock-western office. The front desk was unmanned. A blast of refrigerated air hit me as the door swung shut.

  “Hello,” I yelled, but nobody answered. I dinged the silver bell sitting on the rough-hewn counter with my palm.

  A toilet flushed and a door to my right opened. A young woman with spiky purple hair—not a girl, but not older than twenty-one—exited the bathroom. “Hi, help you?” she asked in a high-pitched voice. She was clad in a bowling shirt, jeans shorts, and sandals. Her only western gear was a bandanna. She wiped her hands on a paper towel and tossed it into a bin behind the counter.

  “Aspen Adams.” I handed her a business card.

  “Laila. Walton.” She tucked my card in her pocket.

  “Did you deliver a letter to KINC a week ago Saturday?”

  “I deliver lots of stuff there, but . . .” She peeked over her shoulder. “Let’s go outside.” She scurried out the front door.

  I followed.

  “Look, I don’t want my boss to know about the letter you’re referring to,” she said. “We’re not supposed to, you know, take outside business, but this guy hired me and was willing to pay up front. Then I heard that Miss Morning got a sick-o note, and well . . .” She fiddled with the half dozen dangling earrings inserted in her right earlobe.

  “Where were you when the guy hired you?”

  “At the bowling alley. Incline Bowl.”

  “When?”

  “Friday a week ago. I don’t know who he was. I was sort of drunk.”

  A fake ID wouldn’t have persuaded me to serve Laila alcohol. Perhaps the bartender at the bowling alley was myopic.

  “It was dark,” she went on. “I was sitting on one side of the slatted partition, and he was on the other. He was wearing a hat. I heard him, but I didn’t, well, you know, see him. Because of the slats.” Laila toyed with the fringed hem of her shorts and peeked over her shoulder.

  Exactly how much trouble would she get into if her boss found out about her moonlighting activities?

&nbs
p; “You didn’t ask his name?”

  “Uh-uh.” Laila gave a nervous jerk to one of the loopy earrings, as if the action would stimulate her brain cells. “He was wearing a floral shirt.”

  I thought of Vaughn Jamison and his penchant for floral shirts. Maybe Nick did have the right suspect. “Big print, small print?”

  “Not sure. It was sort of green. He smelled good. Musky, you know?”

  “How’d he know you were a delivery person?”

  She giggled. “I’d come straight from work.” She pointed to her bowling shirt. “I just came on duty. I was about to change when you walked in. We wear a cowboy shirt with the company logo on it.”

  Camille had been right about the uniform.

  “How tall was he?”

  “He was sitting, so I can’t be sure. He could have been five six or five eight or taller if he was hunching down.” Laila used her hands to tell the tale. “I’m five-foot-four.”

  “Broad or thin face?”

  “Didn’t see it.” Laila twisted the silver unicorn ring on her pinky. “It was dark.”

  “What did he say?” His voice or choice of words might identify him.

  “He said he had fan mail for a special lady, but he was too shy to deliver it. I thought that was sort of cute. In retrospect . . .” Laila tittered.

  I smiled reassuringly. “Do you bowl often?”

  “I’m in a league every Tuesday. Same group of people that goes caving on Sundays.”

  “Do you know Tom Regent? He likes to spelunk,” I said, adding Tom to the mix of possible suspects who had hired Laila even though I still couldn’t come up with a reason for him to have murdered anyone.

  She shook her head. “This morning when we went,” she said, changing the subject, “it was so cool. The sun was directly overhead. Perfect for exposing niches. We went above Cave Rock.” Her face glowed with eagerness. “Did you know there are dozens of caves there? Formed from volcanoes millions of years ago.”