Keely looked infuriatingly cool in a summery green dress and a matching beaded necklace. Gold rings glinted at her ears beneath the smooth waves of shoulder-length hair. Her clear-eyed gaze met Max’s in a direct challenge.
“You and Flo are the liars. I saw you talking together and if someone hadn’t taken my videotape, I could have proved it!”
Max didn’t like her emphasis on “someone.” “Are you suggesting I took the tape?”
“You were there. You stayed out of sight during our little cat fight and then removed the tape from the jardinière—”
Where had this woman learned to tell whoppers with such composure? “I went directly to the van and called the police. Remember I told you after the Westhaven reception that I keep the cell phone in the van to keep Anna Marie off my back—”
“Since you brought up the Westhaven reception, explain again how you just happened to be outside that gift salon. You’ve got a bad habit of lurking in hallways, mister.”
Tamping down the desire to shake her until her eyes rattled, Max stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Whoever you videotaped with Flo wasn’t me.”
“Do you expect me to take your word for it?”
“You expect me to believe that the videotape exists?”
Her outraged gasp made Max feel better, mean-spirited, but better. “Come on, Keely, level with me. The cops think there’s something important on that tape and my future depends on knowing what it is.”
Keely hesitated. “I don’t remember turning off the camera. Operating the video’s second nature to me.” Her brow cleared. “The camera sees what I see and I saw you and Flo together.”
Max winced. Blindsided again.
Keely moved to put the desk between them. Wheeling beneath a portrait of a girl holding a vase of flowers, she challenged, “Why won’t you admit the truth? I saw you!”
Reminding himself that his purpose in coming here was to talk Keely into retracting her story, Max scraped the bristles on his unshaven jaw. “I never spoke to Flo Netherton. That’s the truth. I’m asking you to keep an open mind.”
She shrugged, turning to fiddle with a picture frame. “If you didn’t come for coffee or to tell the truth, why are you here?”
“Because I’m in trouble and you’re responsible.”
“I’m responsible for you meeting that dreadful woman and then lying to the police about it?”
Max snorted. “I thought—God knows why—you’d be reasonable. I did not meet Flo Netherton, nor did I remove the tape. Keely, I don’t know why you persist in—”
“Get out.” She pointed to the door. “I don’t have to listen to your lies.”
“Keely, please! Think about what you’re saying. Does it matter whether I spoke with Flo or not?”
“The truth always matters.” She tugged at her necklace as though the rope of beads hampered her breathing. “Get out or I’ll call Detective Gifford and tell her you’re harassing me.”
“Go ahead.” Max folded his arms across his chest. “Make an even bigger fool of yourself.”
He saw her stiffen before she lunged for the phone. Max’s hand slammed down on Keely’s as she lifted the receiver.
Although the bulk of the desk was between them, his face was only inches from hers. Max could see fear in Keely’s eyes, but when she spoke, her voice didn’t falter. “Planning to add an assault charge to your other problems, Mr. Summers?”
Max was furious, but he released her, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. “In your heart, you know I’m innocent of any involvement in the robberies.”
Doubts about the testimony of Keely’s own eyes had crept in overnight. Had she actually seen Max’s face in that dimly lighted corridor or had her imagination supplied his features above the familiar white shirt and dark pants?
She shook her head. Although her memory wasn’t photographic, years of practice had developed her observational skills. She hadn’t imagined that muscular frame or the dark hair brushing across his forehead—
“Keely, I wouldn’t risk Feast of Italy for the sake of getting my hands on some china and flatware!” Max’s voice softened. “I give you my word.”
“Your word? We both know what that’s worth—you lied last night. Just admit you talked to Flo. If you won’t back me up, that woman’s going to get away with lying—”
“I don’t know whether she lied. I never saw her!”
Keely felt sick with disappointment. “You can’t expect me to believe—”
“Whatever I expected, I was wrong, wasn’t I?” Max paced the room with choppy strides. “I hoped we could synchronize our stories, come up with a hunk of raw meat to distract the police dogs. Anna Marie’s dedicated her life to Feast of Italy and I won’t allow some harpy to destroy thirty years of—”
“Harpy!” A flush seared its way up Keely’s throat and into her cheeks.
“Cool your shutter, Ms. O’Brien, and read today’s paper. I was referring to Flo Netherton and her vitriolic pen. A harpy is a winged monster with the head of a woman and the talons of a predatory bird.”
“Thanks for the mythology lesson.” This discussion was accelerating down a steep grade, a bloody crash inevitable. Keely spoke to the back of his head. “You’ve lied to me. I can’t work with someone I can’t trust.”
Max spun around. “What are you, woman, a parrot? You lied to me, you lied to me, you lied to me! I don’t know what hallucination you had, but I didn’t meet Flo in any hallway!”
“And I’m saying I saw you together! If only I had that tape!” Keely plucked at the belt of her dress. Cameras were the props she used in difficult moments, the perfect gadgets for occupying jittering fingers: advance film, check F-stop, look through viewfinder, distance herself from unpleasant emotions by the thickness of the lens—
“The conveniently missing tape? The only thing you’ve accomplished with that story is to cast suspicion on both of us.”
Hearing the sound of Max’s harsh breathing, Keely felt as if she were trapped in a room with a bomb that lacked a timer. She could hear the ticking, but had no inkling when the explosive was set to go off. She braced herself, but detonation never occurred. Instead, Max stalked over to the portrait wall and nodded at the head shot of an elderly man in horn-rimmed glasses. “I see strength in this fellow’s gaze, the serenity of a long life well spent. No regrets in those eyes.”
Keely watched as Max marched along the row and paused before another portrait. “Here’s someone who’s endured, rather than lived. Resignation in those eyes and folded hands, resentment in the set of the lips.”
Keely blinked. Mary Singer’s husband had been a demanding invalid. Viewers always commented that the portrait portrayed a saint—until now, Keely had been the only one to glimpse an embittered martyr behind the long-suffering facade.
“Tell me, Keely, how can a woman who exercises keen insight into character through a lens be so blind?”
“My keen insight tells me that what I see is my business, Mr. Summers. Saving your sorry tail is yours!”
Max turned, but his dramatic exit was spoiled when he bumped into the desk, jarring a Beatrix Potter music box which toppled over, releasing a trill of notes.
Keely moved swiftly to pick it up. “My receptionist would be extremely upset if you broke Jemima Puddle-Duck. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.”
Her rescue had put them nose to nose again and she saw Max’s arrogant Roman nostrils flare. “Not for long, Ms. O’Brien.”
“Is that a threat?”
Max gestured at the music box. “I don’t know how you’ve lasted in business. You haven’t got the survival sense God gave a goose.”
“It’s not a goose, it’s a duck!”
The studio door banged. Max was gone, leaving a vapor trail of fury behind him.
“Forget him,” Keely said aloud. “Liars are a dime a dozen.” Smoldering, she snatched up the envelope she’d picked up from the floor, tore it open. A piece of paper
fluttered out.
Stooping, she retrieved and read the printed words, “Turn over the tape or I’ll turn up the heat.”
The message was unsigned.
Chapter 9
Keely vented her seething passions by shredding the unsigned note. Flo was drunk with power of the press if she thought she could intimidate via an anonymous threat shoved through a mail slot, a cliché threat, at that.
Keely reached for the scheduling book. Put him out of your mind, she counseled herself. Any empathetic sparks between you and Max at that first meeting were purely imaginary. Like you told the man, you’ve got a business to run.
Although she had a fair idea of her appointments, Keely flipped through the pages anyway. Margo, the rat, had picked a rotten week to desert ship. Morning portrait sessions, an off-site appointment, proof book assembly, retouching work, a session with the DJ for the Turnbull reception, Cammie Miller’s pre-wedding portrait session, Tuesday’s evening bridal shower…
She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed.
“Postwaite residence.”
She recognized the butler’s mashed potato voice. “Ives, this is Keely from Key Shot Studio. May I speak to Rose?”
“Madam is not available to callers.”
“When will she be available?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“If I came over, Ives, would she be able to see me?”
“Madam is not taking calls or receiving visitors.”
Keely pictured Rose hiding in her lavishly decorated golden French-style bedroom, consoling herself with liquor. She made a final attempt. “You still have my equipment cases. May I drop by this afternoon and pick them up?”
“I will arrange to have them delivered to you.”
“Give Rose a message to call me, please.”
“Of course, ma’am.” A decisive click severed the connection. Judging from his tone, Ives hadn’t forgiven her for criticizing his handling of the crisis. Keely suspected her message wouldn’t travel any farther than the butler’s ears.
The rattle of the knob interrupted her gloomy thoughts and she hurried to open the door.
Ida Burke looked like Hollywood’s version of a grandmother, from her cap of white curls to her sensible footwear. But her hands revealed the unfettered spirit dwelling within the matronly body: Ida wore the colors of her soul on her fingertips, a different exotic polish on each nail. Gemstones in ever changing cuts and settings crowded her knuckles.
A devoted member of a television shopping club, Ida often showed Keely clothing, dolls, and gadgets purchased as gifts for her children and ever expanding flock of grandchildren.
Today the receptionist’s arms were laden with a sheaf of flowers wrapped in waxed paper, a blue stoneware vase, two paperback romances, and a stuffed patchwork rabbit which Keely assumed was another bargain.
“What’s the flower for this week?” Keely helped unload the eccentric assortment onto the desk.
“Freesia. So fresh and pure! To me, the colors fairly breathe springtime! They symbolize innocence—”
Blushing, Ida broke off. Grabbing the vase, she hurried away. Admiring the fragrant, trumpet-shaped flowers, Keely awaited her return.
Something was wrong. Ida, who prided herself on knowing the language of flowers as well as she did the dates of her grandkids’ birthdays, was ordinarily unshakable.
Ida’s broken sentence still hung in the air. “They symbolize innocence.” Innocence! The Lake Hope Ripples. Recalling Max’s acerbic reference to Flo, Keely snatched up the newspaper. “Sterling Ring Strikes Again” shrieked the headline. Underneath, “Postwaite–Graham Nuptials Latest Victim.”
Keely read on, her lips growing numb. She started when a gentle hand touched her arm.
“I think you’d better sit down, dearie.”
Staring dazedly at the cotton ball curls of the woman at her side, Keely felt like a liner being towed into harbor as Ida Burke guided her to the couch.
“A cup of tea with honey? I can make one in a jiff—”
Keely shook her head. “Have you read this?”
“Yes, dear. I’m sorry.”
Keely massaged her temples as she bent over the story again. “This makes it sound more like a slapstick comedy than a home invasion,” she muttered.
In the reporter’s playful prose, Dorothea’s reception had been choreographed by a comedic genuis comparable to Mack Sennett and lacked only an appearance by the Keystone Kops to add the perfect touch of buffoonery. The account also contained a devastating description of the bedraggled Winona, along with a few of the woman’s more earthy pronouncements. Poor Rose!
Ida twittered. “I would have loved to see Lake Hope’s society leaders being pursued by trombones and trumpets!”
As would just about everyone else in town. “Nights in White Satin” as staged by the Marx Brothers! Rose’s instincts were sound—if a tape of the fiasco were made public, her family would be ridiculed. Now, thanks to Flo’s interference and Keely’s negligence, the tape could be anywhere.
She said carefully, “I’m in a position of trust. I can’t gossip about what happened last night.”
“Of course not, dear.” Ida agreed, bravely struggling to mask her disappointment.
She returned to her flower arranging while Keely gazed disconsolately at the newspaper. She had to retrieve the tape before it surfaced and drove Rose back to drink. “Ida?”
Ida’s shoulders quivered.
“I’m sorry, Ida. I didn’t mean to be harsh.”
A veritable earthquake shook the woman’s frame. She was laughing! “Keely, I’m sorry, but I just can’t help it. I picture Robert Preston leading that band into the dining room—”
A wheeze of helpless mirth escaped Ida’s throat. The memory of the violinist from the string quartet hiking up her long skirt and legging it for the door flashed into Keely’s head along with an irreverent thought: dub Harpo Marx into the scene in pursuit of the girl and you’d have a classic comedy.
The telephone interrupted. Ida removed her right earring and used the patchwork rabbit’s ears to dab her streaming eyes.
“Key Shot Studio. May I help you? Oh, Mrs. Hoover. Yes, next Wednesday evening for the initial conference—”
Keely swallowed the last chortle. If weddings were the hot fudge sundaes of her profession, the Hoover nuptials would be the ultimate cherry. Only a dress from a Paris designer would grace Pamela’s model thinness. Keely had already drawn up a tentative list of locations for the formal bridal portrait.
Mrs. Hoover was the bellwether of the socially conscious sheep of Lake Hope: wherever she roamed, the others would follow. Keely suspected the woman would prove to be difficult, but was determined to smilingly endure all slings and arrows.
She saw the color drain from Ida’s face, leaving islands of rouge on a chalky sea. “Mrs. Hoover, you should discuss this with Ms. O’Brien—Yes, ma’am. I’ll give her the message.”
She fumbled to replace the receiver, knocking the stuffed rabbit to the floor.
Keely picked up the bunny. “Was her highness checking to ensure we have a red carpet to roll out for her first visit?” Please, God, let it be something so trivial!
“Not exactly.” Ida beheaded a freesia before tossing both stem and blossom into the wastebasket.
Keely didn’t need to be a meteorologist to spot the signs that a severe weather system was forming. “Not exactly?”
Another freesia met the same fate. “Remember when you said being picked for the Hoover wedding was comparable to getting a nod from the queen?”
Keely wet her lips. “Yes.”
“The queen ain’t nodding, she’s turned thumbs down.” Ida’s voice became an imperious falsetto. “Pamela’s changed her mind. We—the royal we—shall be hiring another photographer.”
“Another photographer?” Cradling the patchwork rabbit to her chest, Keely stumbled to the couch and collapsed.
A sharp pain tunneled under her breast bon
e. The newspaper lay open on the coffee table.
Keely reread the editorial. “By a strange and fascinating coincidence, Key Shot Studio and Feast of Italy Catering were again service providers. Ms. O’Brien’s brochure boasts of ‘preserving a record of your fantasy wedding, from the selection of the perfect gown, flowers, and cake to the final limousine ride.’ Feast of Italy Catering prides itself on service above and beyond the rigorous standards set by this multi-million dollar industry.
“Service providers are, of necessity, privy to confidential information. Weddings are meant to be a time of joy—not fear. We urge the police to stop the Sterling Ring before this vicious gang blights someone else’s happiness.”
“I’ll ruin you,” Flo had whispered, her eyes filled with hatred. “I’ll turn up the heat,” an anonymous note promised.
One editorial. Two businesses trashed. Words that could wipe out years of fluffing veils, spraying gowns to reduce static, and coaxing smiles from tearful flower girls. Evenings sacrificed to lingerie showers, floral consultations, and acting as peace maker when mother and daughter couldn’t agree on tapered sleeves or flowing.
Ida had tears in her eyes and most of the freesias had lost their heads. “What are we going to do, Keely?”
“Do?” Keely straightened her shoulders and rose. “I’ve got a calendar crammed with appointments. I don’t need Amelia Hoover’s blessing to run a successful business.”
“That’s the spirit! What shall we do first?”
“Help me set up the studio for the Ashburn portrait session. Margo won’t be coming in, so I’d like you to tackle the retouching stack. While I’m gone this afternoon, please sort the proofs that arrived Friday. Match the numbers on the negative mask to the ones on the sleeve.”
Keely touched a mutilated freesia, acknowledging her attraction to Max. That was why it hurt when he persisted in his falsehoods. From first hand experience, she knew lies poisoned relationships with fatal results.
“It’s only one cancellation, Ida.”
As if denying Keely’s confident assertion, the phone rang. Over the devastated flower arrangement, the women’s eyes met. Turn up the heat…Turn up the heat…
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 7