Live Ringer

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  Marc hadn’t asked her where they were having lunch, and she hadn’t offered the information. She didn’t need him lurking nearby making her nervous. More nervous, she amended as she caught sight of her shaking hand. She practiced a few minutes of deep breathing.

  She was almost at the photo store when she realized she’d left the envelope with the other pictures on the table next to the door. Cussing, she turned around and raced home. She felt breathless by the time she arrived back at the photo place and ground her teeth, as the young man behind the counter made the effort to peel his gaze away from her blouse long enough to take the money. Stomping out of the store, she stuck the new print in the middle of the others, so it wouldn’t be obvious. Then, she drove as fast as she dared to Bernard’s Surf.

  She arrived ten minutes late. Rupert Cornelius was already seated at a table. When the maître d’ led her to him, he stood to greet her. He didn’t look irritated; he looked blown away. She offered her hand, and he chose to kiss it rather than shake it. Allie suppressed the urge to wipe it on her skirt. Now wasn’t the time to be fastidious.

  He towered over her, looking down, his eyes not on her face. “I must say, my dear, you are one woman worth waiting for.”

  She gave him the best smile she could muster. “I’m sorry I’m late.” She couldn’t think of a single excuse to follow that, so she dropped it.

  The restaurant was exactly as she remembered it. A series of small, intimate dining rooms, each holding five or six tables, which made them seem more cozy than crowded. The walls were covered with framed prints that chronicled the development of Cocoa Beach and read like a history of NASA development, photos taken at the height of the space program—astronauts perched in the backs of open cars, rockets lifting off the launch pads. Interspersed with those were snapshots of movie stars posing with the owner of The Surf. Most were sepia or grainy black-and-white, like the snapshots in the manila envelope she carried. The restaurant was busy. Customers spanned the fashion spectrum. Some wore business suits, like Rupert Cornelius. Others were in more casual clothes—slacks and button-front shirts or sundresses. Only a few wore shorts and flip-flops. The waiter, clad in unrelieved black, pulled out her chair, and Cornelius nearly wrested it away from him. She allowed them to seat her.

  Cornelius ordered a glass of white wine for her, which she thought presumptuous. He also ordered her lunch, which almost proved too much. She bit her tongue and reminded herself that she was there on a mission. When the wine arrived, he offered a toast. “To Lou’s niece, who I finally get to meet. And to possibly the newest member of my little family.”

  Allie raised an eyebrow, and he smiled. “My newspaper family, of course.”

  He clinked his glass against hers, and she took a sip.

  “You don’t like the wine?” he asked, watching her.

  “It’s delicious,” she said with an apologetic smile, “but I’m afraid I’m not much of a drinker.”

  He nodded. “Good for you. Social drinking is one thing, but alcohol can be a drug like any other. I don’t much care for it.”

  He held true to his promise during lunch. He discussed salary and benefits. She saw him glance at the envelope at her elbow a couple of times, but he resisted asking about it until they had their coffee. Then, he nodded toward it. “References, I trust? It’s too thick to be a résumé.”

  Allie laughed, hoping it sounded more sincere to him than it did to her. “No, I—I hope you don’t mind. I brought some photos I found in my aunt’s albums.”

  He seemed intrigued, as she opened the clasp on the envelope and pulled out the handful of pictures. “Ah,” he said when he saw the first one, a recent photo of Lou sitting on the rooftop deck, looking tanned and healthy. His surprise told Allie he wasn’t the one who’d taken the picture, and that made her happy.

  “Lou was a wonderful woman,” he said, putting the photo down and taking the next one she handed him.

  There were two other people in it. Allie scooted her chair closer to him, looking up at him through her mascara-enhanced eyelashes. “I hoped you might know who some of these people are,” she said. “You don’t mind?”

  The look on his face told her he didn’t mind that she’d moved closer. “Of course not. I’d be delighted.” He put his arm across the back of her chair and leaned forward against her shoulder. “The woman on the left is Cord Arbutten’s wife, Jean. I believe the other is Trudy Thomas. Trudy Franklin these days.”

  Allie held up another. He could identify one person in the picture. They went through the others until they came to the photo of the mystery woman. As he picked it up, she realized her mistake. The way he reacted, she feared he’d seen it too. Photo processing had changed over the years. This print was obviously newer than the others were. The edges were smooth, not scalloped as they used to be. The black these days was blacker and the white, whiter, but after a minute, Allie realized he hadn’t even noticed. His eyes were riveted on the people in the picture. “Do you know who they are?” she asked.

  He stared over at her, his eyes empty. “Where did you get this?”

  Chapter 17

  Allie stiffened at the intensity on his face. “My aunt’s photo album.” Were his hands shaking when he laid the print on the table?

  “The man is Cord Arbutten,” he said, “and, of course, you recognized your aunt. The other woman is my stepmother.”

  Allie felt an electrical charge shoot through her. Of all the things she expected to hear, that wasn’t it. “Your stepmother?”

  He focused on her, his expression drawn and tight, his mouth a thin line. “Yes.” His eyes went back to the photo. “I didn’t know they even knew each other. She never said…”

  “Can’t you ask her?”

  His gaze flicked up to her face. “She’s dead.”

  That’s when Allie remembered what he’d told her about taking over the newspaper from his stepmother after her death. She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. How…?”

  He turned the photo face down on the table. Then, he stared off across the room. “She died in a boating accident.”

  Allie struggled to control her excitement. Was this the link they’d been searching for? In a horrible kind of way, it fit. Marc said this woman looked like the victims. Boats. Water. She tried to keep her voice calm. “How long ago?”

  “Three years ago.”

  Three years. About the same time Marc’s wife was killed. “What kind of boating accident? Were there other people involved?”

  He turned his head slowly. “Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “It’s what I do. Ask questions.”

  He studied her face for a moment, but he seemed to buy it. “Apparently, she was alone. At least, there was no one on the boat when the Coast Guard recovered it, and no signs that anyone was with her. I’d warned her not to take it out alone. It was too much for one person to handle, especially a woman, but Eve never listened.”

  A thought struck Allie with the force of a hammer blow. Eve Cornelius had accused Mrs. Odum of stealing, the woman who ruined the lives of Joe’s parents. It almost killed her to admit it, but that made Joe as much a suspect as Cornelius. Impossible. Joe couldn’t kill. Maybe in the line of duty, she amended. But to kill a woman over something like a false accusation?

  She realized Cornelius was watching her. What had he seen? “That’s terrible. Especially a woman out alone in a boat. Who’s to say what might have happened?” She tried her best to look guileless. “There weren’t any signs of foul play?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Injuries?”

  He sat back in his chair. Much of his charm faded, and his voice sounded matter-of-fact. Almost cold. “Not so much as a bump on the head. Apparently, she went over the side and drowned. I lived in Miami at the time, working for the Miami Herald. When they brought me the news, I was—shocked. She was still young.” Allie saw his hand clench into a fist. “She’d been drinking. I think she m
ight have been using drugs. The police believe she took the boat out alone.” He shook his head. “She did that sort of thing. The woman thought she was invincible. She probably went swimming while under the influence and simply drowned.”

  Allie said nothing, hoping he’d continue. After a minute, he did.

  “My stepmother was strong willed, stubborn if you will, and she was fond of…” His eyes flicked to Allie, then away. “Let’s say she liked excitement. We were close once, but later on, we didn’t see eye to eye. That’s the main reason I worked working at the Miami Herald instead of here.” He glanced at Allie. “Still, when someone you’ve been close to dies, it’s a terrible thing. If Cord hadn’t been with me when it happened, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

  Allie felt the faint hope she’d been harboring evaporate like so much smoke. “You were with the sheriff?”

  He gave a jerky nod. “We were on a fishing trip in the Keys.”

  She sat back, her disappointment rendering her speechless. It would have been perfect— Rupert Cornelius resembled Marc, and Rupert Cornelius’ stepmother looked like the other victims. She could have been the first one, the one that tied it all together, but if her death was an accident, and if Rupert Cornelius had an alibi, where did that leave them?

  “Allison?”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “May I take this?” He held up the photo.

  “Sure,” she said, defeat foremost on her mind. “It’s a copy. Joe took the original—”

  “Joe Odum?” The name came out sharply.

  Allie could have bitten off her tongue. “Yes, he wanted to show the sheriff.” His mouth settled into a grim line. He held up his hand for the waiter.

  Cornelius insisted on walking her to her car. It must have rained while they were in the restaurant. The air smelled clean, like fresh laundry on a clothesline. From the beach a block away, she could hear the excited cries of the gulls. Either someone was feeding them, or a school of fish had found its way into the breakers.

  At her car, Cornelius turned his considerable charm back on. “I hope you’ll forgive me for becoming preoccupied in there,” he said, gesturing at the restaurant. “Lunch with a lovely young lady isn’t the place to awaken old memories. At least not bad ones.”

  “Of course,” she said, sliding behind the wheel of the Jeep. “I’m sorry for bringing the pictures. It never occurred to me that one of them would be your stepmother.” That was an understatement.

  “Of course, it didn’t.” He leaned down, and she thought for one terrified moment that he would try to kiss her. Instead, he put the envelope of pictures on the console.

  As he straightened, his arm brushed across her breast. For an instant, she got the feeling he was playing with her. He smiled in an almost avuncular manner. “Thank you for coming to lunch with me, Allison. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to spending more time with you.”

  Allie started the Jeep, and he stood watching, as she put the car in gear and drove away. Marc was sitting on the sofa in the midst of the photo albums she’d left out when she arrived home. Several albums were open with obvious gaps where she’d removed the pictures. Spook was nowhere to be seen.

  “How did you get in?” she asked, unable to hide her discomfort.

  “The front door was unlocked.”

  Had she left the door unlocked in her haste? Marc started to speak, but Allie held up a hand and headed directly to the bedroom. Luckily, he didn’t follow her. The first to go were the heels and stockings. Anyone who wore stockings in Florida was a masochist. Then, the Atlanta-weight suit. She almost tossed it in the trash, but she contented herself with dropping it on the floor and stepping on it. The shell and miracle bra followed. She kicked the heap into the corner. She slipped into shorts and a shirt and went into the bathroom to scrub off her makeup. Then, she stomped into the kitchen, grabbed a diet soda out of the refrigerator, and popped the top. When she turned around, Marc stood in the doorway.

  “Is someone cranky?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

  She put the soda can on the counter without taking a sip. “The woman is his stepmother. Was. She’s dead, and before you ask, he didn’t kill her. He was on a fishing trip with the sheriff when it happened. We’re right back where we started.” She wasn’t ready to share her thoughts about Joe. She felt defeated. She wanted a tidy ending, and Rupert Cornelius’ alibi deprived her of it.

  Marc held out his arms and, after only a brief hesitation, she walked into them. She felt comfort there and an element of safety. At least she didn’t burst into tears this time.

  After a minute, he released her. “Come on. Let’s go sit down. You can tell me about it.”

  He cleared a space for her on the sofa, and she sat, curling her legs under her. He sat at the other end. “Where did you get the picture to show him?”

  She heard no accusation in his voice, so she answered him. “I had the negative. I got a print made this morning.”

  To his credit, he didn’t rail at her. Instead, he nodded. “OK, tell me what happened at lunch.”

  Allie did, leaving out very little. “He said she died in a boating accident three years ago. About the same time Karen died.”

  “Where?”

  Allie thought back. “I don’t think he said. I assumed it was here. He lived in Miami at the time.” She saw Marc register that fact, but she plowed on. “He and the sheriff were on a fishing trip in the Keys when it happened. Talk about an airtight alibi.” She rubbed her forehead. “When he told me that the woman in the picture was his stepmother, I felt certain she was the first and that he’d killed her.” She threw her hands in the air. “He even admitted that they didn’t get along. But if he was with the sheriff—” She shrugged.

  Marc seemed deep in thought. “Unless the sheriff is covering for him.”

  Allie’s mouth fell open. “The sheriff? I can’t believe that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—because he’s the sheriff. He’s a regular pillar of the community here.”

  Marc seemed unconvinced. “So is Cornelius. He’s the owner of your local paper. That doesn’t put him above suspicion.”

  He was right. After her initial resistance, she’d been willing—even glad—to entertain the idea that Rupert Cornelius might be the killer, but the sheriff? No, she couldn’t believe it. She felt the same way about Sheryl. Her mind flashed to Joe, but she refused to think about that right now. She shook her head in denial of the whole thing.

  “Maybe his stepmother’s death was completely unrelated to the others. We couldn’t get a clear look at her face in that old photo and… .” Her voice trailed off, as Marc reached over and picked up an envelope she hadn’t noticed amid the clutter on the coffee table. He pulled out a five by seven photograph. “That’s as large as they could go without losing photo integrity,” he said, handing it to her. Allie didn’t have to look. The expression on Marc’s face told her more than she wanted to know.

  The woman in the hat faced the camera, the sun fully in her eyes. The breeze blew her long, light-colored hair back from her face—Allie’s face, or close enough. High cheekbones, broad forehead, clear light eyes. Who would have thought so damn many women could look alike? Then, she noticed something else. The pale-haired young man standing partly hidden by the woman. She could see only a small section of his face, but it could easily be Rupert Cornelius.

  “She looks too young to be his stepmother. Maybe he was lying.” She looked down at the print in her hand. “But why would he lie? Wouldn’t he know I could find out the truth?” When Marc said nothing, she glanced up. Marc’s face reflected his concern. “What do you think?”

  “I’m trying not to think anything until we have more information,” Marc said. “I have to find out more about this stepmother. That won’t be hard. Public records.” He drummed his fingers on the back of the sofa. “I want to go down to the Keys and check out Cornelius’ story about the fishing trip, and I need to do some digging ab
out why he was in Miami three years ago.”

  “Working for the Miami Herald,” Allie offered.

  “I thought his family owned the newspaper here.”

  “They did. After his father died, his stepmother ran it until her death. He said he went to the Miami Herald because she was impossible to work for.”

  “That’s a pretty good motive, don’t you think?”

  “For murder?”

  “People have killed for a lot less.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Except that she died in an accident. Alone. He said there wasn’t a mark on her body. I got the impression she was drunk and on drugs and fell off the boat.”

  “We only have his word for that.”

  “But how—oh. The autopsy.”

  “I’ll try to get a copy of the report. I have a buddy in Miami, a computer whiz, who might pull it off. “

  “What about Cornelius’ alibi?”

  Marc sat back. “I had two hundred alibis, and the police still suspected me.”

  “You think he hired someone to do it?”

  “I think we need more information. I need to head south. That means I’ll be gone for a few days. I don’t like leaving you.”

  His words irritated Allie, along with the implication that she didn’t have enough sense to look after herself. She brushed his words aside with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.”

  “I wish you’d take this seriously,” Marc said, his voice grim. “There’s a killer out there, and you’re a dead ringer for the women he’s targeting.”

  Allie ground her teeth. “I’m not a dead ringer, and I’m tired of people telling me I am. I’m a live ringer, and believe me, I intend to stay that way.” Which meant she needed more information of her own, and she knew exactly where to find it.

  *

  The next morning, she dressed sensibly for Florida in a pair of unlined linen slacks and a short-sleeved blouse. Sandals. No hose. She didn’t want to look like a beach bum, but she didn’t want to play the vamp, either. She wanted to blend into the background.