by J. D. Griffo
“There’s something not right about this picture,” Alberta said.
“It’s the background,” Sloan said. “Daisy and Teddy are all dressed up, but if you look closely, the house behind them looks dilapidated.”
“And the street sign is about to fall over,” Alberta said. “Joyce, can you make out the names on the sign with your magnifying glass?”
Joyce picked up Lola, whose bottom half was covering one of the blown-up photos, and put her in her lap, where she curled up into a ball. Then, looking through the glass, Joyce peered closer to the photo and replied, “It looks like the house is on the corner of Smith Street and Seventh Avenue.”
“I don’t think Daisy and Teddy would’ve been caught dead on Seventh Avenue,” Sloan said.
“I agree with you on that,” Jinx said. “But this photo definitely wasn’t taken in New York.”
“No, it looks like it’s somewhere in the country,” Joyce added. “I don’t remember Daisy ever going to the country in one of her movies. Do you?”
“There was the time she dressed up like a boy and posed as a golf caddy at that country club,” Sloan remembered.
“To get closer to Stone Jackson, a visiting matinee idol,” Alberta finished. “Who, of course, turns out to be a donnaiolo.”
“I assume that’s a bad thing,” Jinx said.
“Have you heard the stories of our cousin Ruggiero?” Alberta asked.
“The sleazy playboy?” Jinx replied.
“Bingo!” Alberta cried. “Stone Jackson was the same type of fella, a real strisciamento. But in the end, Daisy exposed him for the due facce he was.”
“The what?” Jinx asked.
“Two-faced,” Alberta translated. “It was like he was two men in one body. A womanizer and an all-American boy all rolled up into one.”
“That’s it!” Jinx cried. “That’s what’s wrong with the photo!”
Confused, Alberta, Joyce, and Sloan looked at one another.
“The photo was taken by a no-good, sleazy creep?” Joyce questioned.
“No! The photo’s two-faced!” Jinx cried. “It’s two photos in one. That’s why it doesn’t look right.”
Once again, Joyce gazed into the magnifying glass and noticed a detail about the photo no one had spotted before. “Look at Teddy’s hand.”
Obediently, the rest of them picked up the photo in front of them and zeroed in on Teddy’s left hand, the only one visible in the shot.
“It’s tucked into her mink coat,” Jinx stated.
“No, it only looks that way,” Joyce corrected. “Look closer, you can only see her thumb, the rest of her hand is cut off.”
“You’re right!” Sloan cried. “This photo’s been altered like Jinx said.”
“Quello che vedi non sempre quello che ottieni,” Alberta said, then quickly translated for the others, “What you see isn’t always what you get.”
“You’re right about that, Gram. It looks like the people and the background are from two different pictures that were merged together to look like one,” Jinx explained. “But why?”
“None of this makes any sense,” Alberta said. “Why manipulate the photos to make a new picture and then stuff that into the arsenic bottle? And why make it look like they’re on a country road? Like you said, Daisy wouldn’t have been caught dead on Seventh Avenue.”
“But she was caught dead in St. Winifred’s Academy,” Sloan said.
“If only Missy would’ve let Nola pick her up at the Tranquility Arms, nothing bad would’ve happened,” Jinx remarked. “Instead, she was escorted right to her own death.”
But who was Missy’s executioner? Who was this mysterious person who intervened at the last moment and lured Missy away from the spotlight that awaited her and toward the darkness that was her demise?
Alberta ripped off a chunk of mozzarella cheese and plopped it into her mouth. “I think it’s time we find out who Missy’s escort was.”
CHAPTER 13
Dohi di hemici non sono doni.
The Tranquility Arms Hotel had been a mainstay in town for close to a century. And its history was almost as colorful—and tragic—as the goldenrod, emerald-green, and periwinkle-blue color scheme that adorned the structure itself.
The old, Victorian-style home was built in 1934 by its first owner, George Randolph, as a gift for his pregnant wife, Clara. An only child, George inherited his parents’ entire fortune, which was vast even by today’s standards, and included a steel mill, several industrial patents, and a robust stock portfolio. George was well-educated, well-liked, and, well, filthy rich, but unfortunately, after Clara died in childbirth, he was also a widower left as the sole caretaker of twin girls. He had been able to oversee the construction of the sprawling home, ensuring that it was built and fully furnished within six months, but he was unable to find the emotional strength to raise two daughters on his own. Bitter and distraught, George retreated to his family’s estate in Brussels and left his daughters in the care of the good sisters of St. Winifred’s of the Holy Well.
The church had been built two years before construction on Randolph House began, and the sisters lived in the convent on the same property that eventually became St. Winifred’s Academy. The nuns were sturdy, pious, God-serving women who opened their hearts and their home to the two girls who were brought to them by Clara’s midwife on a blustery February morning. The girls—still unnamed by their devastated father-were christened Beatrice and Bridget and grew up happy, content, and surprisingly unspoiled considering they were doted on by the entire convent.
As a result of the economic fallout from World War II, George found his finances suffering. In need of quick cash, he sold his home to an entrepreneur who was quietly buying up properties and turning them into hotels. Two weeks after George received his bill of sale, his Victorian home that had been built on the promise of a bright future, was turned into the Tranquility Arms. Luckily, the hotel’s fate was much rosier than either George’s or the house he abandoned.
As one of the first bed-and-breakfast hotels in the area, the Tranquility Arms drew guests from all over the North-east. In the early 1950s it became the most fashionable venue for having a wedding thanks to the much-publicized double marriage of the twins. Being raised by a suite of Catholic sisters, the girls were an empathetic duo, and even though they had only seen their father in photographs and read about him in newspaper articles, they invited him to their wedding. Tragically, the ship George traveled on encountered rough seas resulting from an especially vicious storm and capsized, drowning all on board.
Beatrice and Bridget and their new husbands eventually left Tranquility to begin their married lives in New England, but their memory lingered on. The tangible result of the impact they made on the town could be viewed when you entered St. Winifred’s Church. To the left near the entrance to the nursing room were two small, white marble statues of their saintly namesakes. The dedication underneath read, “For the children-who are gifts from God.”
After the girls left, their birthplace prospered. The Tranquility Arms switched ownership many times over the years, but never lost its appeal as a premiere travel destination. It may have begun its life in the shadow of misfortune, but it had risen to stand triumphant. Standing in front of the bed-and-breakfast, Alberta hoped a similar happy ending would be born out of the most recent tragedy to devastate their town.
“What’s the assistant manager’s name again?” Alberta asked.
“Brandon Woolverton,” Vinny replied.
“Damn, I was hoping he was Italian,” Alberta said.
“Not everyone can be Italian, Alfie,” Vinny remarked.
“I know,” Alberta replied. “Isn’t it a shame?”
More disappointment awaited Alberta when she entered the Arms. The person standing behind the front desk wasn’t Brandon or Sanjay, the manager, but Helen.
“Per l’amor del cielo,” Alberta cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Hele
n said, putting some papers in order.
“You said you were going to mass,” Alberta said.
“Father Sal’s sermon was a repeat,” Helen remarked. “I know everything I need to know about Lot’s wife. Curiosity kills.”
“And you got curious and decided to join the investigation?” Vinny asked.
“Join the investigation?” Helen asked. “I had to start it because you two were late.”
“Ah, Madon!” Alberta cried. “You weren’t even invited, Helen. And what are you doing behind the front desk? Is this your new job?”
“I know my personality would help me find success in the hospitality sector, but no,” Helen replied. “I’m holding down the fort while Sanjay puts out a fire in room twenty-seven. Apparently, someone is allergic to lavender. He had to bring emergency Benadryl and plain old Ivory soap.”
“Where’s the rest of the staff?” Vinny asked.
“The only other employee scheduled to work this shift was the assistant manager,” Helen explained. “And he’s out of town.”
“Brandon?” Vinny asked.
“The Jamaican kid?” Helen asked.
“Yes,” Vinny confirmed.
“That’s the one,” Helen confirmed. “He told Sanjay at the last minute that he needed to go back home to his family in Rochester for a few days.”
“Wait a second,” Alberta interrupted. “Brandon Woolverton is Jamaican? And from Rochester?”
“His family emigrated from Jamaica years ago and Brandon told me his name is thanks to his German ancestry on his father’s side,” Vinny conveyed. “He loved how his name always threw people a curve when they saw what he looked like. He said it made people realize there’s a lot more to a person than the color of their skin.”
“Lesson learned,” Alberta said. “I can’t wait to meet this young man.”
“You’ll have to wait until next week. He flew the coop and left me here to clean up the mess!” Sanjay cried. “And answer me this, who doesn’t love lavender?”
Sanjay Achinapura was a small man with a big mouth. Standing at five-foot-six in his loafers with the specially made lifts that added an inch to his height and weighing in at 140 pounds when fully clothed in his manager’s outfit, Sanjay made up for his slight frame by talking in a consistent bellow. Whether he was barking orders or welcoming guests, his tone was the same: loud.
Ignoring Sanjay’s floral-scented query, Vinny asked, “When did Brandon leave?”
“Yesterday,” he replied. “He texted me last night and said his family needed him, so he was taking a few days off. I texted him back and told him your family right here needs you, and he said thanks for thinking of me as family, there’s nothing more important in the world.”
“This Brandon sounds very wise,” Alberta commented.
“What else could I do?” Sanjay asked, in a voice that was loud enough to elicit a response from the parishioners down the road. “I told him to take care of his family and get back ASAP. He replied TTUL.” Sanjay paused to take a breath, but he wasn’t finished talking. “In the name of Brahman and all that is holy, what is TTUL?!”
“It means ‘Talk to you later,”’ Vinny responded. “It’s a shorthand lots of kids use.”
“Wouldn’t that be TTYL?” Alberta asked.
“The ‘you’ is silent,” Helen replied. “Sanjay, I put these invoices in chronological order and you’re low on staples.”
“Do you want a job, Helen?” Sanjay asked. “It’s hard to find good help these days.”
“Thank you, but I must decline,” Helen replied. “I’m a very busy woman.”
“If you change your mind, let me know,” Sanjay said. “I owe you.”
“As Helen’s sister, may I have her proxy?” Alberta asked. “Would you mind if I saw Missy’s room?”
“The police have already gone through her room,” Vinny said. “It’s packed up and her belongings are being sent to her lawyer.”
“I’d still like to see it for myself if you don’t mind,” Alberta said.
“Fine with me,” Vinny said.
“On one condition,” Sanjay stated.
“What’s that?” Alberta asked.
“Get me a date with your sexy sister-in-law,” Sanjay demanded.
“We don’t have a sexy sister-in-law,” Helen said.
“He’s talking about Joyce,” Alberta informed.
Helen’s brow furrowed like the guest in room 27’s must have when they started to wash. “Like I said, we don’t have a sexy sister-in-law.”
“Joyce is sexy and you know it!” Sanjay barked. “I am a patient man, I am a yogi, but I am out of shrimp curry recipes and I want a date with sexy Joyce!”
“Sanjay, you know that Joyce is technically still a married woman, don’t you?” Alberta asked.
“So’s my wife!” Sanjay bellowed.
“You have a wife?” Helen shouted.
“She’s back in Mumbai with his three kids,” Alberta replied.
“You see, I’m married, but I’m single!” Sanjay cried. “Joyce and I are a match made in Svarga.”
“What in the world is Svarga?” Vinny asked.
“That I know,” Helen said. “It has nothing to do with this world, it means heaven in Hinduism. Sanjay, let us up to Missy’s room and I’ll put a good word in for you when I get to Svarga, and with Joyce too. She and I are very close, you know.”
“Thank you, Helen,” Sanjay said, giving her the key to Missy’s room. “You, unlike your sister, are a godsend.”
“My father used to say the same exact thing,” Helen replied.
* * *
Missy’s room was on the porch side of the Tranquility Arms. The front porch wrapped around the right side of the bed-and-breakfast, and there was a separate entrance to the hotel at the very end of the corridor. Missy was in room 8, which was the last room on that side. Helen put the key in the door, and although they knew the room was empty and their sudden appearance wouldn’t disturb anyone, they still entered slowly and quietly.
The bed was perfectly made, the drapes were drawn, and the only contents in the open closet were hangars, an iron, and a pillow. In the center of the room was a large, black suitcase on wheels and a black, leather duffel bag, Missy’s belongings, which the police had already searched and packed up. The room looked as if someone had either just arrived or was about to leave.
“We’ve gone over the room and couldn’t find any fingerprints other than those belonging to Missy and the staff,” Vinny said. “If anyone else was in this room, they didn’t leave a trace.”
“If the police have already inspected the room, what are we looking for, Berta?” Helen asked.
“Some kind of clue that would explain why she really came here,” Alberta explained.
“You think she came to Tranquility for some other reason than to star in the show?” Vinny asked.
“Costar,” Helen corrected.
“I do,” Alberta said. “She wasn’t here twelve hours before she was killed. Someone was waiting for her to arrive.”
“And you think Missy knew who that person was and arranged to meet them?” Vinny queried.
“It’s a possible scenario,” Alberta said. “And it makes more sense than her meeting a random stranger at a hotel she’d never been to before to act as her escort.”
“Unless that person told Missy that he was sent by Nola to pick her up,” Vinny said.
A look of shock appeared on Alberta’s face. “I hadn’t thought of that. You really think Nola is connected to Missy’s murder?”
“She’s definitely connected,” Vinny replied. “I just don’t know if the connection is innocent or a bit more nefarious.”
“When’s Brandon supposed to come back?” Helen asked. “I have a feeling he’ll be able to fill in the blanks.”
“Sanjay wasn’t specific about his return date, but I have my team working on tracking him down,” Vinny replied just as his phone beeped to indicate the receipt of a text. “Looks like
my team needs to track me down.”
“An emergency?” Alberta asked.
“There’s been a break-in at the lumber yard,” Vinny announced. “I have to go, but feel free to keep looking around. Just don’t take anything!”
Helen waited thirty seconds after Vinny left to speak. “You have no intention of following Vinny’s orders, do you?”
Alberta didn’t answer the question, but barked an order of her own, “Lock the door.”
Dutifully, Helen complied and when Alberta heard the click, she picked up the black suitcase and hoisted it onto the bed. “I’ll look through this and you rifle through the duffel bag. Let me know if you find anything out of the ordinary.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary here,” Helen remarked. “Just two crazy women searching through a dead woman’s luggage.”
As gingerly as possible, the women looked through Missy’s personal items in search of a possible clue that would expose her link to this town, if such a link even existed. They sorted through all the usual items—toiletries, underwear, clothes, accessories—when Alberta suddenly stopped. Nowhere in the suitcase could she find anything personal. Missy was planning on being in Tranquility for almost two months—three weeks of rehearsal and then four weeks for the production—but nowhere could Alberta find photos, trinkets, or any other item that could be used to decorate her hotel room to make it appear homier.
How sad, Alberta thought, to be away for so long and not want to be reminded of home.
But maybe Missy didn’t want to be reminded of home? Maybe she was longing for an adventure after so many years of residing in the outskirts of the public’s imagination that she didn’t want to bring anything familiar with her? Maybe she was simply a minimalist? Alberta zipped up the suitcase and realized that she and Missy might look a lot alike, but when it came to what was important and valued, she suspected they were very different.