What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery)

by Susan Rohrer

  The stately front door of the Fischer estate swung open. The press came alive. Joe nudged Lou. “Here we go.”

  Cameras popped off shots all across the line as the councilman’s widow stepped out. A stout, gray-haired man in a charcoal suit stayed close by her side.

  “He’s her attorney. Howard Berg. The name is spelled B-e-r-g,” Lou said. “He was out earlier to announce the delay.”

  Joe got out his recorder and spoke the lawyer’s name into it. He watched the widow Fischer as she stepped to the podium. The lawyer pulled what looked like note cards out of his pocket, then discreetly handed them to Mrs. Fischer.

  Joe sighed. “So much for getting a spontaneous statement from the wife.”

  Lou adjusted his focus. “Yeah, a little too much to ask, I guess.”

  Joe restarted his recorder. Even if they’d be getting a canned speech, he’d want it word-for-word. Besides, recording the statement freed him up to study the widow’s appearance and body language more closely. With the horde of hotshot reporters angling for Shana Fischer’s attention, he’d never get an audience for the likes of Kickerton Press. That was a given. Still, years as a serious journalist set Joe to thinking.

  Why would someone whose spouse was just murdered have taken the time to look as put together as this widow did? The somber designer suit was perfectly pressed. Every hair was in place. Her manicure and makeup were immaculate.

  As “done” as this woman appeared to be, and as carefully composed as her statement was beginning to sound, it would be a challenge to figure out what was behind her facade. What was this woman hiding?

  Joe trudged down the stairs to his apartment, a bag of Chinese take-out in hand. The light bulb in the stairway fixture was burned out again. Whether he replaced it himself or reported it to his super, it was just another thing for his endless to-do list.

  It had been a long day, and it still wasn’t over. He still had to deal with his brother. Why he’d bothered to buy enough food to share with Clay, he didn’t know. Clay certainly didn’t deserve it, what after running off with his car. Joe’s blood simmered at the thought.

  It was so “Clay” to do that kind of thing. And it was so “Joe” to silently brood and say nothing about it. For all Joe knew, Clay wouldn’t be there for dinner at all. He could be out on another of those pipe-dream gigs of his. At least Joe wouldn’t have to deal with him that way.

  Joe slid the key into the lock and opened his apartment door. There was Clay, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, doing his Marilyn makeup. His platinum wig rested on a foam head form on the counter. All that goop Clay put on sure looked nasty. And it always left a mess that Clay never cleaned up.

  Joe cleared a space to set the take-out bag down. “Do you have to do that here?”

  Clay sponged on foundation. “The dressing room at the Club reeks.”

  “You hungry? It’s shrimp.” Joe opened the bag.

  “I’m cruelty free now. I stopped eating anything that ever had a face.” Finally, Clay looked up at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me how my meeting went?”

  “Aren’t you going to apologize for boosting my car?”

  Clay shrugged. “It needs gas, by the way.”

  Unbelievable. Joe bit his tongue. “Could you have stopped?”

  “Do you have to be such a buzz-kill? I get paid tonight. I’ll fill it.”

  Joe knew better than to pursue this kind of thing with Clay, but he just couldn’t stop himself. “What happened to your car?”

  Clay set down his used makeup sponge, right on the counter. “You are just chock full of questions. Haven’t made a simple statement since you walked in the door.”

  Joe pulled up a stool for himself and opened a carton of Shrimp Lo Mein. “Maybe I had a hideous day.”

  Clay pursed his lips into a tabletop mirror. “Why do you write for that rag?”

  “It’s called being an adult, Clay. You get laid off; you take what you can get. It’s why I have an apartment and food and a car for you to filch.”

  Clay brushed it off with a huff.

  Joe raised a hand. “You know what? Forget it.”

  Darkly, Clay reached for his wig. “I sold my car last month. I’ve barely missed it, actually. Bus runs right to the club.”

  As hungry as Joe was, food had lost most of its appeal. “So, you’ve been trotting back and forth to the club, middle of the night, like that.”

  Clay set the wig over his nylon under-cap. “I’m sorry I embarrass you so much. There happen to be plenty of people who get off on this look.” He scrunched the wig down into place. “My manager, and yes—thanks for asking, he did sign me—he says I should think about The Big Apple. That’s where he’s going.”

  Joe forced a bite down. “You know New York is one of the most expensive places to live in the country.”

  “I’m not moving yet.” Clay rose. “We’re talking more long term. He’s already booked me something on the party circuit here. Pays big.” Clay stuffed a pair of high heels into his bag.

  Joe set down his chopsticks. This was worse than he’d imagined. “You’re telling me you’re going to be an escort.”

  “Absolutely not.” Clay brushed it off with a flick of his wrists. “Strictly high end entertainment. Society types, politicians, the occasional celeb.”

  Barely raising his eyes to Clay, Joe went back to his dinner. “No depravity in those circles.”

  Clay grabbed his bag with a pout and stalked toward the door. “Go ahead. Be negative. I happen to mix well.”

  “Guy sounds more like a pimp than a manager.”

  Clay opened the door, then turned back. “You know, Joe... Let’s not quibble about whose work is legit.”

  Though Joe didn’t dignify the comment with a response, the barb sunk deep into its target. Joe sat there numbly, long after Clay had shut the door and clomped his way up the basement stairs.

  Joe looked at the mess of make-up supplies, still strewn across his counter. He let out a defeated breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Clay’s logic was unassailable. Maybe Clay was more overt about it, but Joe knew he was every bit as big a sell-out, in his own desperation-driven way.

  When it came down to it, the mechanics of working for Kickerton Press weren’t all that different from Joe’s former position at the Times. All morning, he’d consoled himself with that irony. Just because he worked for a tabloid didn’t mean he was a tabloid reporter. He could still maintain his journalistic integrity, depending upon the way he framed his stories. It wasn’t like he entirely believed that, but the thought did get him out of bed and over to the office.

  A loupe to his eye, Joe studied a contact sheet of Lou’s photos from the widow Fischer’s press conference. “I don’t know.”

  Lou handed Joe another sheet. “How about this one?” Lou pointed to a shot circled with red grease pencil.

  Joe squinted at it. “Too pretty.” They were all too perfect. What he wanted to see was some kind of crack in the woman’s fine armor. Something unplanned. Something genuine. Any raw moment the other news teams might not have captured.

  The scent of a familiar perfume gave away Debra’s approach. “So, have you been to a doctor yet?” Debra sidled up to Joe with a cagey gleam.

  Joe picked up another contact sheet. “A doctor? What for?”

  A snide grin skittered across Debra’s lips. “Incontinence or pathological lying. Take your pick.”

  Joe slid the loupe along a row of pictures. “You know, Debra, I’ve always found confrontationalism attractive in a woman.”

  “Think you could look at me for a second?” There was a definite edge in her voice these days.

  Slowly, Joe straightened to his full height.

  Debra tipped her head. “Okay, not that I owe you anything, but I thought you might want to know that Zoring has landed.”

  Suddenly, she had his attention. “What do you mean landed?”

  “I mean the former Father has re-entered the ranks of the employed
.” Debra batted her eyes.

  It didn’t compute. In this ludicrous excuse for a job market, it hardly seemed possible to Joe that anyone would have hired a newly paroled, defrocked priest. “Wait a minute. How do you know?”

  Debra crossed her arms. “As it happens, this is an investigative paper, Joe. I do my job. Especially when you drop the ball on yours.”

  Joe gawked. “You actually expect me to keep tabs on that bum?”

  “Not anymore. Adele is taking over.” A hint of enjoyment lit on her face.

  His jaw slacked. “Come on. Adele Stedler? She’s a copy editor, not a reporter.”

  Debra set her shoulders back. “A person is what he or she does, don’t you think? And Adele, at this moment, is writing her first story.”

  Lou nudged Joe’s forearm. “Hey, Buddy.” With a cock of his head, Lou directed Joe’s attention toward the newsroom’s entry. “Isn’t that...?”

  “The councilman’s first wife, yeah.” Joe could hardly believe his eyes. There was Laurel Fischer, standing just inside their lobby, scanning the busy newsroom. Perhaps the ex-wife had taken his bait.

  Joe shot a look back at Debra, his confidence returning. “By the way, Deb, I need twenty-five hundred on expense.”

  She authorized it with a smirk. “Still have to pay women to be with you?”

  As if he had. What he’d ever seen in Debra, Joe didn’t know. Joe burned her with a look before brushing past.

  Joe wove through the sea of desks. Finally, it seemed he’d been cut a break. He reminded himself to keep his interest in her story in check, to stay cordial till the hook was well set.

  Laurel caught his eye, but quickly looked away. Clearly, the woman was ill at ease in this setting. When he reached her, she glanced up penitently. “Hi, again,” she said. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I have a feeling they’re monitoring my phone records, so I didn’t want to call.”

  “It’s fine,” Joe said. “Good thinking, actually.” He gestured toward his office. “Maybe we should go into my—”

  “Do we have to do this here?” Laurel shot a glance back toward the exit.

  “No, no. Not at all.” Joe gestured her toward the elevator bank. “We can, uh... There’s a park down the block. That is, if you don’t mind walking.”

  Relief crossed Laurel’s face.

  As they headed out together, Joe glanced back across the room. Like he’d expected, Debra was monitoring the interaction with interest, maybe even jealousy. Debra was feigning to flip through those contact sheets with Lou, but Joe knew better. She’d ask Lou to tail his interview with Laurel, to shoot their meeting from a discreet distance. That was for certain.

  six

  Shana Fischer glanced through the glass wall that separated Detective McTier’s office from the adjacent squad room. It certainly wasn’t the most private place to meet. It was like a fishbowl, really. One that was sorely in need of cleaning.

  Finally, Detective McTier returned and showed them through his office door. Ever the gentleman, Howard gestured Shana toward the only padded chair. Then he cleared a stack of work off the hard wooden seat beside her.

  McTier reached for the files. “I’ll take that.”

  Shana caught Rene Cox’s eye as she passed by with her husband, just outside McTier’s office. Kevin fumed about Rene being questioned at all.

  “What is Kevin Cox doing here?” Shana asked.

  McTier plopped down. “He’s the assistant’s alibi. Routine questions. Only the guy’s gotta make a complete meal of it. Wrapped a bit too tight if you ask me.”

  Shana bristled. Rene had married a real control freak. “Detective, I’m trying to keep it together here, but it’s hard to grasp why more than twenty-four hours have passed and you have nothing. No prints, no suspects, no witnesses, no weapon.”

  “I didn’t say I had nothing, Mrs. Fischer. What I said was ‘not much.’ World of difference.”

  Howard pulled out a pad and pen. “So, what have you got?”

  McTier checked the case file. “Well, like you saw, there wasn’t much evidence of a struggle. The medical examiner said it was one quick blow to the heart, contusions consistent with a fall. Bled out from there. Looks like the weapon was a thin, sharp instrument, possibly a letter opener. Do you know if he had one?”

  Shana blanched. No matter how she responded to that question, it wouldn’t sound right.

  Howard put his hand on hers. “You don’t have to answer that.”

  She paused. It might not serve her to do less than to fully cooperate, especially about information that could easily be traced. “Yes. There was a silver one, monogrammed. He kept it on his desk. I gave it to him for his birthday last year.”

  The detective scribbled a note in the file. He looked up at her. “Mrs. Fischer, I understand you were named in the will and that you’re listed as a beneficiary of his life insurance policy.”

  Shana recoiled. “I was his wife. If you check, you’ll see I brought a fortune to this marriage.”

  McTier tapped a pencil against his cheek. “Spent quite a lot of that on the campaign, didn’t you? But then, I see Mr. Fischer came into a very hefty inheritance not so long ago. Half of that goes to you.”

  Howard shifted in his seat. “The other half of his estate goes to his daughter. Is she going to be a suspect, too?”

  McTier smiled weakly. It was the kind of smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. “Your client is not a suspect yet, Mr. Berg. But checking on family—wives in particular—that’s routine. As you know, a very high percentage of homicides are committed by spouses, especially when there’s this kind of money involved.”

  Shana fought to retain her sense of decorum. This man was getting way out of line. “Talk to my domestic. No one goes in or out of that house without her knowing it.”

  McTier leaned forward, lacing those thick fingers of his together. “I’d dial back the indignation a skosh if I were you, Mrs. Fischer. I’m just trying to find your husband’s killer. That’s what you want, right?”

  Shana took a breath. She settled back into her chair. “What I want is for this to be resolved quickly and quietly. Grace is seven years old. What I want is not to worry every time she turns on the TV, or passes a newsstand, or hears some horrific gossip at school.”

  McTier shrugged. “All this folderol...you’ve gotta realize it’s to be expected. After all, your husband was a public figure.”

  Shana straightened her spine. “And Grace shouldn’t have to be.”

  Joggers and dog-walkers wound their way along the tree-lined path. Joe wasn’t much for strolls in the park, but he had to admit the fresh air felt good in his lungs.

  Laurel seemed more comfortable there. She turned his way. “Kickerton Press is a tabloid, isn’t it?”

  Not the best opener. But maybe he could spin it. “Yeah. Stinks. Not exactly a career move.”

  “Neither was going from a high school guidance counselor to a waitress.” A bittersweet smile curled. “Sometimes you just have to make the best of what you can get.”

  Joe sidestepped a sprinkler’s spray. “Yeah. I do what I can to keep them honest.”

  “Like during my divorce?”

  Whoa. This woman got right to the point. “Your divorce... That was before my time at Kickerton. Back then I wrote for the Times.”

  “But you know.”

  Joe nodded. “That you’re psychic.”

  Laurel stopped in her tracks. “Okay, hold on.”

  He turned back. Must have hit a hot button with that.

  Laurel regarded him directly. “I’m not psychic, a medium, clairvoyant, or schizophrenic. It’s not ESP or telepathy, and I have way too much at stake to do this unless that’s straight.”

  Joe hiked his brow. “You just hear voices.”

  “A voice. One voice.” She wandered toward a bench. “I have a dream, see a picture, like a movie in front of me. It comes in different ways.”

  She brushed fallen leaves off the bench and sat down
.

  Joe studied her closely. This woman couldn’t have been farther from Shana Fischer. There was no pretense whatsoever. Not a spec of makeup. Her honey-brown hair was tied away from her face in an unattended ponytail. Her clipped, unpolished nails told of hard work. And those eyes of hers—the color—a clear aquamarine was how he’d describe them. They were rimmed with red and had obviously shed many tears. Pretty as she was, he’d have to remind himself that she was nuts.

  He took a seat a discreet distance apart on the bench and got out his notepad. “So Ms. Fischer—”

  “Under the circumstances, I think I’d prefer if you’d call me Laurel.”

  “Okay. Laurel. So, this voice you hear, you think it’s coming from...”

  “God.” Laurel wrapped her arms loosely around her middle. “I know it is.”

  There it was. No matter how sympathetic she seemed—no matter how attractive or articulate—there was a screw loose in there somewhere.

  Joe glanced into the distance. There was Lou, crouching behind a bush, setting up his telephoto lens. Joe averted his eyes. Even though Debra had sent Lou, those shots could prove useful. “You sound fairly sure of yourself.”

  A resigned acceptance formed on Laurel’s face. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I don’t even need you to.” She looked back up at him unwaveringly. “I know it’s hard to trust something you’ve never experienced yourself.”

  Joe drew himself back a bit. “How do you know I’ve never experienced it?”

  With that, Laurel turned from him. She just sat there, her eyes fixed far away.

  He couldn’t help but lean around her. “Hello?”

  After a few moments, she turned back to him, her face serene. “If I want to hear, I have to stop and listen.”

  Joe pressed his lips together. So, this was how it was going to be. This was her whole act. He might as well play along. He ran his fingers over his jaw. “What, you’re saying you were just...”

  “I know you’ve never experienced what I experience because I was told that you haven’t.” She was so matter-of-fact about it, as loony as it was.