Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “We don’t think that’s the case.”

  “Because of the crime scene evidence?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s going on with Vaughn?” I asked.

  “He’s lawyered up.”

  “Is he out on bail?”

  “Nope. Give us time and we’ll find out if he’s the one who’s been sending the notes to Gloria, okay?” Nick lifted my chin and kissed me gently. “I’m sorry we’ve been at odds. My fault. I’ve been a boor. My sister . . .” He grimaced, unwilling to say more.

  “Dealing with an addict is a challenge.”

  “When this is all over—”

  The sound of a car screeching cut through the air. Then the front door slammed. Nick released me.

  “Dang it!” Candace screamed.

  I charged into the foyer. Nick trailed me. Cinder almost knocked me down to get to his water bowl. Candace stood fixed in one spot, fuming, her hair and beach cover-up dripping wet.

  “Dang it, dang it, dang it!” She threw her purse and backpack on the floor and kicked the backpack.

  “What happened?”

  “Rory.”

  I gulped. “What did he do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Nick stood so close I could feel his heat.

  Unable to think clearly with him near, I clasped Candace by the arm and led her to the living room couch. “Let’s talk. Want some cocoa?” Hot chocolate could fix almost any problem, especially in the middle of summer rainstorm.

  “I’m not a little girl.”

  No, she wasn’t. She was a beautiful flower ready to blossom.

  “Dang it!” Candace repeated and kicked the base of the couch.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” I cautioned. “What nothing did Rory do?”

  Candace glowered at Nick like he was an invader and folded her arms. I would have done the same at her age.

  Quick on the uptake, he retreated to the kitchen.

  “We were having a great day but then . . . but then . . .” Candace hiccupped. “Then after we dropped his sister and Waverly at home, he pawed me. My mother would’ve said go for it, but . . . but . . .” She sputtered. “I’m not ready. He knew that.”

  “Good thing Cinder was with you.”

  “Are you kidding?” Candace glared at me as if I was the stupidest woman to grace the earth. “That dog would do anything for Rory.” Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks. She brushed them off with the hem of her cover-up and threw her hands in the air. “I’m so mad.”

  “Okay, you said no. What happened next?”

  “Rory has ears. He’s not dumb. But he never wants to see me again.” Candace whimpered. “He’s already had sex, you know.”

  Nick had to have heard that. He got Brownie points for not barging in and offering to neuter the boy.

  “How old is he again?” I asked.

  “Sixteen.” Candace tugged at the strands of wet hair sticking to her cheek. After a long moment, she jumped to her feet. “I’m going to go online if that’s okay.”

  “To talk to Waverly?”

  “To Tripp. He’ll know what I should say to Rory.”

  “Candace, I don’t think you should—”

  “I need some smart-aleck remark that will really hurt a guy’s ego.” She slogged down the hall. Over her shoulder, she said, “Why is Nick here? Has there been another break in the case?”

  “We were discussing flowers.”

  She snorted. “As if.”

  Stymied, I slipped into the kitchen wondering what I’d been thinking, taking custody of a teenager. I didn’t have mothering skills. Neither did my sister. Which of us was better for Candace in the long run? No question, me. I’d dealt with teens for a living. Just not my own.

  Nick was talking on his cell phone. He said a quick, “Yeah, okay, thanks,” and ended the call. He offered me a supportive smile. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I think so.”

  After a long moment, he wrapped his arms around me and tucked a loose hair behind my ear. “Let’s see. Where were we?”

  “You said, ‘When this is all over.’”

  “Right.” He kissed me passionately and murmured, “When this is all over, we need to take a vacation. Just the two of us. Okay?”

  Chapter 32

  That night, as rain pounded the roof, I tossed in bed, my mind working frantically to sort through my life—Candace and her health, my relationship with Nick, my unsuccessful investigation. Lying on my side, I watched the red numbers on the digital clock change: 1:02, 1:03, 1:04.

  At 1:05, I sat up. If I wasn’t going to sleep, I could organize my thoughts the way I used to when I was working with a patient. Sometimes, when I put things in black and white, I could see answers that I couldn’t reason out in my mind.

  I switched on a light, grabbed a notepad from the nightstand, and dedicated a page to each of my suspects.

  Camille St. John. Denied sending the flowers. Patient of Dr. Fisher’s. Critical of Gloria’s work. Nielsen ratings falling. Upset when Tejeda tricked Gloria into sharing the promotional sign. Seething at Gloria’s interview with Tony Vittorio. Must get her alibis.

  Finn Ambrose. Misled Sorcha about his ex-wife. Significant? Was wearing Hawaiian-style shirt when I visited his restaurant. Was the feud between Tony Vittorio and him real or not? Viola and Enzo Vittorio said there was no love lost between them. Sent flowers to Camille. Also to Gloria. Did he hire Laila?

  I jotted a side note to consider whether Tom had sent flowers using Camille’s credit card and then returned to Finn. His son might have been Tejeda’s student at one time. Was he angry about the way the teacher had treated Tripp?

  Tripp Ambrose.

  I hesitated making notes about the boy. Did being his father’s son make him a suspect? Did he have an obsession for Gloria or Camille? Was Camille his girlfriend or did he admire her from afar? He’d acted like a puppy around her at KINC. Did he, not his father, send her the flowers? Did he also send flowers to Gloria? Was he Tejeda’s student? As far as I could tell, he had no connection to Dr. Fisher, unless his mother had been her patient, but neither Ambrose nor Vogel was on the patient roster.

  Tom Regent. Weak alibi for Dr. Fisher’s murder. No motive, though. Weak alibi for Tony Vittorio’s murder, too. What motive did he have for that one? Was he jealous of Tony Vittorio? Adores Gloria but can’t win her love. One flirty dinner didn’t seem enough reason to kill the guy. If he wasn’t the killer, was he simply trying to get Gloria’s attention with the notes? Did he hire Laila? Does he own the SUV with the Cavemen do it better bumper sticker? Did he try to run me off the road?

  Beau Flacks.

  Like I had for Tripp, I hesitated. I didn’t know enough about Beau. I hadn’t had a chance to fully interview him. His sister had been a patient of Dr. Fisher’s. Was that significant? He adored Gloria, and she vouched for him one hundred percent. Were her instincts on the mark? Had he been jealous of Tony Vittorio, as I’d presumed for Tom? What connection might he have had to Tejeda? If the notes Candace and I had seen at the sheriff’s office were correct, horsehair had been found at the scene of at least one crime. Beau owned a horsehair vest.

  My cell phone rang.

  At the same time, lightning pierced the sky. Its flare flashed through the break in the drapes. Cinder yowled. A new wave of storms was coming through.

  Shaken, I snatched the phone and stabbed Send. “Who is this?”

  “Aspen?” a woman rasped. “Help me.” A dog barked in the background. Cinder growled, obviously sensing the other dog’s distress. “Zorro, shh,” the woman said.

  “Camille?”

  Candace paused in the archway of my bedroom door, her nightgown twisted around her slim body. She rubbed her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s in my house,” Camille rasped. Her cell phone crackled like it was having trouble finding its signal.

  “Call 911,” I said.

  “They put me on hold.”

  Something on t
he other end of the line went thud. Zorro yelped. Cinder did the same.

  “Camille—”

  The connection died.

  Candace raced to Cinder and wrapped her arms around his neck to calm him. “Was that Camille St. John? Her dog sounded frightened. Do you know where she lives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go to her.”

  “No. I’m calling 911.”

  She flailed a hand at me. “They’ve got to be swamped with outages because of the storm. Aunt Aspen, she reached out to you. Go. She needs you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re like Switzerland. You’re neutral.”

  Or mine was the last number she’d dialed and the easiest to redial.

  “I’ll go with you,” Candace said.

  “No way.” I clambered out of bed and threw on jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and tennis shoes. “Want to be helpful? Call Nick and tell him Camille St. John contacted me. She thinks someone is in her house. Then go to Opal’s with Cinder.”

  “It’s late.”

  “No arguments. Her mother said anytime, anywhere.”

  I kissed my niece’s forehead, grabbed my tote, and dashed into the summer storm.

  Speeding in the rain wasn’t safe, but I sped anyway and pulled in front of Camille’s house in half the time it would have taken normally, all the while wondering whether I was being tricked. After all, Camille had made it clear that I was persona non grata. On the other hand, she had sounded in distress.

  Everything seemed fine from the street. Lights were on inside the house and out. No windows appeared to be broken. No strangers lurked in cars. After retrieving my flashlight and the hammer I kept in the glove compartment for emergencies—in case I got trapped in my Jeep and had to break a window from the inside out—I dodged puddles up the path. I paused when I realized the front door was ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside, hammer raised.

  “Camille?”

  Silence. Zorro didn’t bound to me. I checked behind the door and in the hall closet. No one leaped out at me. Even so, my shoulders tensed up and my breathing came in shallow spurts. With my free hand, I whisked raindrops off my face and scanned the living room. The overhead canned lights were dim. A reading lamp was switched on. No movement.

  I listened intently as I tiptoed forward. The stereo hummed, as if it had reached the end of a recording and was ready to reboot. A whirr of something mechanical emanated from my right. And then I heard a dog whimper.

  Zorro.

  I sprinted to the kitchen and found him lying beside the island, his collar gone. Was he hurt? Just beyond him I spotted a foot. With painted toenails.

  Camille, faceup, throat slashed, chenille robe open.

  A metallic taste filled my mouth, as if I had been chewing rusty nails. I fought the urge to heave and scrambled to her side. Gritty dirt jabbed the palms of my hands. I gripped Camille’s wrist. No pulse. Blood oozed from her neck and pooled on the floor beneath her head.

  Suddenly the lights switched off. Everywhere. Power outage?

  No, I heard soft footsteps.

  Zorro whimpered but didn’t budge.

  I leaped to my feet, hammer raised. Darkness blinded me. I oscillated back and forth, listening for the intruder.

  At the same time, I felt air whisk the back of my neck. I turned toward the movement and swung the hammer. Something hard cracked into my right ear. My head snapped to the left. Soft musty debris dusted my face and clothing. I went temporarily blind. A flurry of triangles and stars whizzed behind my eyelids. I stumbled over Camille’s body and toppled to the floor.

  As I crawled to get off of her, footsteps slapped the tile. The killer was getting away.

  Chapter 33

  With the room spinning around me, I lay on Camille’s kitchen floor and stabbed numbers on my cell phone while cursing the lack of reception and furious that I’d been caught unaware. Camille had been right. A killer had been in her house. I hadn’t stopped him. I hadn’t saved her.

  “Aspen!” a man yelled. Nick.

  “In the kitchen.” I prepared myself for his diatribe about entering the house without backup.

  But he didn’t curse me. He didn’t chastise me. He set his flashlight beside me and said, “You’re hurt.” The concern in his voice was palpable.

  De Silva trailed him.

  “Camille.” My mouth was drier than toast. “Over there.”

  “De Silva,” Nick said and hitched his head. The fresh-faced detective hurried to Camille.

  A two-way radio attached to Nick’s belt crackled. A man said, “Nick, all clear?”

  Nick flipped a button on the radio and said, “Get an ambulance.”

  “Camille’s dead,” I said. “An ambulance won’t do her any good.”

  “For you.”

  “I’m fine. Help the dog.”

  “What dog?”

  I pointed to Zorro. “He’s in shock.”

  Nick scrambled to the dog and said into the radio, “Send a vet, too.” He returned to me; De Silva tended to Zorro. “Can you sit?”

  “No.” The room was whirling. I’d suffered vertigo before. This was worse.

  “What happened?”

  “Killer. Hit. Me.” In the glow of Nick’s flashlight, I caught sight of the object the killer had used. A potted plant. A puny potted plant. I felt as stupid as a rock. But then I remembered the dirt by Camille. “Gritty stuff on the floor. By Camille. Evidence.”

  “It’s not important right now.”

  “Yes, it is,” but I couldn’t remember why. And then I did. “The Post-its at the station. Your case notes. Mud.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Sheepishly, I admitted that Candace and I had caught sight of a series of Post-it notes on a file folder pertaining to Dr. Fisher’s case at the station and had seen the words mud, metal, and more on them. “Don’t be mad.”

  Nick brushed dirt and stray hairs off my face. “You’re bleeding but it doesn’t look bad. Good thing you have a hard head.”

  I wished I could appreciate his humor, but Camille was lying dead not ten feet away, and the killer had seen me. “Nick”—I gripped his arm—“Candace and Cinder could be in danger. I sent them to the neighbors.”

  “I’ll have someone check on them.”

  “Gwen. Call Gwen.”

  Suddenly, the lights went on everywhere. The glare was harsh. I blinked to fight off nausea.

  A moment later, Detectives Hernandez and King, their shoes covered by sterile booties, stepped into the area. A couple of technicians followed. Nick joined Hernandez and King.

  I couldn’t make out the discussion. I tried to sit, but I felt like clamps were compressing my head, so I lay back down. King nodded and left the room. Hernandez moved out of my line of sight.

  Nick squatted beside me. “How are you doing?”

  “Queasy. I guess this time it’s okay for me to see the crime scene?”

  “Lady, you are the crime scene.” He didn’t smile. His tone was grim.

  I fingered the hammer resting by my side. “A lot of good this did me.”

  “Be thankful the guy didn’t take your life.”

  Sobering words. I swallowed hard. “Why didn’t he kill me?”

  “He tried.”

  “No, he didn’t. Not with a flowerpot.” An irritating detail gnawed at me. “He didn’t kill me because I haven’t hurt Gloria. Did she receive a note?”

  “In this short of a time? I doubt it.”

  “Nick,” Hernandez cried, “you gotta see this.”

  I looked in his direction.

  Hernandez plucked a piece of white paper from the laser printer in the kitchen nook—Camille’s home office—and read it aloud: “‘Don’t worry, my love. She won’t steal your limelight. For your . . .’ It ends there.”

  “Glory,” I said, filling in the rest. “For your glory.” I shuddered. “Nick, I heard a clicking sound when I stole inside. I thought it was the stereo. I must have
interrupted the killer when he was typing the message.” I gazed at him. “This time the killer had it correctly. Camille was going to hurt Gloria. She was going to fire her.”

  “How would the killer know that?”

  “There was a letter in Camille’s office. In a file on top of her desk. With her open-door policy, anyone who worked at KINC could have known about her plan.”

  “So you think the killer is someone who works at the station?”

  “It has to be.” I licked my lips. “Is Vaughn Jamison still in jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that rules him out.”

  “If what you’re saying is true, that rules out Finn Ambrose, too.”

  “Wait. No. Not necessarily.” I raised a hand. “The day Finn did his interview, he went into Camille’s office to make a private phone call. What if the file folder with the letter of intent was lying open on her desk at the time?”

  Cycling through the suspect list I’d written earlier, I realized Tom had the most to gain by Camille’s death. I told Nick so. If he became full owner of KINC, he would have the ability to promote Gloria as he saw fit. What baffled me was, with Camille dead and Vaughn innocent, all links between KINC and Dr. Fisher dissolved.

  No, that wasn’t true. Beau’s sister. She had been a patient. However, she’d left amicably and moved to Arizona. Could the doctor’s murder be a separate, isolated incident?

  The lights in the room grew dark. Darker.

  “Aspen, sweetheart, are you with me?”

  I felt a warm hand on my cheek.

  “Open your eyes,” Nick ordered.

  I didn’t realize I’d closed them. I snapped to attention. “I’m okay. Really.” I forced a smile. “Did you find the murder weapon? I didn’t see anything around Camille.”

  “Yes. He used a louver off a klieg light.”

  “A louver?”

  “One of the metal flaps. Looks like a blinder.”

  The murderer had yet again wielded a weapon specific to the victim. Using a klieg light suggested somebody from the studio had killed Camille, but that could be the murderer’s way of implicating someone other than himself. Even so, the thematic weapon implied that one person was committing all the murders. Scalpel for the doctor, chef’s knife for the restaurateur, scissors for the teacher, and a klieg light for Camille. It was not a game of Clue, but it was as puzzling.