A Deadly Fundraiser

by Mary Kennedy

  A DEADLY FUNDRAISER

  A Talk Radio Mystery Novella

  by

  Mary Kennedy

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary Kennedy. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

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  Radio talk show host Dr. Maggie Walsh finds herself in the middle of a murder—again! An invitation to a glitzy fundraiser at a south Florida mansion sounds like the perfect evening. Maggie and her pals are digging up clues for a scavenger hunt when a real mystery lands in their laps. Suddenly the party’s over, and the killer is playing for keeps. Will Maggie and her team be able to crack the case and solve the crime?

  Dedication

  For Lynda Turpin and the wonderful work she does for LapCats.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank my dear friend Lorraine Bartlett for her endless help, encouragement and support.

  A big high-five to my pal, Bill Parrilli, who is my expert on all things Florida.

  Hugs to my fellow Cozy Chicks, I am so happy to be part of this wonderful group of writers and have learned so much from you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” Vera Mae whispered. “I never thought she’d show her face here.”

  “Who?” I asked, handing over our admission tickets to a sweet-faced young woman in the foyer of Mayfair House. The 1930’s mansion looked dazzling tonight. I’ve always admired the entranceway with its cool Art Deco vibe—the lofty ceilings, the vintage black-and-white floor tiles, the frosted Genet & Michon chandelier that would set me back three months’ salary at WYME Radio. I glanced into the living room, half expecting to see F. Scott and Zelda toasting each other with Gin Rickeys, hanging over the Steinway, singing “I’m Just Wild About Harry.”

  “Little Miss Homewrecker, that’s who. It’s shocking, isn’t it?” Vera Mae hissed, pulling me back to the present. “She stole Greg Towner away from his sweet little wife, Lily. A Jezebel! Some women have no shame,” she said, her towering beehive wobbling in indignation. Vera Mae believes the higher the hairstyle, the closer to God, and I’ve never been able to persuade her to upgrade her Marge Simpson do.

  “You mean Shari Phillips,” I said in a low voice, nodding toward the flamboyant bombshell with the flaming auburn hair and white Versace gown that left nothing to the imagination. Shari, an interior decorator, moved to Cypress Grove a few months ago and quickly became every first wife’s nightmare. She bought a cherry-red Ferrari, joined the country club and latched onto Greg Towner, a married architect with three adorable children. The word-on-the-street was that a divorce was in the works and Greg’s wife, Lily, had hired a pricey lawyer in Boca. Good for her. Both Shari and Greg had shown up for tonight’s fundraising event. They sat in matching fan-backed side chairs in the hallway, deep in conversation, their knees touching, sharing intimate smiles. The two looked annoyingly happy with a we’re-so-hot-we-can’t–keep-our-hands-off-each-other vibe.

  So much for karma.

  “Love her Versace,” my mother, Lola, said breathily, eying Shari’s white dress as she came up behind us. She either didn’t know Shari’s scandalous history or it didn’t bother her. Mom leaned in to give Vera Mae an air kiss before enveloping me in a quick hug and love bombing me with a choking cloud of Arpege. Tonight, she’d folded her fifty-eight-year-old—but still gorgeous—body into a tight black dress from Wet Seal. “Let’s go in and get a drinkie, shall we?”

  I know the tabloids are fond of saying some celeb or other is a “force of nature,” but in Lola’s case, it is absolutely true. My actress mom has the style and panache of one of those long-dead heroines of the silver screen, the ones you see late at night on Turner Classic Movies, when it’s just you and your jammies with a pint of Chunky Monkey watching those feisty women of yesteryear.

  “Welcome, ladies!” Molly Sanders, head of the Cypress Grove Preservation Committee, waved us into the living room, nabbed a passing waiter and handed us delicate champagne flutes. One sip and I was in heaven. Taittinger, my favorite. “So glad you could make it tonight. The house looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she gushed. “The ladies from the Historical Society outdid themselves.”

  The Historical Society, along with the Preservation Committee, had decided to open the house for a “gala” to raise money for the planned Center for the Arts. Cyrus Still, the station manager at WYME, likes to support community causes and bought thirty tickets for the staff and on-air personalities. It looked like Vera Mae and I were the only WYME folks here, but the night was still young.

  “It’s perfect,” I agreed. I glanced at the gleaming wood floors, lush Art Deco sofas and bowls of gardenias scattered on mahogany end tables and vintage drink carts. The whole room was bathed in a soft yellow glow from ivory candles in wall sconces. A pair of French doors opened onto a flagstone terrace and the evening air wafted in, balmy with just a hint of night blooming jasmine.

  “This is probably the last time it will be open to the public for a while,” Molly went on. “Greg Towner is doing some final designs for us. We want lots of open spaces and natural light for the painting classes and we’re putting in a small stage for the acting workshops. All the proceeds from the ticket sales tonight will go toward the renovations.”

  When Christopher Morgan, the owner of Mayfair, passed away a couple of months ago, he left instructions that the house be preserved and donated to the Preservation Committee as a center for the arts. Mr. Morgan was quite the world traveler, and arguably one of the most influential men in Cypress Grove.

  I interviewed him once on my WYME Radio show about the history of the Mayfair House and found him to be an affable, if somewhat uninspiring guest. Since Cypress Grove is a sleepy south Florida town, we have trouble enticing celeb guests to be on my radio call-in show, On the Couch with Dr. Maggie. Vera Mae, my producer does her best, combing through the Miami Herald, the Sun-Sentinel, and the Palm Beach Post, looking for story ideas but sometimes she comes up dry.

  Morgan had talked mostly about Mayfair House and its past as a rumored haven for rum smugglers during its checkered history.

  In case you’re wondering how a New Yorker ended up with her own radio show in a sleepy south Florida town, here’s the Cliff Notes version. Like the television character, Dr. Frasier Crane, I closed up my psychology practice and moved to Cypress Grove to become a radio talk show host. It’s been tough going in a small-town market. Vera Mae sometimes tells me that I remind her of Dr. Phil, “but without the money, fame or success.” Thanks, Vera Mae, you always keep me humble.

  We inched our way to the dining room table which was filled with a delicious array of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. I was munching on a tiny quiche when Molly, the community organizer, popped up again, and handed each of us a ballpoint pen and a sheet of paper.

  “Don’t forget to do the scavenger hunt tonight,” she urged. “The prize is a really nice piece of art from a local painter.”

  Scavenger hunt? I looked around the crowded room, wondering how we were going to search for anything in the dense crowd.

  Molly must have caught my cons
ternation because she quickly added, “There are ten objects, and the clues are in every room, so you have to search the whole house. And please don’t remove the object, just jot down what it is and where you spotted it. It’s a lot of fun, you’ll see. The clues are tricky, but not impossible.”

  “How shall we do this?” Vera Mae asked, grabbing a handful of cheese straws before checking out the list. “Shall we team up?”

  “I’d love to join you, ladies,” Lola said hastily, “but I see someone I absolutely have to meet over there.” She gestured to a man in his late fifties, dressed in a navy blazer and chinos, holding a drink and staring moodily out the window. “It’s about my television career,” she added in a stage whisper.

  “Your television career?” I raised my eyebrows. As far as I know, Lola doesn’t have a career. She’s been scraping by with bit parts in B-list movies, doing voiceovers, and the occasional infomercial for walk-in bathtubs. Last year, she even snared an agent—a geriatric chap who claims James Dean was his first client. He’s older than Methuselah, but Lola doesn’t care. She’s thrilled to have an agent—any agent.

  It’s true that the movie biz has stepped up in the state, and glitzy Miami is actually called “Hollywood East,” but tiny Cypress Grove, with its Mayberry vibe, is out of the film loop. I couldn’t imagine how the brooding middle-aged man could possibly help her.

  “Yes, my television career,” she said archly. She leaned in closer, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s Roger Nelson, you know.” She gestured again to the brooding guy gazing out the window. “And guess what? I found out his daughter works for CBS in New York, how exciting is that? CBS! Talk shows, acting gigs, maybe an anchor job with the news department. This could be my big break.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I shook my head. “I think Roger owns the hardware store in town. I doubt he has any TV connections.”

  “But his daughter does,” she insisted, shaking her blond tresses. “I heard that Arabelle Nelson moved to Manhattan to work for CBS and I’m going to make sure I connect with her. Maybe I should fly up there and we can do lunch. Or take a meeting.”

  “Good luck with that,” Vera Mae said with a ghost of a smile. Her lips were twitching, definitely a “tell” that there was more to the story.

  “Why do I think Arabelle doesn’t work for CBS?” I asked, as Lola smoothed her slinky dress over her hips, pasted a bright smile on her face and headed toward her target.

  Vera Mae let out a soft cackle. “Because I happen to know she works for CVS, not CBS!” she said triumphantly. “But I think we should let Lola figure that out for herself.” She drained her champagne flute and looked at the list. “First things first. Let’s get this scavenger hunt under way, girl. The way these folks are drinking and running their mouths, we’ll be the only contenders. Besides, I’ve always wanted to have a peek at this place and it sounds like none of the rooms are off limits.”

  “Let’s scope out the main floor first,” I suggested, getting into the spirit of the game. Vera Mae was right, no one seemed interested in following up on the clues. They were deep in conversation. And free booze.

  “Well, the first one is an easy one and it says it’s on the ground-floor level, so let’s go for it,” Vera Mae said, consulting the list. She pulled me away from the crowd toward a sideboard in the far corner of the dining room. “Ethel Merman would be right at home here,” she read from the sheet. “What does that tell you?”

  “Ethel Merman?” I frowned. “That’s the clue? I have no idea. Nothing comes to mind.”

  Vera Mae gave me a sharp nudge. “Ethel Merman, hon! Think Broadway show tunes.”

  “I’m telling you I’ve got nothing,” I rubbed my arm. Vera Mae packed quite a wallop for a tiny lady in her sixties.

  “Gypsy!” Vera Mae rolled her eyes. “Gypsy Rose Lee. Ethel Merman. You’ve seen the play, haven’t you? Put your thinking cap on!”

  “Yes, I’ve seen Gypsy several times, but—”

  “What’s the song she’s famous for? The one that always brings down the house. Think, Maggie, think!”

  “‘Everything’s Coming Up Roses’?” I could almost hear Ethel Merman belting it out in her raspy, signature style.

  “Exactly.” Vera Mae nudged me so I was staring at the sideboard. “That’s the clue. Now look carefully. The object is right in front of you.” She started humming softly and then, channeling Ethel Merman, sang the first few lines under her breath, ending with, “...the whole world on a plate.”

  A plate. Bingo! Yes, there were plenty of plates on the sideboard, fancy white plates with a gold border. Plus some commemorative plates celebrating Florida’s history. And then I saw it. One lone plate with roses, prominently displayed. “That’s it!” I cried. “Ethel Merman would be at home because she’d love the plate with the roses!”

  “Shhh, keep your voice down, girl. Do you want the whole room to hear you? Let’s write this down and move on. I don’t want to draw attention to the sideboard. Let them figure it out for themselves,” she added with a quick look over her shoulder. “Not that they will,” she said with a sly smile. “We’re on a roll, Maggie, on a roll. We’re gonna nail this for sure.”

  Vera Mae was right. No one was taking the scavenger hunt seriously. No one but Vera Mae, of course, who was showing a white-hot competitive streak I hadn’t seen before.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Is this it for the main floor? Maybe we should head upstairs,” I suggested. I usually don’t like party games, and I was surprised that I was getting into the spirit of the scavenger hunt.

  I waved to my reporter pal, Nick Harrison, who was scoping out the hors d’oeuvres. Nick covers arts and entertainment for the local paper. Tall and athletic-looking, with a boyish smile and dirty-blond hair worn on the longish style, he’s set many hearts aflutter. He was wearing Cypress Grove Casual tonight, a snowy white golf shirt and pressed khakis with Reeboks. Nick is one of the first people I met when I came to town and there’s enough of an age difference between us that he thinks of me as his older sister, not dating material.

  “Do you want to partner up?” he said, eying Vera Mae’s contest sheet.

  “We’re one step ahead of you, sonny, but you can join us for the rest of the clues. Get out your sheet and let’s get busy.”

  “Don’t leave Debbie Harry hanging,” Nick said, reading from the list. He raised his eyebrows. “What do you make of that clue?”

  “That’s a tough one,” Vera Mae frowned. “Nick, you’re up on pop culture. Who’s Debbie Harry, some sort of rock star, right?”

  “Blondie!” I volunteered. “That’s the name of her group. I don’t get the ‘hanging’ part, though.”

  Nick snapped his fingers. “That’s one of her most popular songs. ‘Hanging on the Telephone.’”

  “But where’s the telephone? Maybe there’s an antique one somewhere in here?” I offered.

  “No, that’s too easy,” Vera Mae said. “It’s gotta be something less obvious. But I can’t imagine what,” she added, her voice trailing off.

  Dead silence while the three of us pondered the clue. Hanging on the Telephone. I let my gaze drift over every inch of the room, noting every end table, every shelf, every nook where a phone could be tucked away. And I came up with nothing, nada, zilch.

  It was Nick who saved the day. “Check out the paintings,” he whispered. A collection of dark oil portraits graced the living room walls and I made out some familiar historical figures. George Washington, the Marquis de Lafayette, Thomas Jefferson. I shook my head, bewildered. “Look at the painting on the bottom left, the one next to the fern,” Nick urged.

  Vera Mae and I spotted it at the same time, a rather stern looking figure with a full white beard. “It’s Alexander Graham Bell!” we chorused.

  “Two down and eight to go.” Vera Mae chortled. “You brought us luck, sonny boy.”

  “I aim to please,” Nick told her.
<
br />   “Let’s press on, I think we’re on a roll,” I ventured.

  “Where shall we head next?” Vera Mae asked. “The bedrooms are upstairs—”

  “But I have it on good authority the speakeasy is in the cellar,” Nick offered.

  “A real speakeasy?” That caught my interest. Christopher Morgan had hinted at rum-runners during my radio interview and this could be an exciting part of the house’s history. And certainly something that would be worth a clue or two. With any luck, the hard-drinking crowd in the living room wouldn’t even think to go down the cellar steps—assuming we could find the cellar, of course. “Do you know how to get there?”

  “I think the entrance is behind the butler’s pantry, right off the kitchen,” Nick said, edging toward a set of swinging doors. “The newspaper did a feature on this place a couple of years ago.”

  * * *

  The caterers were busy in the chef’s kitchen, which was a stunning space with marble countertops, snowy white subway tiles for the backsplash, and frosted glass cupboards.

  “Can I help you?” a dark-haired man asked coolly. He was stacking glasses on a silver tray and stopped to glare at me. He was wearing a name tag that said Larry Ackerman and luckily he was called away before I could reply. What a charmer, I thought.

  “Just act as if you belong,” Nick whispered as we edged against the wall. A couple of the servers looked up briefly but quickly went back to arranging trays of delicacies. I was tempted to snag a petit four from a silver tray but didn’t want to draw attention to myself. The sugary little cakes with their vanilla frosting and cute little pink roses were calling my name.

  “Are we snooping or following a real clue for the scavenger hunt?” Vera Mae asked, when Nick opened an unmarked door that led to a dark, narrow staircase. “This feels like something out of Nancy Drew.”