The clock in the office chimed seven—time for rehearsal. Before Magda left the room, she spoke again. “There is something else that I want to discuss with you. Please meet me in the office during the break.”
Suzanne cornered me in the hallway. “Magda told me you found out about. . .us,” She whispered and then hugged me. “I’m glad you know.”
“I’m so happy for you.” I meant it.
We made our way to the stage. Gene arrived at the last minute, carrying Bobo in his arms. He spat out his lines during his scene with Suzanne and Magda. The cast loved it. In this case, life imitated art and added realism to his performance. He left as soon as they finished.
Now that I knew the truth about Suzanne and Magda, I wondered why others hadn’t guessed. Audie had paired them as sisters not only because of their acting ability, but also because of their resemblance. All the rest of the Brewsters in the play—crazy Teddy and sinister Jonathan—were portrayed by Graces. (The hero, Mortimer Brewster, played by Lauren Packer, learned he was adopted, and so he didn’t count.) No wonder they made such a believable, if dysfunctional, family. Audie figured that stage makeup would mask the twenty-year age difference between the two actresses.
When they discussed where to bury their latest victim, even their voices sounded alike. Magda’s older, softer alto echoed Suzanne’s strong soprano.
But someone had guessed the truth, and tried blackmail—almost certainly one of the people in the theater that night. I watched the other actors, hoping to catch someone studying Magda or Suzanne. No one acted in a suspicious manner.
I made sure I had plenty of cold drinks on hand—I had taken a break from making tea and instead bought a variety of two-liter sodas. As promised, Magda met me in the office as soon as Audie called a halt to rehearsal.
“I have a marvelous idea.” She sounded as excitable as Abby Brewster.
“It will only be a matter of time before people learn about my relationship with Suzanne.”
Did she suspect I would gossip about her secret? “I would never—”
“Of course not. But someone else out there knows the truth and, well, we can’t be sure when the grapevine will learn about it.” She patted my hand. “Don’t worry about me. It will be a relief for the truth to finally be told.” She straightened her back, once again the regal matron of the theater. “Rather than waiting for more rumors to spread, I want to make the announcement myself. Suzanne agrees with me. The Herald will be interested in the story, don’t you agree?”
I guessed Magda’s intentions.
“Perhaps Dina can interview me. I’ve seen her work at the theater; she’s a level-headed young woman. I’d rather she write the story than that new editor. Do you think she’ll agree to speak with me?”
“Wow.” What an opportunity for my sister. If Hardy, the previous owner of the Herald, were still alive, Magda would have asked him. They were distant cousins, after all. “I know she’d want to talk with you. And she may want to drag Peppi along, since she’s interning at the paper.”
“Very well. I’ll talk with both of them.”
I hesitated, uncertain whether to add more, but decided to plunge ahead. “I think you’re wise to reveal the truth about Suzanne.”
“All the Gaynors will be rejoicing.” Magda looked resigned.
“Perhaps. But most people will admire the way you handled a difficult situation.”
Behind Magda, I saw a flicker of movement. Perhaps someone needed to get more ice or soda from the refrigerator. Or perhaps someone had passed by the door when we discussed the specifics about Suzanne.
If so—the promised interview would come one day too late.
15
From: Jerry Burton ([email protected])
Date: Friday, April 25, 9:36 PM
To: Magda Mallory ([email protected])
Subject: Hidden secrets
The truth will come out. You are like the religious leaders that Jesus accused of being white-washed sepulchers.
I not only know what happened forty years ago; I know what happened eighteen years ago.
Expect to see me soon.
Saturday, April 26
When I stopped by Gaynor Goodies on Saturday morning, I wondered if Jessie would greet me with questions about Suzanne and Magda.
Yesterday, Jessie had ribbed me about the incident with Mrs. Lambert at the nursing home. The day before, she had asked how the premarital counseling session had gone with the pastor. She also admired Magda’s pearls and tried to pry more information out of me. I was wearing the pearls, of course. I tried to be circumspect in my answers—anything told to Jessie would soon be known town-wide.
Today she didn’t say much of anything. She didn’t mention Magda at all or anyone else involved in the play. For one day I had not provided fodder for the town gossip mill, and that suited me fine.
I spent the morning planning my next window display. I decided against putting the ’30s material back out; why remind potential customers of mayhem and murder every time they walked by?
Instead, I would proceed to the next decade, the War Years. I had located several well-preserved women’s uniforms from each branch of service: WACS, WAVES, SPARS, WASP. I was partial to the uniforms of the Cadet Nurse Program, which was supervised by the Public Health Service. My father’s mother had worn the brown army-style jacket—khaki blouse, skirt, and tie—with pride.
For my window, however, I decided to highlight native Oklahoman Marjorie Dresbach. After her meeting with Jacqueline Cochran, the driving force behind the WASPs, Marjorie served at Spence Field in Moultrie, Georgia. I had the perfect WASP uniform to go with her life story.
By lunch time I had sketched out the display and penned placards for the featured items. I went through my back storeroom to locate other items from the ’40s. I wouldn’t actually sell the uniforms; that seemed like a sacrilege to the women who defended our country so bravely. But I expected to turn a tidy profit on a large inventory that harkened back to America’s “greatest generation.”
I was dressing my mannequin in a bomber jacket and slacks when Dina and Peppi entered.
“Bologna today.” Dina held up a brown paper sack. “Hope you don’t mind.”
I would have eaten peanut butter and jelly if Dina brought it. She rarely provided lunch. The girls’ arrival reminded me of Magda’s decision to reveal all about Suzanne. For a few hours, I had immersed myself completely in the heroics of the War Years and forgotten my own personal quest for answers. Who killed Vic Spencer? Who was burglarizing Lincoln County? And who was sending threatening e-mails to the people of Grace Gulch? I was no closer to an answer than I was a week ago, when Audie discovered Spencer’s body.
“You left me a message. Said it was urgent. What’s up? Do you want our help investigating again?” Today Dina wore a pink-and-white checked button-down shirt, untucked, of course. It matched her hair. Peppi, in her blue-and-lavender plaid big shirt, looked almost normal.
“No, it has nothing to do with the murder.”
“Blackmail, then.” Dina grinned.
“What would you say if I told you that Magda Grace Mallory wants both of you to interview her?”
“Magda? That’s awesome!” Dina zipped out a date book with two cute kittens on the cover. “When? And what’s the occasion?” She stopped, her pen poised in midair. “Oh, wait a minute, this isn’t about the Center for the Arts, is it? That’s old news.”
“No. It’s. . .personal.”
“Maybe she’s going to get married,” Peppi suggested with a giggle.
“Did we miss a birthday or something?” Dina thumbed through her date book. Magda could command a community-wide celebration any time she wanted to. Of course she rarely did, and never for herself, which made us love her all the more. “Nah. Her birthday’s in August.”
My little sister never failed to amaze me. She had Magda’s birthday at her fingertips, literally.
“Can you two keep a secret?” I wasn’t sure how
much I should tell them.
“Reporters never reveal their sources.” Peppi spouted journalism 101.
“Well, it’s a secret until you talk with Magda and get the details.”
“Magda has a secret,” Dina said in the same singsong voice she used when she crept behind me and Cord—back when we dated in high school—and said “Cici has a boyfriend.” Dina smirked. “Do tell.”
I couldn’t resist. They would know all about it soon enough. “Well, Magda wants to talk to you about a child she gave birth to.”
“Gene?” Dina scoffed. “He’s no story.”
“No, not Gene. A baby born before Magda was married.”
“Magda had a child out of wedlock?”
Peppi’s lack of surprise reminded me of Mrs. Lambert’s accusation, but before I could ask about it, Dina interrupted.
“How come we didn’t know about this already?” Dina, the Grace Gulch native, wanted to know. “And who is it? Someone we know?”
“Magda will tell you the rest.” I waved my hands. “She’ll see you at half past four this afternoon if that works for you.”
“If! I would skip a final to get a story like this.” Dina jumped to her feet, ready to head over to Magda’s house at that moment.
“I’m coming with you when you go.” I wanted to hear the details first-hand.
Peppi’s mouth opened in a perfect oval. “You’re not a reporter.”
“No. But Magda is my friend. I want to offer my support.”
We arranged to meet at the store at quarter past four and head over to the Mallory mansion together. The two girls returned at the appointed hour with a backpack full of reporter accessories: recorder, spare batteries and tapes, camera, even the faithful steno notebook. Dina attempted to pry more information out of me during the five-minute drive.
“The child must have been born when Magda was away. You know, after high school? When she supposedly went off to seek fame and fortune in the theater.”
I shook my head. “You won’t get it out of me that easily.”
Since Magda had set the time of our appointment, I expected her to greet us at the door. Instead, we found a three-by-five index card taped to the door which read, If I don’t answer your knock, please enter. I can’t hear when I’m at the back of the house. The door isn’t locked.
I knocked once. Dina knocked a second time and then opened the door. “Magda?”
I repeated her name. Through the arch to the drawing room, I saw that Magda had prepared for company. A pitcher of iced tea waited on a mirrored serving tray.
“Magda?” Dina moved past me into the house, Peppi following close behind. We poked our heads through every open doorway, calling out her name. I paused by the bathroom and, feeling a bit silly, laid my ear against the door. She might be too much of a lady to answer from that location. No sounds emerged, however.
Dina headed for the back of the house, where the kitchen was located. The scream that followed would have done justice to a horror film—pure terror and surprise and fright.
Peppi ran down the hallway ahead of me. The two of us peered over Dina’s shoulder where we stood at the door.
First, I noticed the three-inch high heels that Magda loved to wear through long hours of rehearsal. My eyes traced her form from stocking-encased legs past a pink silk dress. Last of all, I forced myself to look at her face, an unrecognizable, ugly shade of blue. I considered checking her pulse. No. I shuddered. She couldn’t possibly be alive.
Small white objects were scattered across the floor, as if a turtle had laid her eggs in the kitchen. I bent forward to get a closer look—pearls. The broken strand hung from Magda’s neck. Fearful that I would get sick, I pulled back and punched 9-1-1 into my cell phone.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
What should I say? I didn’t want to announce Magda’s death over airwaves that anyone with a police scanner could hear.
“Uh. This is Cici Wilde. We need help at Magda Grace Mallory’s house. It’s at the—”
“I have the address. Someone will be there soon.” A slight tremor in the dispatcher’s voice suggested the questions that must be running through her mind.
Dina recovered from her shock enough to retrieve her camera from her backpack. Her reporter instincts were kicking in.
“Don’t go in the room,” I cautioned her.
“Someone needs to check for a pulse.” She ignored me and knelt by the still body. In a steady voice she whispered, “She’s dead.” She backed up a few feet and snapped a picture.
It was time to back out of big-sister mode. Dina knew what to do. On the other hand, a white-faced Peppi had taken a single step back from the doorway.
“Come with me.” I placed my arm around the young woman’s shoulders and led her back to the drawing room. The drink tray Magda had prepared for her guests seemed like the perfect antidote to shock. The police wouldn’t object, would they? This room wasn’t part of the crime scene. The murderer would not have stopped to grab a drink on the way out the door. I poured three glasses of tea. After a minute, Dina joined us. Peppi’s face had regained a bit of its normal color when the front doorbell rang and then opened.
“Cici?” Frances Waller had responded to the call. An ambulance careened around the corner.
“We’re in here.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin and stood up.
She took in the scene with a glance—the three of us, drinking tea without the services of a hostess. “What happened?”
I steeled myself. “She’s. . .back there.”
“Who?” Frances stopped in midquestion. I could only be referring to one person. “Come this way.”
Dina followed. Peppi stayed rooted to her seat.
Frances took one look at the kitchen and said a couple of words under her breath. She checked Magda’s pulse. “She’s dead.” Then her professional self took over—no longer Frances Waller, high school acquaintance, but Officer Waller of the Grace Gulch Police Department. She called the dispatcher and gave one of those numeric codes that let other police understand the nature of the emergency. “We need the chief on this one.”
The EMTs arrived and went about their business while Frances spoke with us.
“What did you touch?” Frances whipped out her notebook.
“The front door. It was unlocked and there was a note—” Dina began.
“I saw it.”
“Magda was expecting us,” I said.
“Oh?” Frances started to pursue the subject, but returned to her original line of questioning. “Did you touch anything else?”
“We waited in the drawing room for a few minutes, but when she didn’t come, we checked out the rest of the house.” I explained how we had checked each room, calling out Magda’s name, until we arrived in the kitchen.
Frances made notes and waited with us for the chief. Peppi asked if she could go to the restroom.
Frances hesitated and then hedged. “No. We don’t want to disturb anything more than you already have. You’ll have to wait.” She must have noticed Peppi crossing and uncrossing her legs because she suggested an alternative. “Why don’t you go to Cici’s store? We’ll meet you there.”
Peppi jumped to her feet, ready to scoot like a cottontail at the first sign of trouble.
“Don’t leave the store after you arrive. The chief will have my hide if you’re not there when he comes to question you.”
“I’ll make sure they stay put,” I promised.
“Don’t tell anyone what happened.” Frances seemed to think I needed a detailed instruction list.
Of course I won’t. Then I remembered our plans for the evening, and I paused at the doorway. “Audie is expecting all of us at rehearsal before long.”
“Gene will be there, too,” Dina added. “Has anyone spoken to him yet?”
Frances debated for a few seconds. “We’ll inform the family.”
Including Cord? My heart jerked. Magda’s death would echo across every corner of
Grace Gulch.
“You’ll have to let Audie know you won’t be there, but tell him as little as possible, okay?” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Now go, before the chief gets here.”
We drove to the store, opened the door, and rolled down the blinds to discourage visitors. Tonight I didn’t need any curiosity seekers.
I called and left a vague message on Audie’s voice mail. Dina, Peppi, and I had been held up at Magda’s and none of us would make it to rehearsal. Not even Reiner could find fault with that.
“I’m hungry.” Dina jumped out of her chair and poked her head in the tiny refrigerator I kept in my office. “You don’t have anything in here.”
I checked the doughnut box—one remained. No one spoke while I divided it three ways, with as much ritual as castaways on a desert island sharing their single meal of the day.
“I can’t believe it. Magda—dead! Who would want to kill that sweet old lady?” Pink hair drooping, Dina sounded like she had lost a favorite aunt. Most of Grace Gulch would respond the same way.
“I didn’t know her all that long, but she was always nice to me.” Peppi sounded a bit forlorn. Magda had that effect on people.
I thought of the threatening e-mail Magda had received and the scene with Gene. It must have some connection to her death, but I didn’t want to discuss it with the girls. They didn’t know about that particular blackmail note, and I wanted to keep it that way. I would discuss it with Audie—once he had been informed of Magda’s death and the police had finished with us.
“What’s going to happen to the play now?” Peppi voiced her concern about her first production with the theater. “Magda was the star. And poor Gene. And Cord. And the mayor—no one will want to continue.”
“The show must go on.” The words came out before I could stop myself.
Peppi burst into tears.
“Cici!” Dina’s voice was half scold, half laughter. She patted Peppi’s back and handed her tissues. “I can’t stop thinking about those pearls. They were Magda’s, weren’t they? Someone must have taken them from the theater this afternoon, stole them from props since the last time I checked. I can’t believe it’s happened again.” Last fall, the gun that had killed Penn Hardy had been taken from the theater. “I should have kept them with me until tonight.”
Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 02 - A String of Murders Page 11