He stepped back a bit. I held up my hand to stop any requests for ID.
“Kathryn Risley Rolland, auditor. Jackson and Dogherty,” I said, crisply. “The police are aware that I’m here. I need to visit your corporate office, please.”
He blinked. He also blushed. So cute. Of course, this was a country club and spa, so he probably didn’t know there was a corporate office.
“The person in charge,” I said. “Lisa.”
“Oh right. Lisa Hatton.”
I wasn’t sure why he was blushing quite so much, until I noticed a cluster of women arriving right after me. He glanced their way and then back to me, a slightly hunted expression on his handsome face. They looked to be in their late thirties, expensively dressed, and they were all giggling as they took the stairs. I hoped they weren’t laughing at my shoes, but I suspected they were acting like high school girls because of Young Mr. Handsome and Blushing. Ladies, your hormones are showing.
I made sure I still had his attention. “Do you accompany me, young man, or shall I go on my own?”
“Oh. I’m supposed to stay here. You can go over on your own, ma’am. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I stepped confidently through the front door. I experienced a small frisson of excitement. Yes, I was going straight and I genuinely planned to live my life on the up-and-up, but this gaining entry while wearing a disguise, while technically totally illegal, was a bit of a rush. I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to be making a habit of it and that it seemed to be the only way to start trying to figure out who was trying to frame us for murder.
Of course, the offices were near the front of the establishment, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. First, the ladies’ room. I knew that would be a good spot to overhear gossip.
I was followed through the door by the giggling clump of women. As far as I could tell they were speculating about Braydon in ways that could have him blushing to death. Poor thing.
The conversation changed as two gray-haired women entered, both talking about Chadwick. Yes!
“Can’t believe it, really,” the shorter one said.
“Neither can I. It’s terrible. I mean, he looked so well the other day.”
While reapplying my hideous shade of coral lipstick in the vast gilt-framed mirror, I noticed the taller woman blink at her friend’s comment. Chadwick had, after all, been murdered, which didn’t really reflect on his state of well-being before that violent act.
The gigglers stopped and looked appropriately subdued.
“Which is more than you can say for poor Lisa,” the shorter one said, fluffing her pale reddish curls and frowning at her wrinkles. “She’s certainly having trouble holding things together.”
I noticed the gigglers making eye contact. One managed to let a loud snicker escape. Both older women fixed her with looks that could easily have killed. With a swirl of their expensive curly blowouts, the younger crowd departed.
Hmm.
“Well,” said the taller woman, “I hope she manages a bit better. The members are very upset, and people need reassurance. I thought Lisa had more spine, to tell the truth. What do we pay her for if not to be professional?”
Her friend was more sympathetic. “I always thought she carried a torch for Chadwick. Not that he ever seemed to reciprocate, but still, it must be heartbreaking for her.” I suspected she’d carried a torch or two in her own life.
“She’s flipping out, is what I heard,” her friend said, applying a thick layer of Dior lipstick, with hardly a glance in the mirror. “They say she’s unable to hold it together even in public.”
“People should be kinder. It will be devastating for the club if she leaves after this. I think she is the one who actually kept things going. Chadwick wasn’t much for the business side. Really.”
“Well, why would he be, with all that money coming to him? He just had to wait.”
Fat lot of good waiting did him, I thought. I managed to fuss with my frumpy blond hair, visit the dark mahogany stall, emerge, wash my hands again and straighten my suit, fiddling until all the women left the ladies’ room.
I headed off to see Poor Lisa, hoping she could hold things together long enough for me to get some information out of her.
* * *
THE PALE AND very pretty young woman with the halo of strawberry-blond curls tried everything to keep me from Lisa Hatton in the administration office. Her round china-blue eyes stared at me as she used her body to block the entrance to the office.
“Not sure if you understand, perfectly,” I said, narrowing my eyes grimly at her. “It’s a matter of complying with the letter of the law.” I was blowing hot air. “We cannot let this wait. If”—I glanced at my notepad—“Lisa Hatton is not available, I will need to see the chair of the board. This is a legal requirement, as I have already said and as I am sure you are aware.”
She stared at me, completely unaware of this—or any—legal requirement. That wasn’t a surprise to me, as I had made it up that second.
“It’s all right, Miranda,” a raspy voice said.
Miranda turned and squeaked.
Lisa Hatton had dark shoulder-length hair, cut in soft layers. I figured she was about thirty-five and quite curvy. Her navy suit was about a size too small, and the fuchsia satin blouse she wore was unbuttoned far enough to show a bit of cleavage. I couldn’t tell if that was the way she always dressed or if she was too rattled to do up the third button from the collar. On a good day, the flashing dark eyes, the heart-shaped face and the wide mouth would have made her very attractive. I was betting there was always a hint of cleavage.
But now, with her swollen eyes, crimson nose and tear-tracked cheeks, this was looking like the worst day of her life. Angry splotches covered her face and neck. Some women were not made for weeping. Lisa was one of those.
“Kathryn Risley—” I started.
She shrugged. “Yes, yes. Come in and tell me what you want and why it can’t wait.”
Miranda bit her lip as I passed by.
“Spot audit,” I said as I sailed into the room, stiff curls high. But now I felt pretty low taking advantage of her misery to ferret around in the late Chadwick’s life and affairs. Inside her office the wall was covered with large photographs, each in distinctive sage-and-gold frames, apparently celebrating special moments for the Country Club and Spa. A few more on the dark wood console looked personal, during happier times for Poor Lisa.
I turned to her and said, “I understand that there has been a tragedy, and I am sorry to be here now. Would you like to take a couple of minutes to . . . ?” Platitudinous, yes. But I meant it. I was wishing I’d found a less emotionally intrusive way to get in here. But it’s funny how your moral compass can shift when you’re being framed for murder. Lisa was collateral damage. I was a jerk.
She nodded and seemed to choke back a sob.
“Take your time,” I said with what I hoped was an understanding smile.
She stared at me warily.
“I’ll wait here with Miranda,” I added, in case that was what she was worried about.
Miranda’s startlingly blue eyes grew wider. I guess I made her nervous.
Lisa nodded. “You can get our guest a cappuccino or some jasmine tea, Miranda. Or fruit juice. We have mango nectar. Whatever she wants. I’ll be right back.” She left the room, wobbling unsteadily on her three-inch heels.
I smiled at Miranda. She in turn avoided my eyes and pretended to pay attention to her work. I pretended to glance at the photos with all the fake interest of a person who could not care less. “Hot tea would be lovely. Thank you, Miranda.”
She hesitated.
“Plain hot tea,” I added firmly. “Very hot.” That should take a few minutes. I wanted a bit of time alone in the office.
The man I now knew to be Chadwick presided over the events
captured by most of the photos. But I wasn’t looking for him or for Lisa, Miranda or Braydon. I was looking for a glimpse of the dark and arrogant person who had presented himself as Chadwick. I was looking for the slender, pretty image of Lisa Troy. Or even the false butler, Thomas.
There appeared to be group photos of every tournament and awards ceremony in living memory. Lisa Hatton smiled out joyously in most of them, always Chadwick-adjacent. Sometimes, her hand seemed to reach out for him and stop short of his sleeve.
The other wall was given over to glamorous guests at the famous garden parties. Two new framed photos lay on the surface of the filing cabinet ready to be added to the available space on the wall. A small hammer and hooks were ready for the job. I spotted something in the second row of photos, when the door opened again and Lisa Hatton said, “Let’s get this over with.”
I turned and joined her by the desk. I would have done anything to slow down time, because I was pretty sure that I’d seen a glimpse of Lisa Troy in one of the group shots of a garden party.
I needed to buy some time.
“Before we start, I’ll need to see your hospitality expenditures for the past seven years.”
Lisa stared at me. “That’s not possible.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Some are stored off-site.”
“Start with the records you have here and make arrangements.” I was feeling lower by the second, making this grieving woman chase her tail. At this rate, soon I’d be lower than a snake.
Miranda appeared in the doorway, carrying a cup of tea that—unless I was wrong—had been steeped in resentment.
In my best auditor imitation, I said, “Perhaps your assistant, Miranda, would help you bring them.” Deep down I was feeling this was about to blow up in my face.
Lisa stared and then nodded. My karma “bill” was going to be through the roof this month. Miranda put the jasmine tea down slowly and followed Lisa from the room, her strawberry-blond curls bobbing with annoyance. I raced to the wall and checked. Sure enough, that was Lisa Troy in the first picture, on the second row of frames. I lifted the photo off the wall and substituted one from the filing cabinet. I opened my briefcase and dropped in the framed photo. I hurried to the door.
“Please tell Miss Hatton that I have been called back to the office unexpectedly,” I said to the first person I saw. “Tell her that the audit has been postponed indefinitely.” No point in letting the poor woman suffer any more.
I moved as quickly as I could toward the front door. I spotted Lisa and Miranda conferring with a man with a suit. He looked like security. There was quite a bit of gesturing and hand waving on Lisa’s part and a lot of nodding and curl bobbing from Miranda. I had a feeling “the jig was up,” as my uncles like to say. Even at that distance, I could see Lisa blowing her nose vigorously. Pivoting on my heel, I speed-walked down a corridor and into what turned out to be a huge kitchen. My uncles had always warned me never to break into a run until you had no choice.
“Spot check. Health department,” I said, pointing to the far corner. “Do I see droppings? I’ll be back with my citation tablet.” I believe I said that as if it were a real thing.
The startled kitchen staff turned to look at the nonexistent droppings, and I barreled through the door to the outside. I skirted the building and stuck my head around the corner to check for anyone who might recognize Kathryn Risley Rolland. I whipped off the stiff blond wig and stuffed it in the briefcase. I folded the jacket and squeezed that in too, followed by the glasses. With the photo, these new additions tested the hinges on the briefcase, but it held. I found an elastic in my pocket and pulled my hair back. With the dark ponytail and without the jacket and glasses, I headed for the parking lot, hoping no one would recognize me or “Kathryn.” My adrenaline was pumping. It wouldn’t do me any good to be caught here, for sure. What had I been thinking? I was a suspect, and I’d pulled a stunt at the workplace of the victim, unsettling his obviously grieving co-workers. Lisa was devastated, and I had made her life worse. Even though I’d found a useful line on Lisa Troy, I felt like a rat. A rat that needed a bath.
But before my ratty self could reach the Infiniti and drive off, I caught sight of something and ducked back behind the yew hedge by the side of the building. Detective Drea Castellano and Detective Stoddard were making their way up the front stairs. She was all business; he was languid as usual.
I would have some explaining to do, if either one of them discovered me at the Country Club and Spa when I was technically under police watch in the apartment at Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques.
Logically, I’d be better off taking my chances with the Country Club and Spa staff or garden workers than with the detectives.
I leaned against the wall and whipped off the elastic band. I retrieved the suit jacket and the wig, plus, of course, the glasses. I had to balance the briefcase on my knee to wrestle on the wig. I slithered back into the jacket, which had not been improved by being squished in the briefcase. Still, it was the best I could do. I put the dark-framed glasses on and legged it across the lawn.
I thought I heard Miranda shout something, but I kept going. Young Braydon was headed my way too. I was prepared to knock him over if I couldn’t intimidate him. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a Harrison Falls police car at the entrance of the parking lot. I practically dove into the Infiniti and peeled on out of the lot, spraying gravel. Once I was on the road, I pulled into the first driveway I saw and caught my breath.
“I will never, ever put on another disguise,” I said out loud. “I am cured of that habit.” My bad angel gave me the thumbs-up and whispered, But you got away with it.
My good angel tapped my other shoulder. And did you notice who was driving that police car?
The answer, of course, was Tyler “No Longer Smiley” Dekker. My former number one guy.
Had Tyler recognized me? Did he see me duck behind the yew hedge and emerge as a different person who then hightailed it to her car and took off like one of the Dukes of Hazzard?
That would have been even stickier than running into Castellano. He had contacted Sammy on my behalf, but I knew that he’d draw the line at aiding and abetting my foray to the Country Club and Spa.
What if he followed me? I found myself fighting panic and glanced in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the Harrison Falls police cruiser zoomed past and continued on down the highway. That meant I was in the clear.
I caught myself in the mirror: My wig was crooked and my glasses were fogged up. I reassured myself that he hadn’t seen me getting into the Infiniti, as it had been far enough away. Plus he’d never take me for an Infiniti type.
I wondered if he’d decide to check out either Van Alst House or Uncle Mick’s. Would he wait for me and then arrest me? And maybe break up with me again, for good measure? If he saw me driving the Infiniti, would he recognize me? If so, what would he do? Call for backup? Castellano’s face came to mind. I glanced around in a panic. Had Smiley recognized me and also seen me put on the tight blond wig? If—and it was a big if—he hadn’t spotted the car, I might be able to get out of this sticky situation. On the backseat was Uncle Mick’s favorite Panama hat. In the glove compartment, a pair of sunglasses. Wig off, hair tucked under, sunglasses on, I reversed out of the driveway at top speed and headed along the highway. I was looking for the first opportunity to get past Tyler, without getting pulled over and ticketed.
Luckily for me, Tyler pulled over, shortly after. It looked like he was making a phone call, as I shot past, looking straight ahead.
* * *
BACK IN HARRISON Falls, I parked the Infiniti in the garage two doors down and raced along the alley and through the back door to Uncle Mick’s. I’d left the briefcase with the wig and other evidence back in the car. The photo came with me. I careened through the door and clattered upstairs. I wiped off the unflattering coral lipstick and didn’t make
a substitute. I grabbed my old pink, daisy-printed flannel pajamas from the drawer and tousled my hair. A flop on the bed to cuddle Walter was next.
“You could have warned me, Walter, that I was about to make a very big mistake.”
But you have the photo, Jordan. Walter tilted his head to the side.
Well, he didn’t say that, actually, but I did have the photo, and I took that moment to tuck it into the mattress. No one should be surprised that at Uncle Mick’s house, all the mattresses have hollow bits to hide things.
The front door bell rang, and there was a banging that corresponded with it. Walter yipped. We practically tumbled down the stairs to answer.
I was rubbing sleep out of my eyes, which I thought was creative, and Walter was doing a little circular dance of joy.
“This is definitely not good news, Walter,” I said as I opened the door.
“We don’t need any,” I said to Tyler.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re here.”
“And where else would I be?”
“Nowhere,” he said, glancing at my pajamas. The flannel pj’s weren’t doing me any favors.
“As long as that’s settled, then, I’m behind on my sleep due to certain horrible things that have happened. I’m sure you can figure out what they are. So I’d like to go back and finish my nap. Unless you have some police harassment you’d like to engage in.”
“That’s not fair. I don’t engage in police harassment. You know that.” The red flush that I used to love rose from his collar to the tips of his ears and rushed toward his hairline.
The Marsh Madness Page 12