Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

  “Count on my cooperation. But if you manage to retrieve the tape, Keely, you’ve also got a twenty-four karat dilemma.”

  She brushed the curl from her lips again. “What?”

  “You can either turn the tape over to the police—thereby getting me off the hook as the mysterious man in the hallway if your camera work was good enough—or you exchange it for Flo’s promise to quit sniping at Key Shot.”

  “But that would mean betraying Rose…” Max guessed from Keely’s furrowed brow that this was the first time she’d considered the second option.

  She drove without speaking for several miles. The wind rushing by cleared her head. Keely hadn’t thought about the footage clearing Max and she felt unaccountably cheered by the prospect. But sacrifice Rose to save Key Shot? Never.

  Assuming the role of her conscience, Max prodded, “Who are you going to get off your back, Keely? Gifford or Netherton?”

  “I’ll do the right thing,” she retorted crisply.

  “I’ll be at your side to make sure you do.”

  Max must have a pretty low opinion of me, Keely reflected dismally, giving her companion a sidelong glance. For Rose’s sake—and, unfortunately, for Key Shot’s future—the videotape was a bargaining card she could never play.

  But Max had planted the seed of self-doubt in fertile ground. In an effort to stop dwelling on the dilemma he’d suggested, Keely focused on discovering a way to protect Rose, cooperate with the police, and outmaneuver Flo at the same time.

  A truce of meditative silence lasted until Keely stopped outside the massive security gates that protected Lakewood Estates from unauthorized intrusions. Several cars and a van were parked along the road. Men and women lounged against the vehicles.

  Max said grimly, “Members of the esteemed fourth estate, no doubt.”

  Their arrival disturbed an anthill. Jean clad men emerged from the van, stirred into sluggish activity. One man shouldered a video camera; two power suited women pitched away their cigarettes and started towards Keely’s car.

  “Were either of you at the wedding?”

  “Want to tell us what happened?”

  “Did the bride get a plate of cake in her face? What tune was the band playing when it marched in?”

  Ignoring the shouted questions, Keely removed a plastic card from her purse. Leaning out the window, she inserted the card into a slot in the gray metal box attached to a post. The box hummed and the gate split in half, each side pulling back into what appeared to be solid stone pillars. A man in an olive green uniform seated in the guard’s box gave them a searching look as they drove through before returning to his paperback.

  Keely checked the rear view mirror to ensure no one had slipped in behind them.

  Max gave her an incredulous look. “A security card?”

  “Clarence Postwaite didn’t have a chance to demand it back.” Keely tucked the card into her purse. “Rose gave this to me months ago. She thought it demeaning for me to be checked off on an approved list each time I visited the house.”

  “Does Detective Gifford know you’ve got it?”

  “No.” Keely bit her lip. “I didn’t think to mention it since the card’s never been out of my possession.”

  Most of the residences were invisible from the road, hidden behind barriers of trees or stately stone fences.

  Max mused, “I wonder how extensively Gifford explored the question of how the thieves got in and out.”

  “Barring a helicopter and a boat, there’s three ways to get inside Lakewood Estates.” Keely turned up the winding drive leading to the Postwaite mansion. “Security card, your name on the approved list, or by bribing the guard at the gate.”

  “You have a security card.” Max frowned. “Did the Postwaites mention that interesting fact to Gifford?”

  “Bite your tongue! The last thing I need is another nail hammered into my coffin.”

  As Keely waited with Max on the broad front steps, the delicate, creamy blossoms of the star jasmine flanking the entryway surrounded them with stereophonic scent. From the trees, a bird chirped a sleepy sounding greeting. Peace, luxury, and privacy that only money could buy—but for how long? Raising the brass door knocker shaped like an oak tree, Keely let it fall with a heavy thud.

  The door swung open and the butler, a man clearly under siege, peered out. At the sight of the visitors, his eyebrows soared skyward. “Ms. O’Brien!”

  Keely stepped forward with the confidence of a frequent guest and the butler retreated.

  They faced each other on the gold flecked marble floor of the foyer where Max had served cheese and fruit less than a week earlier. The ghosts of gift-laden merrymakers seemed to hover around them.

  Ives broke the awkward silence. “I feared you might be more of those horribly persistent hoodlums of the press.” He mopped his brow. “They’ve tried sneaking in by canoe, in a furniture van—one even crawled over the wall but the guard caught him. All clamoring for ‘colorful’ quotes, the ‘inside’ story—”

  Keely interrupted the litany of complaints. “I’ve phoned several times.”

  “Madam is indisposed and the Master is Not At Home.”

  Keely knew indisposed could either mean prostrate with shock and humiliation or stinking drunk. An image of the press poised like a flock of vultures flashed into her mind. Poor Rose!

  Ives stared at Max. “I thought by now you’d be in jail—” He broke off, flushing to the top of his balding head. Servants didn’t have thoughts or opinions.

  Max said calmly, “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.”

  “No, sir. Of course not, sir.” Ives was flustered and Keely wondered how he managed to hold his position. Weren’t butlers supposed to present inscrutable facades and remain unperturbed during moments of crisis?

  She asked, “Is Rose—Mrs. Postwaite—feeling up to a few minutes of company?”

  Ives composed his face into a suitably somber expression. “I’m sorry, no.”

  Keely decided to go through the proper channels to interview the chauffeur. “Is Mr. Postwaite available?”

  “He’s Not At Home, Ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  “But this is very important!”

  Ives shook his head, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, I have my orders.”

  Keely gave up. “Would you please bring me my equipment cases? I need my cameras.”

  The butler looked startled. “Your cameras?”

  “My cameras! I can’t work without equipment—”

  “What’s going on? Who are these people and what do they want? I warned you, Ives, no more talking to the press!”

  Clarence Postwaite surged up the hall like a liner sailing into the harbor under full steam, his silvery mane of hair quivering in indignation. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Keely. “Ms. O’Brien! What are you doing here?”

  Keely gave him her most pacifying smile. “May I have a few moments of your time?”

  “If you’re here to collect the rest of your fee, you may talk to my lawyer, young woman. I’m not satisfied you’re entirely blameless and, until I am, you’ll not see another penny.”

  He switched his glare to Max. “You, sir, may take yourself off my property. This is a private residence. Members of the press aren’t welcome—hold on, you’re the caterer!”

  “Yes.” Max didn’t flinch. “I’m here to collect a pan which was left behind in the confusion.”

  “Insolent puppy!” Clarence swelled visibly, his face turning an ominous shade of reddish purple.

  His hands quivered at his sides; his mouth worked like a fish plucked from the water. Max gazed back, unintimidated by this display of truculence.

  Wondering what Max was up to, Keely said hastily, “I also wanted to return my security card.”

  Deflected from his intended target, their reluctant host turned on Keely. “What’s this? You have a security card?”

  “My pan?” Max prompted.

  Clarence shook his leonine head irr
itably, a noble beast plagued by a buzzing gnat. “Ives, take this fellow to the kitchen and give him his blasted pan. Don’t let him out of your sight!”

  Sending a significant wink in Keely’s direction, Max fell in behind the butler. Uncertain of the meaning of the signal, she handed her card to Clarence. “Your wife gave me temporary use of this until after the wedding.”

  He said gruffly, “The Gifford woman asked me why your name wasn’t on the list of approved visitors on Sunday.”

  Keely’s heart sank. So much for keeping extraneous information from the police! “I’ve had the card for several months. Your wife entrusted me with it.”

  “Entrusted? Pah!”

  “I had nothing to do with the invasion of your home, sir,” Keely said quietly. “Be assured I will do anything in my power to protect your wife and daughter.”

  “Hmmph.” Clarence flexed the card between his thick fingers. “Decent of you.”

  Encouraged, Keely asked, “How is Rose feeling? I’ve phoned several times, but wasn’t allowed to speak to her.”

  Clarence’s jaw tightened. “My wife’s not taking calls.”

  Keely knew she had to step delicately. “I realize she’s had many shocks, including the theft of the necklace—”

  “The diamonds are unimportant!” His face sagged, a granite cliff crumbling. “She’s taking this hard, very hard. Keeps saying Dorothea’s special day was spoiled, that we’re a laughingstock. She’s not well.”

  Wondering if that meant Rose was drinking again, Keely said gently, “Please tell her that if she wants to call me, I have a shoulder to cry on. There are healthy ways of coping.”

  Their gazes met in mutual understanding. He sighed and looked down at his shoes, harsh-browed and sad. Keely had planned to ask his permission to question Jackson, but now was not the time to mention the existence of the missing videotape. With his wife’s emotional well being at stake, Clarence wouldn’t allow her access to the chauffeur.

  Keely felt overwhelmed by the despair poisoning the atmosphere of this house. After sacrificing her own childhood to the god who dispensed oblivion in a bottle, she knew firsthand the damage alcohol did to relationships. She couldn’t shake the inner vision of Rose huddled upstairs with a glass in her hand, her sweet face sodden with drink and despair.

  With relief, she saw Max striding down the hallway towards her, Ives puffing along in his wake.

  “Give Rose my best,” Keely said brokenly and ran out the front door.

  Max found his companion huddled behind the wheel of her convertible, the heels of her hands pressed to her eyes. “Bad news, Cinnamon.” He swung into the passenger seat.

  “I take it you couldn’t find your pan?” She sniffed and gave the key, which was still in the ignition, a sharp twist.

  “I didn’t find it because I didn’t leave one behind.” Max hefted a battered sauce pan. “Fortunately, the cook wasn’t in residence and I was able to ‘identify’ this as my favorite consommé pan by a nick in the handle.”

  Keely accelerated down the drive, remembering that she’d forgotten to press the matter of her equipment cases. Going back, however, would take more nerve than she possessed at the moment. That errand could wait until tomorrow.

  She sighed. “I didn’t have a chance to ask if I could talk to Jackson.”

  “I did.”

  Keely stepped on the brake, stopping the Mustang so abruptly that Max, who hadn’t yet fastened his seat belt, nearly bumped his head on the windshield. “What did you say?”

  “Why do you think I wanted to go to the kitchen? Not to lift some worthless pan which should have been retired years ago.” Max tossed the maligned object into the back seat. “After Postwaite showed up, it seemed wise to isolate Ives before discussing his fellow employee. After a bit of prodding, I learned Ives instructed Jackson to deliver your equipment cases.”

  Keely felt sick at the thought of her lenses and cameras entrusted to the man’s spiteful guardianship. “I called on both Monday and Tuesday. Ives assured me each time they’d be delivered and I didn’t want to press too hard.”

  “There’s more bad news.” Max hesitated. “Jackson quit as of this morning. He left no forwarding address.”

  As Keely struggled to absorb this devastating blow, they neared the entrance to Lakewood Estates. The guard stood, preparing to trigger the mechanism which opened the gates.

  “Hold it!” Max ordered. “I have a question for this guy.”

  The guard, a paunchy man in his late fifties, put down his Stephen King novel at Max’s approach. “May I help you, sir?”

  Keely’s earlier use of the card had apparently impressed him, both as to their pedigree and their credentials. Max adopted his most supercilious tone. “After being harassed by that gaggle of reporters, I’m rather concerned about security. I understand that one of the residences was violated by the invasion of some rag-tag musical group.”

  “Yes, sir. There was a problem, but measures have been taken to correct it.”

  “You issue ID cards and maintain lists of approved visitors.” Max gestured at the clipboard hanging on a hook inside the guard’s box. “How did a band slip through your steel cordon,” he gave the words a sarcastic inflection, “of security?”

  “There was a wedding, sir. Lots of arrivals.” The man’s jowly face reddened. “But I only admitted those on my list, sir.”

  “You were on duty? Tough luck!” Max abandoned his sneer in favor of a buddy-to-buddy grin. “How many vehicles did it take to transport the band?”

  The security guard eagerly seized the olive branch of interest. “Just one, sir. They arrived in this wheezing old bus painted red and gold and demanded entrance. I checked the list given to me that morning and they were on it.”

  Max glanced at Keely. “The band was on the list,” he repeated hollowly. “The approved list—”

  “Given to me by the Postwaites that morning.” A vigorous nod. “Police took my copy. Guess they didn’t believe me ’til they saw it in black and white. ‘Benjamin’s Brass Marching Band,’ that’s what it said, both on the side of the bus and on the list.”

  “Thank you.” Max walked toward the car. Another thought occurred to him. “When you said ‘the Postwaites,’ you didn’t mean Clarence himself delivered the list of approved visitors, did you?”

  “No, sir.” The man sniggered as if he’d just heard a dirty joke. “Chauffeur always drops it off. A fellow—”

  “By the name of Jackson,” Max finished.

  “Yeah. You know the guy?”

  “Not yet.” Max permitted himself a grim smile. “But I intend to make his acquaintance very soon.”

  Lying awake in the early morning hours, Keely gazed at her mother’s painting of the dying rose and pondered the day’s revelations. This was evolving into a bizarre game of “Who’s Got the Tape?” Since Flo was still pushing to obtain the videotape, neither she nor her camera-shy friend from the hallway had it. Jackson must have seen her hide the tape and, in turn, hid it somewhere else. The burning question remained as to what he intended to do with his find.

  Jackson had been in a unique position to tamper with the roll of approved visitors. Judging by his lack of loyalty to his employers, he was probably also susceptible to bribery. But the man had vanished, taking with him any leads to the thieves, leaving the Postwaites chauffeurless and Keely’s equipment cases in limbo. Spread-eagled across the tangled sheets, Keely wondered what had happened to her carefully ordered existence. She had learned to catalog people, slot them into niches which could be sealed off the moment they became uncomfortable.

  Only her mother had defied Keely’s coping mechanism. Moira with her haggard face, loud voice, and boozy perfume managed to slop over the walls of her assigned cubicle, sloshing into the other compartments of her daughter’s life with disastrous results.

  Chilled, Keely shut the bedroom window. Outside, the trees tossed their heads in deference to the rising wind.

  She leaned on the si
ll with both hands, gazing out across the moonlit yard. Although she carried insurance on her equipment, she hated the thought of buying new cameras.

  Time for a reality check! Keely rebuked herself. Why bother replacing equipment? If you don’t turn over the tape to Flo by Friday, you won’t have any clients left to photograph.

  The looming deadline reminded Keely of Max, the other loose cannon in her life. He was supposed to respect the boundaries she’d carefully staked out, remain in the section marked “business only.” Instead, he boldly roamed over the borders into Keely’s personal life whenever he pleased. That grin of his warmed her down to her toes. She wished he was here now, to melt the ice encasing her heart…

  The bridal wreath hedge rippled in an endless, cyclical wave under the wind’s lash. Only someone in a deep coma wouldn’t be intrigued by the intense interest in Max’s eyes, the body language telling her she was very important in his world at the moment.

  How long had it been since Keely had surrendered control of her emotions? How many years since anyone had touched the vulnerable core deep inside?

  Remembering the encounter in his kitchen, she pressed her hands against the hollow feeling in her abdomen. Max had talked of sustenance as a spiritual experience.

  Keely bent her head, her shoulders rounded protectively. Something precious had been lost in that moment of confrontation, thrown carelessly away without appreciation.

  She stood beside the window, buffeted by conflicting desires and regrets. It wouldn’t work. Any fool could see Max was tied to family and all her life Keely had struggled to cut the apron strings.

  The phone rang. A glance at the illuminated dial of the clock told her it was nearly 2:00 a.m.

  The caller had to be her mother. Wondering how Moira had managed to slip out of her room at this hour, Keely braced herself for a torrent of furious demands.

  “See how easy it is?”

  The blunt question caught her offguard. “Who is this?”

  “A few unlucky incidents and a business goes down the toilet, Keely. But it might not be too late to salvage yours.”

  “What do you mean?” She felt the blood drain from her face. The muffled voice was obscene in its smugness, terrifying in its assurance of power.