by Gayle Trent
I took a seat on one of the chairs in front of his desk. “I understand from Bunni Wilson that Dr. Bainsworth hired you to find out if his soon-to-be ex-wife was having an affair.”
He emitted a chuckle that sounded more like a wheeze. “You don’t pull any punches, do you, Ms. Martin?”
“I don’t feel I have the time for that luxury,” I said. “I need to find out who killed Dr. Bainsworth, especially since Myra and I are currently the only suspects. Was Angela having an affair? And had she been prior to her discovery that Dr. Bains-worth was cheating with Jill?”
“You do realize I’m in the business of handling delicate matters,” Mr. Thompson said. “Why should I disclose my client’s information to you? After all, there are legitimate reasons why you’re a suspect in this murder.”
“Such as?”
He arched a bushy gray brow. “My client was a known womanizer. You’re stunning, and you haven’t been in town all that long. Maybe you went in for a cleaning, Jim liked what he saw, and the two of you hooked up.”
“You can check his client records. I was never a patient of Dr. Bainsworth.”
“You still could’ve hooked up,” he said. “There are other places to meet than a dental office.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” I said, “but I never even talked to Dr. Bainsworth before the night I called him on Myra’s behalf.”
“The night he was killed.”
“Yes.” I frowned. “I didn’t kill him, Mr. Thompson. And neither did Myra. He was dead when we got there.”
He was infuriatingly silent.
“Do you think I murdered Dr. Bainsworth?” I asked.
“Not that my opinion matters—especially to the police department—but no, I don’t think you did. You have to admit, though, you look fairly good to the police for this crime.”
“Killing someone makes you look good to the police?”
Mr. Thompson chuckled. “No. I meant you can see their reasons for thinking you might have motive. As I pointed out, you’re a looker and a relative newcomer to Brea Ridge. You might’ve been having an affair with the dentist.”
I started to protest, but Mr. Thompson held up his hand.
“You’ve also stumbled onto quite a bit of trouble since you’ve been in town,” he said, continuing. “First Yodel Watson and then Fred Duncan. I know—and the police know—you had nothing to do with those deaths. But you have to admit, you keep turning up where there’s smoke, and sooner or later, you have to be the one that started the fire.”
“Please tell me what you found out about Angela Bains-worth,” I said. “Did she have a motive for killing her husband?”
“Possibly. But it wouldn’t be right for me to share that information with another suspect.”
“Your client is dead! How could you be breaking his confidence?” I ran my hand through my hair. “I’m not saying you should share your information with me. I’m only asking that you turn it over to the police.”
“I already have.” He grinned. “The authorities know everything I know.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For some reason, I don’t want to think Dr. Bainsworth was the scoundrel so many people are willing to make him out to be.”
“Oh, you can be sure Jim was no saint,” said Mr. Thompson. “But neither was his wife.”
“The cleaning crew found photographs of some jewelry in Dr. Bainsworth’s waiting room,” I said. “Are those photographs something you might need for your records?”
“Nope,” he said. “I believe I have everything I need. I wasn’t hired on a jewelry case.”
“Right. Well, again, thank you for seeing me and for providing your information to the police.”
“You’re quite welcome, young lady. And if you’re ever in the market for a professional detective, please give me a call.”
“I will, Mr. Thompson. Thank you.”
Without actually coming out and saying so, Mr. Thompson had confirmed that Angela Bainsworth had been having an affair on her husband while—or possibly even before—he’d cheated on her. Bunni could be right. If both parties in the divorce had been at fault, there would have been a more equitable property resolution. I wondered if Dr. Bainsworth had confronted Angela with his knowledge of her affair, and if he had, how she’d reacted to the news.
AFTER TALKING WITH Mr. Thompson, I went by the dress shop owned by Maureen Fremont. It’s a nice store, designed to look like an exclusive New York City boutique. All the clothes are on mannequins. You choose what you’d like to look at, and Maureen or a member of her sales staff goes to a back room to see if they have it in your size. I’d only been to the boutique once, and I really didn’t care for it. I like to look for new clothes in peace without salespersons hovering the entire time.
When I walked through the door, a chime sounded. Maureen came from the back. She was dressed in a black pencil skirt, a white blouse, and a houndstooth jacket.
“Good morning,” she said. “How may I help you?”
“Hi, Ms. Fremont,” I said. “I’m not sure you’ll remember me, but I’m Daphne Martin.”
“Of course. You catered the party for my sister Belinda’s guinea pigs, didn’t you?”
I smiled. “That’s right.”
“What can I do for you, Daphne? Looking for a new dress?” She gestured toward a grouping of mannequins, all wearing combinations of black and white.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I understand you were a patient of Dr. Bainsworth.”
“Yes. Half the town patronized Dr. Bainsworth’s practice.”
“I wondered if you knew of anyone who might have it in for him,” I said. “You see, Myra Jenkins and I found . . . the body.”
“Lots of people might’ve had it in for him.” She flipped her wrist. “A person who couldn’t pay his dental bill, a person who felt wronged in some way, someone whose wife he was seeing, that nasty little man who was dating Angela—”
“Wait, you know who Angela was seeing?” I asked.
“I don’t know his name, but I saw a photo of him that had been taken by the investigator. Not attractive in the least. I don’t know why she’d cheat on Jim with him.” She shrugged. “Perhaps he has money. Who knows?”
“Huh.”
“Oh well, good luck with your search,” she said. “I need to get back to work.”
“Me too. By the way, did you ever lose an earring at Dr. Bainsworth’s office?”
“Yes!” Her hand instinctively flew to her left ear. Today she was wearing jet button earrings. “It was a diamond stud. Did you find it?”
“I didn’t,” I said, “but the police did. You might give them a call about it.”
“I’ll do that, Daphne. Thanks for telling me.”
Maureen certainly hadn’t hidden the fact that she’d lost an earring in Dr. Bainsworth’s office. If she’d lost it during a struggle on the night Dr. Bainsworth died, I don’t think she’d have been so forthcoming.
WHEN I GOT home, I hung up my coat and went into the bathroom to wash my hands before resuming work on the quinceañera cakes. I examined my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Mr. Thompson had called me stunning. I wouldn’t go that far, but I was able to see myself more objectively these days . . . I thought. My dark hair was layered, and I had just a bit of help from the hairdresser on keeping the gray at bay. My eyes were brown, and I had an olive complexion. My lips were full. My skin was smooth. I no longer saw myself as ugly, stupid, drab.
I’d gone through an abuse awareness and recovery program after Todd had been arrested. It was there that I’d regained a sense of self-worth. Images of verbal and physical altercations with Todd tried to invade my mind. I closed my eyes for a second and fought the urge to go lie on the bed. I knew that if I did that, I’d curl into a fetal position and stay that way for a long while . . . maybe even hours. I didn’t have the time or the emotional energy to waste doing that.
My breathing became shallow, and I was suddenly cold. I sank to the floor, plac
ed my head between my knees, and squeezed my eyes shut.
I will not faint. I will not be sick to my stomach. I will breathe normally. I will be fine.
Sparrow brushed against my ankles. I opened my eyes and saw her beautiful little face looking up at me. I reached out and stroked her fur. She rubbed her head against my hand.
“You’ve been through a lot too, haven’t you?” I asked her softly. “But we’re strong, you and I. We’re survivors.”
I continued petting Sparrow until the sound of her purring filled the bathroom and made me relax. After a few minutes, I got up, washed my face and hands, and then went to the kitchen to resume work on the quinceañera cakes. And I made myself a mental note to give Sparrow tuna for dinner.
The bottom tiers of each cake were fairly simple to do—just white scrollwork on the rose-colored cakes—and the work went quickly. As I worked, I debated about calling Scottie. He could be a wonderful source of information about Dr. Bains-worth and his supposed mission trip to Nuevo Laredo. It was possible he could help me figure out if Dr. Bainsworth’s visit to Mexico had anything to do with his death. Sure, the police had a flimsy case against Myra and me. But still. As more than one person had pointed out to me, this was the third suspicious death in Brea Ridge I’d been linked to, and I felt the need to prove my innocence once again.
I could just imagine the whispers at the Save-A-Buck. Don’t buy a cake from Daphne Martin. Everywhere she goes, death follows. And they never did find out for sure who killed that dentist. . . .
I called Scottie. Naturally, the call went straight to voice mail.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s Daphne Martin. Please give me a call when you get this. Thanks.”
I’D FINISHED ALL four of the bottom tiers of Isabel’s quinceañera cake by the time I heard back from Scottie. But instead of calling, he came by.
“I brought the EIEIO information I promised you last night,” he said as he strode into the kitchen. “Is everything okay? You sounded sort of upset over the phone.”
“Everything is fine.” I tossed the plastic gloves I’d been wearing into the garbage can. “I was just getting ready to make myself some lunch. Would you like a sandwich?”
He grinned. “Peanut butter and banana?”
“That’ll work . . . only not fried. It might’ve been Elvis’s favorite that way, but not mine.”
“Suits me,” he said. “So what’s up?”
I took the bread and peanut butter from the cabinet, a banana from the stand on the counter, and a butter knife from the drawer. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the commotion about Dr. Bainsworth, the dentist who was murdered.” I placed the sandwich fixings on the table and got out a couple plates and a bag of baked potato chips.
“Of course,” Scottie said. “Not only has it been all over the newspaper, it’s been the subject of gossip all over town.”
“Did you know Myra and I found the body?” I asked, putting two slices of bread on each of the plates.
His brows shot up. “Um . . . no. No, I didn’t.”
“Really? I’d been at the jail since about ten thirty P.M. the night before the morning that I met you. I’d just got home when you drove up.” I jerked my head toward the refrigerator. “Grab us a couple sodas, would you?”
Scottie opened the refrigerator, retrieved two diet sodas, and set them on the table. He then pulled out a chair and sat down. “That would explain your dazed and confused reaction to me when we met.”
I laughed. “I think I’d have had a dazed and confused reaction to you no matter when I met you.”
He lifted his soda can in salute. “Touché, madam.”
I finished making our sandwiches, slid a plate over to Scottie, and sat down opposite him. “Had you ever met Dr. Bains-worth?”
He took a bite of his sandwich and shook his head.
I continued. “I thought you might’ve met him on a previous visit here or maybe on a mission. I heard he’d done some mission work himself. What do you know about Nuevo Laredo, Mexico?”
“It’s a pretty tough place these days, now that the drug cartels are controlling the local government,” he said, swallowing. “But it used to be a major tourist center and a market where the locals would sell their cattle, cotton, and sugarcane. You’d probably have loved Avenida Guerrero—it’s their main street—where they sold handmade jewelry, blankets, and cheesy knickknacks.”
“And you think I’d love cheesy knickknacks?” I looked around the kitchen to see how many cheesy knickknacks were in sight. A few . . . but not an abnormal amount.
He chuckled. “No. Actually, I believe you’d like the jewelry. But why the interest in Nuevo Laredo?”
“Are there a lot of religious or charitable missions there?” I asked.
“Quite a few,” he said. “Why? Are you thinking of embarking upon a mission trip? If so, you don’t want to go alone the first time. I can—”
“No, it’s not about me,” I said quickly. “Dr. Bainsworth went to visit Nuevo Laredo a few months ago. He was supposed to have been going on a medical mission trip, but one of his hygienists said he acted really weird after he got back.”
Scottie inclined his head. “Something might have happened to him in Nuevo Laredo. In what way was he behaving strangely?” He helped himself to some chips.
“She didn’t elaborate. She thinks the mission trip was just a ruse. She believes the real reason he went there was to visit the red-light district.” I bit into my sandwich.
“It’s odd he would go so far for that. From what I hear, the dentist didn’t have any trouble getting girlfriends,” he said.
“It doesn’t make sense to me either,” I said. “But there are missionaries there, right?”
“Yeah. The EIEIO has been there several times,” said Scottie. “They set up Bible schools for children, build churches, provide medical care. . . .” He shrugged.
“That’s why Dr. Bainsworth was supposed to have gone—to offer dental care.” I sipped my soda. “So that’s feasible, right?”
“Of course it is,” he said. “But even if he went to Nuevo Laredo with honorable intentions, he might’ve stumbled across something that would make him come home and act weird.”
I giggled.
“What?” Scottie asked.
“Myra was afraid that Dr. Bainsworth had gone down to Mexico and drank one of those drinks with the worms in it or got into drugs or something.”
“Well, getting introduced to tequila could certainly affect a man.” He stuffed a chip into his mouth. “Of course, getting introduced to a drug lord could too.”
“A drug lord?” I asked. “That’s a scary thought. What would a drug lord want with Dr. Bainsworth?”
“He’d want the dentist to transport drugs across the border,” said Scottie.
“So do you think the drug lord would hire Dr. Bainsworth to do that?”
“I think that if Dr. Bainsworth was a willing mule, he and the drug lord would come to an agreement, sure.” He took a drink of his soda.
“I’d heard the dentist was having a tough time financially,” I said. “Maybe he’d decided to do this one bad thing for the money. . . . Maybe he acted strangely because his guilty conscience or the fear of getting caught was overwhelming him.”
“Hard to say,” Scottie said. “People do crazy things.”
AFTER SCOTTIE LEFT, I drove to Bristol to get the rest of the supplies I needed for the quinceañera cake. I needed the staircases to join the two side cakes to the main cake and I needed a tiara topper.
As I drove, I thought about what Scottie had said. Could Dr. Bainsworth have become involved with a drug lord or some other unsavory character while he was in Mexico? Maybe the drug dealer forced Dr. Bainsworth to smuggle drugs into the United States. Being on a medical mission, the dentist would be expected to carry drugs along with other medical supplies. Would that make it easier for him to take the drugs back and forth across the border?
But how could the drug lord force Dr. Bainsw
orth to smuggle the drugs? Sure, he could threaten him and make him bring them across the border, but how could the drug dealer be certain the dentist would take them to their intended destination? What if he threatened Dr. Bainsworth’s family? Could that be why Dr. Bainsworth had the rapid succession of affairs but still had the photo of Angela on his desk? Maybe he was trying to make the drug dealer believe he didn’t care about his wife.
On the other hand, it was possible that Dr. Bainsworth needed money so badly that he made the fatal error of making what he believed would be a onetime deal with the drug lord. Or maybe the person who needed a smuggler wasn’t a drug lord at all. Perhaps it was a jewel thief.
I pulled into the parking area of the strip mall where the small baking supply company was located. I got out of the Mini Cooper, beeped the door locked with my wireless remote, and nearly ran headlong into Belinda Fremont.
“Belinda, hi!” I said. “Please excuse my clumsiness.”
“No problem,” she said with a smile. “I heard about that dreadful business with the dentist. You have lousy luck when it comes to stumbling upon dead people, don’t you?”
“I certainly do,” I said, returning her smile. “Speaking of Dr. Bainsworth, is Maureen okay? I heard they’d been dating—”
“Oh, please.” She waved away my concern with a flick of her wrist. “There must have been some gaps in that grapevine. Maureen and Jim went out a time or two, but she found out he was a gold digger and dumped him.”
“Good for her. I spoke with her earlier today at the boutique, but I didn’t ask about any romantic involvement she might’ve had with Dr. Bainsworth.”
“He was a real piece of work. He came right out and asked Maureen for money on their very first date—which was dinner at a greasy pizza place.” Belinda shook her head. “I called her when I heard about his death, but she appeared to be taking it just fine. She’s dating Steve Franklin now.”
“Great,” I said. “Mr. Franklin strikes me as a nice man. I think they’ll be good for each other.”
“They’re good to each other,” Belinda said, “and that’s a start. You wouldn’t think of Steve as a suitable prospect for Maureen at first—at least, I didn’t—but he’s hardworking, he makes his own way, and he doesn’t ask for handouts.”