I twisted my still-wet, half-cut hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and secured it in a knot. Then I headed over to the four story, glass office building and parked.
As I walked through the parking lot, I noticed a sporty, silver Infiniti convertible outside with the license frame that read: Protected by a Financial Planner and somehow I just knew this was Diane’s car.
Inside I headed up to the fourth floor and into the reception area for Verlaine Financial.
“Hi, I’m here to see Diane Verlaine,” I said to the young red-headed woman who was sitting with excellent posture at the front desk.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked looking up.
“No. I was just hoping to talk to her for a few minutes," I said. I felt my hair starting to fall out of its bun and quickly reached up to twist it back into a knot. “Maybe you could just…slide me in for a moment…or maybe I could get a free consultation of sorts…?”
“No sorry,” she said, shaking her head firmly, her neat updo staying perfectly in place. “Diane’s very busy. She literally doesn’t have a minute free.”
“Oh, she must have one minute,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly smile. “Just one…”
But my smiled faded as I felt my hair fall out of its bun again and hang damply around my face. I moved over to the right side of the desk to ensure that I was facing her in profile. It was a little awkward but seemed to be the least humiliating option.
“Oh no. Absolutely not. She’s so busy now that she’s opening her new office in L.A. and running the charity theater event and……”
“Charity theater?” I said, sensing an opening.
She nodded and pointed at the flyer sitting under the ledge of her desk. “Yes, they’re holding auditions. It’s for the Women in Trouble organization. For survivors of domestic violence and homelessness, stuff like that. Oh and she’s also added a special tribute to a friend of hers that recently committed suicide. Tragic,” she said softly.
“Oh.” I looked at the flyer as she moved it towards me. “Yes it is—tragic, I mean. Can I take this? I’d love to audition.”
“Sure thing,” she said, brightening. “Diane’s looking for people who can sing really well, to play the leads. But you better hurry though. Auditions close this evening.”
“Great,” I said as I walked out. “Thanks.”
Of course I didn’t really plan to audition, since my singing voice tended to sound like duck in pain, but I did know someone who had an absolutely beautiful voice. Or so she always told me.
I reached for my phone and dialed. “Hey, Cuz, I have a fun idea for us to do something together this afternoon. Are you up for it?”
She practically squealed with delight as she told me that she was up for anything.
I told her to be ready in ten minutes.
Chapter 14
We were parked outside a big warehouse on Maple Tree Drive. I was staring down at the flyer in my hand, trying to make sure I had the right address, doing my best to tune out cousin Laila who was squealing in my ear.
“Oh my goodness,” she said in her high-pitched, excited tone. “I’m so excited we’re going to do a play together. This was such a great idea and it will give us so much time to spend together and to bond with each other just like when we were kids! Remember how we used to put on plays all the time? And even beauty pageants! Remember we had those crowns? Oh, that was so much fun and I think it really prepared us for…”
“Oh. Um. Actually Laila, I’m such a terrible actress that I could never think to compete with you. So I won’t be auditioning. I’ll just be in the audience, cheering you on.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowed in thought. Then she gave my hand a heartfelt squeeze and I actually felt a little guilty for using her this way. Until she sighed and said, “It’s true. You are the worst actress ever. And your singing voice…ugh!” She shivered and scrunched up her nose as if to prove her point.
“Okay. Let’ go,” I said, biting my lip. I got out of the car.
Inside, the place was set up as a small community theater with a stage at the front and some folding chairs for the audience.
Auditions clearly hadn’t started yet and I saw several wanna-be actors milling about up near the stage, reading to themselves from the printed pages of a script. I spotted Diane pacing alone towards the back of the room, talking intently into her phone. She was tall and svelte, with shiny auburn hair that looked as expensively cut as her sleek, black skirt suit.
As I drew closer, I heard her speaking firmly to someone on the other end of the line.
“Yes,” she said. Then: “No! That’s not it! No I absolutely cannot leave now. I have my charity theater thing. Yes, it’s called dead peasants. Right. Coli. Look it up.”
As she hung up, she noticed me looking at her.
“That must be some play,” I said as I walked over to her.
“Excuse me?”
I smiled apologetically. “I just overheard what you said. About peasants dying of E. Coli. It sounds like an exciting play.”
“Oh, of course. And you are…”
“Rosie Kale,” I said, holding my hand out. She took it and we shook hands. “I tried to make an appointment but your office said you’d be busy with the play every evening this week.”
“Yes, it’s a very hectic time. You were interested in financial advice?”
I thought about lying, but she was looking at me so closely that I got the sense she could see right through me. So instead of even pretending to be interested in financial help, I decided to tell her the truth.
“Actually, I’m the person from the crisis center that Helen Wright spoke to on the phone that day,” I said.
“Oh dear.” Her hand went to her mouth in surprise. “You’re the one who…?”
I nodded, waiting for the shock to wear off.
She put her hand out against the wall and steadied herself, then she sadly shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just still can’t believe she’s gone. She was my best friend.”
“I know. I was at the memorial. I heard your speech. It was very moving.”
“I meant every word of it,” she said, with a sad smile. “Helen was such a beautiful person. I’ve never known anyone like her.” She looked off for a moment, blinking back tears, then looked back at me. “I’m sorry. What was it you said you wanted?”
I took a deep breath. “The thing is…I recently found out that Helen knew that her son Sammy was coming home on Saturday morning for a ‘surprise visit.’ And it just…it seemed unlikely to me that she’d kill herself, knowing that he would be the one to find her. Don’t you think?”
Diane looked surprised. “But did she know? I was under the impression that his visit was a surprise.”
“No I spoke to the housekeeper, Mrs. Pond. Helen definitely knew.”
“That is odd,” Diane frowned “But maybe her depression was just so deep that it didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged. “But she seemed so happy at the party, the night before.”
Diane again looked puzzled.
“Just coincidentally I was there to help cater it,” I explained.
“Ah,” she nodded. “Well, yes. She did seem happy. But…I suppose something must have snapped later that night. Maybe something to do with Chuck.” Diane pushed her sleeve back slightly to check the time on her slim, elegant watch.
“Her husband, Chuck,” I said, frowning. “She mentioned him on the phone.”
“Yes, I saw that on the news.” Diane looked at me unhappily. “It’s a shame they got hold of that. A shame for Sammy’s sake especially. Things like that… marriage troubles, they should all be kept private.”
“I totally agree,” I said. “And I promise I had nothing to do with that information getting out. I have no idea how it did. In fact I didn't even know if it was true. I know Helen suspected him but..."
“Oh it was true all right. At
least in the past. Helen found evidence of an affair last year and Chuck promised to break it off last year but…who knows?” She looked at me suddenly suspicious.” Why are you asking about this anyway?”
“Honestly, I’m not convinced that what happened was a suicide. I think it’s possible that someone knew about her depression and used it as an excuse to kill her.”
At that, Diane was shocked speechless. Then finding her voice she said, “By someone, you’re talking about Chuck? No, he would never do that.”
“But you mentioned at the memorial that they each had insurance policies on each other…”
“No…I still don’t buy it. Chuck may have cheated on Helen, but murder? No. No way. I’m sorry but I really have to go.”
She looked at her watch, then over towards the stage.
“Do you know who Chuck was cheating with?” I asked before she walked away.
She shrugged sadly. “It was one of their nannies. A pretty young thing, probably about your age. Helen made him fire her. She was some kind of ‘‘artist’ I think. With tattoos and a brightly colored streak in her hair.”
“A streak?” I said. I remembered the woman at the Wright house when I brought over the cupcakes. The pretty girl who was watching me as I left. “Was it a purple streak?”
Diane nodded. “I think it was. Her name was Violet. Or maybe it was Lilac. Something purple anyway,” Diane looked at her watch again. “I’m sorry, but I really have to be getting on with these auditions.”
“Of course, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”
As she walked away, I thought about everything she’d just told me. If Chuck was still having an affair with Purple Streak, he might have wanted out of his marriage—which would definitely be a good motive for killing his wife. After all, why not collect on a big insurance policy rather than having to pay her alimony?
But as I thought about it, I realized there was a flaw in my theory.
“Diane,” I called out softly as I hurried up the aisle behind her. “Can I just ask one more thing?"
She stopped and nodded but I could see she was impatient. I quickly asked my question.
"Even though Chuck had insurance on Helen, he couldn’t have collected the money when she died, right?”
She looked at me puzzled. “Why on earth not?”
“Well…because it was a suicide?”
“Oh no,” she nodded, understanding my train of thought. “The suicide clause is only in effect for the first two years of the policy. Chuck actually made out quite well on Helen’s death.”
Chapter 15
“So? How’d it go?” Laila asked me chirpily as we got into the car when the auditions were over.
“It was enlightening,” I said, starting the car and backing up.
“Enlightening? Wow, thanks. I never had anyone tell me that my singing was enlightening.” She had a big smile on her face.
Of course she thought I was talking about her.
“Yeah well, you were great,” I said, pulling out of the parking lot and turning onto the street. “You really were the best one.”
“Really?” She looked at me, moved. “Are you just saying that?”
I adjusted the rear view mirror which she’d moved earlier, in order to get a better look at her face.
“Never. Laila you were great. You totally deserve the lead role.”
“I know!” she squealed as she plopped happily against the back of her seat. “I nailed it! That was so much fun and such a great idea!”
I nodded, smiling vaguely, realizing I had no idea how she did on her audition. I’d been too busy doing research on my phone—trying to track down the identity of Purple Streak. And I was pretty sure that I succeeded.
If I was correct, the woman with the purple streak in her hair was named was Violet Vane. It turned out that she was not only a nanny, but a photographer as well— and her work was going to be displayed at a local art gallery called AREA 12.
“Let’s go tell Nana about the audition!” Laila said readjusting the mirror in order to fix her hair.
“Great!” I said, thinking how happy I’d be if Laila actually did get some kind of role in the play. Even a small one. Anything that would occupy her and keep her out of my hair for awhile.
“What happened here?” Nana asked, running her fingers through my lopsided haircut as I walked into the bakery. Somehow I’d forgotten all about it.
“Oh, it’s a new look,” I said coolly.
Birdie walked by making a snorting sound.
“Fine go ahead and laugh,” I said. “I had an incident at the hairdresser’s. It’s a long story.”
“We heard,” Birdie said, rolling her eyes.
I reached into the display case for something sweet and sugary, then went over to pour myself a glass of cold milk.
“And we saw you on the news,” Nana added looking at me in concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I avoided her eyes and went over to one of the small tables in the window. I sat down and bit into a still warm chocolate chip, pecan and caramel cookie.
“This is heaven,” I moaned, dipping the next bite into the milk.
“You’re not fine, I can tell.” Nana pulled up a chair and sat down, looking closely at my face.
“No, I am,” I protested. “Except for the fact that everyone blames me for Helen Wright’s suicide.”
I took a sip of milk then turned to face Nana. “I found out that Chuck Wright really did cheat on Helen about a year ago. And that he got a lot of money from a life insurance policy he had on her when she died.”
Birdie came over and stood behind Nana’s chair, thinking it over. “Hmn, well money’s not a bad motive for murder. Especially if he was still cheating on her.”
“I know!” I nodded. “But the police won’t even look into the case at all. They think she was suicidal and depressed, so she must have killed herself.”
“Then you’ll just have to prove it yourself,” Nana said. “And of course we’ll do what we can to help you.”
“But not tonight,” Birdie reminded her. “Tonight we have a double date.”
I smiled as I took another bite of my cookie.
“We could make it a triple date if you want,” Nana said, attempting to sound casual. “Are you planning on seeing Casey any time soon?”
“Yes, Nana. Tonight. And thanks for the tempting offer but I think we might just have a quiet dinner at home.”
Just then Laila came out from the kitchen, still chattering and laughing away on the phone, going on and on about her fabulous audition. And suddenly I remembered that quiet nights at home were out of the question for now.
“Maybe we’ll go out instead,” I said with a shrug as I finished off my cookie. “I better tell Casey to make reservations.”
But as I picked up my phone to call him, the online advertisement I’d found for the AREA 12 gallery, lit up. I stared at it and decided that maybe instead of dinner, Casey and I would go check out some art instead.
Chapter 16
“These are all lovely,” Casey said, turning away from a tall bronze statue. “But I’m really starved. Can we please go now?”
“No, not just yet.” I looked around, biting the inside of my cheek.
We’d been wandering around the huge space near the town’s private airport for the last hour, looking at the various works of art. And so far, I hadn’t seen any sign of Violet Vane or her photographs.
The gallery we were in had been an airplane hangar in the past and was now divided up into a maze of smaller, oddly shaped rooms, all with stark white walls and distressed concrete floors. Each of them displayed art works in different mediums done by various local artists.
As I led Casey out of the room full of bronze sculptures, I turned left and went into the first room I came to. On the wall to my left I recognized a large nude painting and realized we’d been in that room before. We were totally lost—but I wasn’t about to admit that to Casey.
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“Oh, isn’t that beautiful?” I said as though we were seeing the painting for the first time.
“Yes. It's just as beautiful as it was the first three times we were in this room," he responded dryly. Then he turned a suspicious glance my way. “Okay, what’s really going on here, Rosie?”
I frowned, trying to figure out which direction to go in next, since it seemed like we’d already tried every avenue and every room in this maze of a gallery.
“Nothing, I just really like this art,” I said innocently.
“Rosie, really. What?”
I exhaled loudly. “Okay, fine. If you must know, I saw an online flyer for Violet Vane’s photography. She’s the nanny that Chuck Wright had the affair with. Her photos were supposed to be on display here and I just wanted to see them.”
He stared at my face for a good minute. I expected him to chastise me for butting my nose in where it didn’t belong or for leading him astray when we could have been having a nice quiet dinner.
Instead he sighed, and turned to a young hipster who was just entering the room we were leaving. “Excuse me,” Casey said. “Violet Vane photography?”.
The hipster nodded back the way he’d come. “Down that hall to the left.”
“Thanks,” Casey said. Then he took my arm and led me down the long, busy hallway.
We walked into a large crowded room that had the words, “Violet Vane Photography” in clean black letters against the stark white wall.
“I guess this it,” I said, looking around. I was immediately by a huge black and white photo of Marilyn Monroe. She was looking into the camera, her face half in shadow, half in light. She looked sad. Or maybe it was thoughtful. She was holding the pearls around her neck with one hand as she stared off.
“Wow,” I said as I moved in closer and realized that it wasn’t Marilyn at all. It was Violet Vane dressed as Marilyn.
“Talk about vain,” Casey whispered—at which point I noticed that all the photos in the room were of Violet herself. Some were posed studio shots in which she was dressed as different famous people. Some were more candid shots of Violet reflected in store windows, or just sitting on a sofa or a building stoop, holding the camera out and aiming it towards herself—which made me wonder if she’d actually taken some of them with her cell phone.
Éclair Case of Murder: A Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Rosie Kale Culinary Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 5