Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “You’re a b-bad liar.” Tripp pulled a cell phone from his pocket and flashed the screen at me. The screensaver picture was Lake Tahoe during a storm. “My father isn’t a suspect. His ex-lawyer texted me.”

  Smart man, Finn. Sack Hawk Nose so he could legally defy Nick’s order and warn his son.

  “He said I’m wanted for m-murder.” Tripp smiled, but his eyes were as icy as the lake in January. “What t-tipped you off?”

  “Your mother’s medical file.”

  His eyes widened. “You know about my m-mother?”

  “She had the nerve to leave you and then get pregnant. Did that make you feel unimportant? Did you think she was replacing you?”

  He blinked rapidly.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Tripp. She didn’t leave you. She left your father.”

  “No.”

  “They fought, didn’t they?”

  More blinking. I was on the right track.

  “They didn’t fight about you. Your mother loved you.”

  “Liar!” Tripp lunged at me.

  I tried to defend myself, but before I could connect with his forearm, he gripped my wrist with his other hand. He shoved and released me. I stumbled backward and slammed into a counter. I couldn’t glance at the tools on the counter without taking my gaze off Tripp. Blindly, I groped for something hefty. The first thing I touched was the size of a ballpoint pen. Worthless.

  “Brown horsehair fibers were found at each of the murder sites,” I said. “There’s a rug with those fibers in the foyer of your apartment.”

  “Not anymore.”

  His father had destroyed evidence? What wasn’t he afraid to do for his son?

  “The grit from this workshop was at Camille St. John’s house,” I said, not allowing my face to reveal my concern. “It’ll be lodged in the soles of your shoes.”

  “I’ve got an alibi for her murder.”

  “AA meetings aren’t held that late.”

  “Some are.”

  “I’ll bet you missed it that night. The leader of the group will testify that you weren’t there.”

  “I’ve been g-going to different locations. There’re a lot of drunks in Tahoe. Even if someone doesn’t r-remember me being at one, they’ll think I was at another. I was a star pupil, no relapses.” Tripp repositioned the weapon in his hand. “And with you dead—”

  “You didn’t kill me at Camille’s. Do you know why, Tripp?” I asked, my gaze fixed on his. “Because you wanted me to figure out it was you. You wanted me to stop the insanity.”

  “Uh-uh. No shrink stuff. I’ve had enough psycho-babble.” Tripp moved toward me, raising and lowering the tool like an automaton. “Candace says you do that. Always analyzing.”

  “Do you have alibis for the times when Miranda Tejeda and Tony Vittorio were killed, Tripp?”

  He hesitated, giving me a chance to glance at the door. Where was Nick? He had to be near. Even if he searched full circle, he would return to the ceramics room. The student would tell him about the machine shop. Unless the student had left. He had been washing up.

  “Why did you kill Laila?” I asked. “She was an innocent. All she did was deliver a note for you.”

  “She figured it out. She—”

  Gloria mumbled something. I glanced at her. Her eyes were open. Wide. Scared. Whatever Tripp had given her was wearing off.

  “Quiet!” Tripp yelled at her.

  She whimpered.

  Tripp grinned at me. “You know, if I didn’t already have Gloria as my girlfriend, I’d p-pick Candace.”

  Over my dead body. I traced my fingers along another tool. Not sharp enough.

  “Did you love your mother the same way you love Gloria?” I asked, changing tactics. “Is she a replacement for your mother? She looks just like her. A younger version of her.”

  “Leave my m-mother out of this.” He slashed at me.

  I raised my right arm to defend myself. The arrowhead nicked me under the arm, above the elbow. Blood oozed out. I couldn’t staunch the flow and attack him at the same time. Ignoring the pain, I clasped the handle of the next tool I touched and thrust it at him. It was only a skinny serrated saw, but he backed up a step, granting me a momentary reprieve.

  “Camille contested the charge for the flowers you sent Gloria, didn’t she?” I flailed the saw again. It arced with the force. “You also sent Gloria flowers using your father’s credit card, didn’t you? The day I visited him at his penthouse, you and Jules argued about the gift. You glanced at me. You worried that I’d find out about the special order, so you rigged the elevator. You’re good with electrical things.”

  “Ha! You see? I was trying to get rid of you.”

  “You didn’t count on the emergency brake taking control.”

  “Stupid.” Tripp swung the weapon at my chest.

  At the same time the door opened and Finn Ambrose and his ex-lawyer burst in.

  “Tripp, no!” Finn yelled.

  Tripp glared at them. “Leave!”

  “You killed your mother, didn’t you, Tripp?” I said. “You beat her and she convulsed. You were the Ambrose the doctor noted in the file, not your father.”

  Finn moaned.

  “There were bruises on your mother’s back,” I went on, “but your mother told the doctor that she’d fallen. She didn’t rat you out. The doctor couldn’t see the deeper bruises you’d inflicted in her abdomen. That’s why she didn’t turn you in to authorities. She couldn’t prove that you were a monster.”

  Finn Ambrose said to his lawyer, “Do something.”

  “You tracked down your mother and hurt her because you wanted to kill the life inside her. After she and the baby died, you punished yourself. You drank yourself into oblivion. But everything changed when you met Gloria.”

  Tripp’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Two years was a long time to suffer, wasn’t it?” I held my hand out, imploring him to relinquish the tool. “You thought you could redeem yourself if you could persuade Gloria to love you. That is until you saw Dr. Fisher on Gloria’s show. Seeing her triggered the killing spree. You were angry that the doctor was alive. You were furious that she didn’t turn you in after you abused your mother. She was supposed to put you out of your misery and sentence you to death.”

  “Yes.” He sucked back a sob.

  “You should’ve been punished.”

  “Yes.” Veins bulged in the boy’s neck.

  “You entered a dark, scary place after killing your mother, didn’t you?” The addicts I’d treated talked about the black holes of self-loathing and doubt that they lived in. “But then you got clean and sober, and the real world was even more frightening, wasn’t it?”

  “It was my fault. And that doctor—”

  “When you met Gloria you felt an instant connection. You convinced yourself that if you could win her heart, then your brutal acts would be banished to the past. After you killed the doctor, you told yourself that you had done it for Gloria. For her glory. But that wasn’t entirely true. You were doing it to salvage the beautiful memory of your mother.”

  He glanced at Gloria. “She’s not her.”

  “No, she’s not your mother, Tripp. Your mother is gone.”

  “She left me.” Tripp’s voice cracked with sorrow.

  “She didn’t leave you, Tripp.” I pointed at his father. “Like I told you, she left because he drove her away. Killing Tony Vittorio was your way of lashing out at your father, wasn’t it? You thought the sheriff’s detectives would throw your father in jail for his murder. When they didn’t, you kept going. Do you know why?”

  “No more talking!” Tripp growled and lunged at me.

  I threw up both arms to ward off the blow.

  At the same time, Finn cried, “Stop, son. Don’t hurt her.”

  Tripp froze. He glanced at his father and back at me, as if wondering which of us to kill first.

  Nick raced into the room, gun drawn. “Tripp, drop the weapon or I’ll shoot.”<
br />
  “No, Nick, don’t,” I begged. “Everyone, hush. Tripp”—my voice quavered; I couldn’t hide the fear—“your mother would be disappointed if you hurt me. I’m not the enemy. I’m the person who can shine a light on your pain.”

  Tripp’s body grew still. Very very still.

  Until Finn said, “Son, I’m sorry.”

  And then everything happened fast.

  Tripp plunged the weapon into his father’s chest. Finn stumbled.

  I kicked Tripp’s feet out from under him. He toppled.

  Nick charged him and cuffed him.

  The lawyer squatted beside Finn.

  I hurried to Gloria, removed the gag from her mouth, and untied her from the chair. Steadying her with both hands, I said, “You’re going to be fine.”

  Tears streamed down her face.

  After Nick called for backup and was assured an ambulance was on the way, he joined Gloria and me. “Are you okay, Aspen?”

  No, I wasn’t. I had just attempted to talk down the devil and lost.

  Chapter 47

  Max had beaten me to the cabin. Candace stood beyond her in the living room, arms crossed and hands tucked under her armpits. Cinder sat beside her, as vigilant as a sentry. Max drew me to one side and asked if Tripp was on his way to jail. I said he was and his father, who had been whisked to the hospital, was being charged with aiding and abetting. She kissed me, told me how proud she was, added that we would have a debriefing in a few days, and left.

  Candace whispered, “I’m sorry. I . . . wasn’t thinking. I won’t ever do something like this again. Ever.”

  Tears pressed my eyes as I hugged her. “How can I trust you?”

  “You have to. Please?” Her voice cracked.

  “You scared me. I’d thought—” I’d thought the horrible incident we’d experienced in January was repeating itself: Candace kidnapped, injured, and possibly dead. “You are part of my life now. I need to protect you.” On the drive home I’d questioned whether I had to rethink my career. I couldn’t continue to put me, and therefore her, in danger. “If I lost you . . .”

  “Tripp never would have hurt me.”

  “I couldn’t imagine he would hurt Gloria, either, but he took her, drugged her, and bound her to a chair. If we hadn’t shown up, I’m not sure what he was capable of. You can’t be so trusting.”

  “I had a gut instinct.”

  Her words—words I often uttered—punched me in the solar plexus. I opened my mouth to respond and then closed it.

  She pressed apart. “How about if you get me self-defense classes so I’ll be prepared for . . . you know . . . whatever . . . in case.”

  “How about I lock you in your room and throw away the key until you’re twenty-one?”

  “I’m not Cinderella, and just for your information, I think I could find a mouse or two to help me escape.”

  “I bet you could.”

  • • •

  Rosie didn’t show up. Two days later, she called and claimed she’d gotten sidetracked. I didn’t ask by what. I knew. We chatted for a minute about her new job, one of the most civil conversations we’d had in a long time. Before ending the call, she said she still wanted to see Candace. I told her I’d work something out soon, knowing I wouldn’t. Not yet.

  A week later, I sat on the porch and nursed a cup of coffee, the morning paper opened on my laptop. Something pop-cracked in the forest and I dropped the mug. Porcelain shards and teaming liquid splattered at my feet. “Dang it.” My nerves were shot from the ordeal with Tripp. My dreams were plagued with lunatic automatons, knives, scalpels, and serrated saws. I’d visited a therapist who had told me exactly what I would have told my patients—recovery takes time.

  The screen door squeaked. Candace popped outside carrying a kitchen towel. “Did I hear something break?” She let the door slam shut and tossed the towel at me. “Let the party begin.” She was enjoying the not-so-perfect me. My frequent mishaps were making her feel like less of a klutz.

  I mopped up the mess.

  “Wish I had some sparklers to celebrate.” Candace sank into a patio chair.

  “Very funny.”

  Camille’s dog, Zorro, wearing a protective cone around his neck to prevent him from scratching off the bandage on his head, loped to her and put a paw in her lap. I’d thrown away the collar Tripp had swiped. Bad voodoo, as Gwen would say, and bought Zorro a new one. Over the course of the last seven days, whenever Candace cooed sweet nothings to the pooch, Cinder scurried up and vied for her attention, too. He adored his new pal, but he did have a slight jealous streak.

  Candace eyed the laptop and tapped the newspaper’s banner. “It’s sad, don’t you think?”

  The story was about the Vittorios’. It wouldn’t have made the headlines if Tony Vittorio hadn’t been murdered. Darcy had discovered that Tony Vittorio had burdened his restaurant with so much debt that his wife and brother were forced to declare bankruptcy. They were selling everything and moving from Lake Tahoe to start over. Darcy had given the scoop to the reporter.

  Candace toyed with her hair. “I was watching KINC with that anchor who replaced Gloria Morning, the one with the toothy smile.”

  Rumors were circulating that Tom and the new anchor were already an item. In the past three weeks, Tom had tried all sorts of innovative programming at the woman’s suggestion and viewership had risen. When I’d dared to ask Tom about the drugs he had poured down his cast, he’d blushed and said he had been clean and sober for six hours and hadn’t wanted anything to interfere with his recovery. He was sorry he’d given me any reason to doubt him.

  “Anyway,” Candace continued, “she said that Mr. Ambrose put his casino up for sale and the money’s going toward Tripp’s mental treatment and murder defense.” She fiddled with the hem of her tube top. “Poor Tripp.” Ever since his capture, she had chastised herself for being stupid enough to trust him. I’d assured her that very few could have identified his mental illness. Even I, a trained professional, had missed the signs. “The anchor went on to say that Gloria is moving to Los Angeles to do the evening news on some small cable channel. Did you know that?”

  “I’d heard.”

  Candace crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I forgot.”

  She huffed. Being kept out of the loop clearly didn’t sit well with my niece. I would have to do better.

  I said, “Gloria didn’t think she could get a gig in New York having only worked in Lake Tahoe, and since Beau got an offer to direct a reality program in Hollywood, they’re moving together.” My friend was starting over and in love, and I was happy for her. I glanced at my watch. “Oh, no. We’ve got to run. Lock up the dogs and get dressed.”

  “Does Rory need a tie?” Candace asked. Rory had returned to demigod status because he had agreed to her no-sex decree.

  Was I ever glad I didn’t have to relive my teenage years.

  “No tie, but a long-sleeved shirt would be nice.”

  “Got it.” She scooted into the house.

  I followed her and set my laptop on the counter, tossed the broken shards of my mug into the garbage, and hurled the wet towel into the sink. Then I tore down the hallway to my bedroom. I slipped into the yellow spaghetti-strapped dress I’d laid on the bed. Gwen was getting married in two hours and I had promised to arrive early enough to help with her unruly hair.

  Less than a half hour later, the doorbell rang. I opened it and smiled. Nick, looking hip and sexy in his camel linen jacket, slacks, and white shirt, no tie, kissed my cheek.

  “Your chariot awaits.” He whispered in my ear, “What’s on the agenda for later?”

  “After the bit about Gwen saying ‘I do,’ I’m all yours.”

  Books by Daryl Wood Gerber

  The Cookbook Nook Mysteries

  Final Sentence

  Inherit the Word

  Stirring the Plot

  Fudging the Books

  Grilling the Subject

  Pr
essing the Issue

  Wreath between the Lines

  Sifting Through Clues

  The French Bistro Mysteries

  A Deadly Éclair

  A Soufflé of Suspicion

  Writing as Avery Aames

  The Long Quiche Good-bye

  Lost and Fondue

  Clobbered by Camembert

  To Brie or not To Brie

  Days of Wine and Roquefort

  As Gouda as Dead

  For Cheddar or Worse

  Stand-alone Suspense

  Girl on the Run

  Day of Secrets

  Desolate Shores

  Fan Mail

  About the Author

  Daryl Wood Gerber is the Agatha Award–winning, nationally bestselling author of the Cookbook Nook Mysteries, featuring an admitted foodie and owner of a cookbook store in Crystal Cove, California, as well as the French Bistro Mysteries, featuring a bistro owner in Napa Valley. Under the pen name Avery Aames, Daryl writes the Cheese Shop Mysteries, featuring a cheese shop owner in Providence, Ohio.

  As a girl, Daryl considered becoming a writer, but she was dissuaded by a seventh-grade teacher. It wasn’t until she was in her twenties that she had the temerity to try her hand at writing again . . . for TV and screen. Why? Because she was an actress in Hollywood. A fun tidbit for mystery buffs: Daryl co-starred on Murder, She Wrote as well as on other TV shows. As a writer, she created the format for the popular sitcom Out of This World. When she moved across the country with her husband, she returned to writing what she loved to read: mysteries and thrillers.

  Daryl is originally from the Bay Area and graduated from Stanford University. She loves to cook, read, golf, swim, and garden. She also likes adventure and has been known to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Here are a few of Daryl’s lifelong mottos: perseverance will out; believe you can; never give up. She hopes they will become yours, as well.