The girl wiggled her arms up and down. “She never said her name, Mom.”
“Addison Lockhart.”
“I’m Celeste,” the woman said. “Celeste Brandon.” The younger girl smiled and disappeared back inside the house. “How can we help you, Addison?”
“I don’t think you can. I’m looking for Hugh.”
“What do you want with him?”
Addison was unsure of what to say next. “I just moved here. Well, not here. I inherited a house in Rhinebeck from my mother.”
Celeste tipped her head forward, her interest piqued. “I know several people who live in Rhinebeck. Which house, dear?”
“Grayson Manor.”
Several seconds passed before the woman spoke again. “You said inherited. Do you mean to say you’re related to Norman and Marjorie Grayson in some way?”
“I’m their granddaughter.”
The woman swung the door all the way open. “You’d better come inside.”
CHAPTER 25
The interior of Celeste Brandon’s home looked like it had been ripped from the pages of Architectural Digest magazine. It was white, from the crisp, clean walls to the furniture. Massive, colorful artwork was depicted on almost every wall, one or two even larger than the picturesque windows overlooking the park.
Celeste craned her neck. “Follow me to the study, please.”
Addison kept pace behind her.
“Are you expecting your husband anytime soon?”
“He’s flying back in tonight. Now—I want to show you something.” She opened the top drawer of a desk and retrieved one item: an album. She licked a finger and flipped through page after page, stopping when she got to the middle. “Ah, here it is.” She turned the album around and curled her finger, motioning Addison to step forward. “This is your grandfather, but I suppose you can tell just by looking at it.”
“Actually, I haven’t seen many photos of him until recently.”
Very recently.
“I was told he ran off, leaving my grandmother to take care of my mother on her own.”
Celeste snapped the book shut and held it to her chest, her arms folded over it. “Yes, he did. Although I never saw it coming. I was as shocked as everyone else when I heard the news.”
“Why?”
“Because I could tell he loved her.”
“My grandmother?”
“Yes,” Celeste replied. “They seemed to get on so well together every time I was around. Though, your grandfather…”
Celeste tapped a finger over her lips as if she wished she could take back her last few words.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, dear. Best to leave the past where it is.”
“You can tell me. Really. I don’t mind.”
“It’s just that your grandfather, kind as he was, had a wandering eye from time to time. I’m not speculating. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t absolutely sure.”
“How do you know?”
“He admitted it once.”
“To you?”
“To Hugh.”
“Did my grandmother know?”
Celeste nodded. “She stayed, in spite of it. He promised never to do it again. But then he would. He was kind of like a revolving door, if you ask me.”
“Who were the women—did you know any of them?”
“Hugh never told me, and I didn’t ask.”
Addison found Celeste’s statement very odd. It was a rare woman who had no interest in idle gossip. “How well did you know them?”
“We met at Grayson Manor. Your grandparents loved throwing parties. And I loved attending them. Hugh was always away making one movie or another and most of the time I was alone. Your grandmother did her best to make me feel like I was a part of the business, even though I wasn’t. But then again, neither was she. Not really.”
Addison nervously gnawed on the side of her lip.
“Do you want to ask me something?” Celeste asked. “Because you can, you know. You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“I don’t want to be inconsiderate.”
“Of what—my feelings?” Celeste curled a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh. “I doubt there’s anything you could shock me with at my age.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Try me. I’m a lot tougher than this feeble, shell of a body appears to be.”
Addison cleared her throat and tried to control her breathing. “I came here today to ask Hugh about his rumored romance with Roxanne Rafferty.” She stepped back, waiting for the aftershocks from the bomb she’d just exploded all over the room.
None came.
Celeste simply nodded.
“Roxy was one of many girls my husband supposedly slept with. He was a big flirt, my Hugh. Got him into trouble several times. But you know something? I’ve never given much stock to rumors—especially Hollywood ones. You know what they say…if it makes it to the paper, odds are, it isn’t true.”
“Did you ever ask him?”
“Hugh denied he had affairs with all of the women he acted with, and I believed him. Maybe that was naïve of me, I don’t know. Nothing was ever proven, and he’s always treated me like I’m the only thing that matters to him in life. Truth is, I was too smitten with him to ever leave, even if I’d found out he had cheated.”
“Roxanne was friendly with several other men too.”
“Contrary to what you may have read, Roxy was one of the nicest girls I’ve ever met. Men fell all over her, and yes, some of them were married. But I never got the impression that she went after them. They beat down her door and there wasn’t much she could do about it. I suppose she was flattered, just like any woman would be.”
Celeste’s unflappable nature inspired Addison to press on. “Did anyone ever talk to you about the night Roxanne went missing?”
“There were whispers, theories. Some wild, others ridiculous. Leave women alone in a room together for too long, regardless of their age, wild stories are sure to follow. We can’t help ourselves, I suppose.”
“There were suspicions of foul play.”
“Isn’t there always? Tabloids will say anything to sell a story.” Celeste opened the drawer, placed the photo album back inside and slid the drawer shut again. “Now I have a question for you. Why are you worrying your head over all of this?”
Addison plucked a white lie from her mental file cabinet. “I saw some pictures of Roxanne in an old trunk I found. Then someone told me she was dead. And that the last time she was seen was at my grandparents’ house, which is now my house. It made me curious.”
“You came all this way to ask a question because you’re curious?”
“I guess I just can’t stop thinking about what happened to her. I’ve been experiencing some…ahh…nightmares.”
“You’ll forgive me if I have to sit down,” Celeste said, pulling a chair out. She looked as if she was about to faint. “You’re welcome to have a seat yourself.”
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t understand.”
Celeste entwined her fingers, resting them on the edge of the desk. “What is it you really want to ask?”
“What do you think happened to her, Mrs. Brandon?”
Celeste twisted a gold ring in circles around her finger. “You understand if I tell you, it’s only my opinion, right? It doesn’t make it fact.”
Addison nodded and waited, her heart beating wildly inside her chest.
“I mentioned that I had spoken to Roxy right before she died about a role she was auditioning for. During the conversation, she said she was going up against another actress who’d left her threatening phone calls.”
“What kind of threatening phone calls—what was said?”
“Apparently, the other actress said she’d been promised the role until Roxy’s name had been thrown into the mix.”
“Let me guess—my grandfather suggested the director audition Ro
xanne?”
“He did. This angered the other actress enough for her to make some pretty outrageous phone calls.”
“What was the name of the actress?”
“Dottie Davis.”
Addison thanked Celeste for her time and left with one goal in mind: she needed to find her grandfather.
CHAPTER 26
Pale shades of coral splashed with a touch of blue dotted the horizon like ribbons in the wind, following the sun as it made its grand departure. It was Addison’s favorite time of day. She could sit and stare at the vivid array of colors for hours. But not tonight. Something else grabbed her attention. When she turned down the road for home, a man sat on her front porch, his legs crossed, arms folded. He looked much too old to be Luke; even from a distance Addison could see that. As she drove closer, she could see his broad, greyish-colored beard and the funny-looking hat on top of his head. It was brown and in the style of something Frank Sinatra used to wear on his album covers.
She exited the car and he stood, offering his hand to her when she drew near. “It’s Miss Lockhart, right?”
They shook hands.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Name’s Houston.”
He said it like it should mean something to her. It didn’t. She offered a cautious smile. “Why are you here?”
“Heard you were looking for me.”
“From…?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “From what I was told, I thought you were expecting me.”
A light inside Addison’s head sparked on. Detective Houston. “I’m glad you’re here.”
They went inside. Addison offered him a glass of water, which he accepted, hastily drinking it down in a few swallows like he’d been parched for days.
“I have some questions about a case you worked on many years ago,” Addison said.
He nodded. “Since I’m here, I’ll take a stab at it and say it’s the Rafferty case. What’s got you so interested?”
“I’m sure you’ll remember this house was the last place she was seen.”
He stammered a barely audible, “I do.”
“Can you tell me who else was here the night she disappeared?” Addison asked. “I assume you interviewed everyone.”
He fiddled with his beard. “I did. Can’t remember all the names, though. Not off the top of my head.”
“Don’t you have any records or paperwork from that night?”
He placed a hand on the arm of the sofa. “Mind if I sit?” After he sat down, he continued. “I’m retired. And I’ll be honest, I’ve thought of Miss Rafferty many times over the years. It was good to step away from it all, clear my mind. My life is simple now. I want to keep it that way.”
Any hope Addison had of the detective helping her turned to disappointment. He was old, he was tired, and he didn’t seem to care. “It doesn’t bother you that the case was never solved?”
“Never said that. I just don’t think of it much anymore. Can’t solve them all.”
His lack of compassion startled her, making her wonder if too many years in that line of work changed a person. “Your files—the ones you would have kept with the names of those you’d interviewed that night. They’d be at the station, right?”
He shrugged. “S’pose so.”
“I can give them a call. Then you don’t need to concern yourself with it.”
He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll get them. But first, I’d like to know what all of this is about.”
Addison sat across from him, her mind filled with a handful of scenarios, which she weighed one by one. He was a detective. He’d know if she was hiding something. A direct approach was needed. “Do you think it’s possible that Roxanne was murdered?” Addison looked him square in the eyes, gauging his reaction.
He shifted on his seat, a startled look covering his face that he tried to hide. It was pointless; she’d seen it already. “Miss Lockhart, I need to know who you are and why you’re asking these questions if you want this conversation to continue any further.”
“All right,” she replied, tucking her feet beneath her legs. “I inherited Grayson Manor recently.”
“From?”
“My mother.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t follow. I have no idea what became of this place once my investigation was over. Who was your mother?”
“Maybe this will help. I’m the granddaughter of Norman and Marjorie Grayson.”
He jerked his head back. The connection had been made. “It still doesn’t explain to me why the sudden interest in Miss Rafferty.”
“I have reason to believe Roxanne Rafferty was murdered.”
The man sat, silently digesting her words. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared at her, the discomfort spreading throughout the room like a thick blanket. Not knowing what else to do, she kept going. “I know it sounds crazy, but I—”
He held a hand out as if to shush her. “I see.”
He sees? He sees what exactly?
He tugged on his beard. This time, she kept quiet. If he had something to say, she’d wait to hear it. One minute passed. Then two. He looked at her. She looked back, refusing to break the silence. Another minute went by before it paid off.
“There hasn’t been any new information for years. And here you are broadcasting your opinion like you were there. Forgive me, but you weren’t. You know nothing about it.”
His arrogance clung to the air like a hefty puff of cigar smoke. “Do you think someone killed her or don’t you?”
“Maybe. Possibly. Hell, I don’t know. I had several suspicions back then, none I could prove.”
“Did you have any suspects?”
“There were a few people we looked at more than others.”
“Who?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Even after all this time? Why does it matter now? I believe she may have been murdered—here in this house.”
He shook his head. “Impossible. My partner and I searched every room. We didn’t find anything to prove Miss Rafferty was harmed here.”
“Then you didn’t look hard enough.”
“What are you saying?”
“I need to show you something.” She stood. “I found evidence in one of the rooms in this house. Two rooms, actually.”
“What do you mean two rooms?”
“One I believe she was murdered in, the other contained a dress that appears to have dried blood on it. I’d like to know how it can be tested to see if I’m right.”
He looked at her like she’d lost her mind, but followed her up the stairs anyway. “It’s in here.” Addison pushed the door open, flicked the light switch, and stepped back, allowing him to view the discoloration of the wood on the opposite side of the room.
“Their daughter’s room?”
Addison gasped. It couldn’t be true. Her mother’s room? “What do you mean?”
“This was their daughter’s room. Nothing could have happened here. The child was asleep in this room on the night of the party.”
A sudden uneasiness spread through Addison’s body. Her legs twitched, buckling beneath her. She reached out a hand, grappling for the wall next to her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I…I don’t think so. The stain on the floor there. I thought someone had cleaned something up, and then covered it with carpet when the wood faded.”
“This carpeting was here the first time I questioned Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, and it didn’t appear to be new at the time. I would have noticed.”
“I don’t understand. Why was the room boarded up?”
“Boarded up?”
Addison pointed to the strips of wood, some still covering the door. “When I arrived, the door to this room was locked. I couldn’t get in. Boards had been nailed over the glass. Whoever went to the trouble didn’t want anyone in here—ever.”
He reached behind her, picking up one of the boards. He inspected
both sides, then let it fall to the floor again. “I can’t say. It wasn’t boarded up when I was here. There have been vandals over the years. Maybe that’s why this room was locked up.”
“But there wasn’t anything in it,” Addison said. “Why this room and none of the others? Who would take the time to lock it up? My grandfather hasn’t been seen since the murder, and my grandmother is dead.”
The man shuddered. “What do you mean, dead?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I haven’t spoken to her since my investigation. How?”
Addison shook her head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t a part of her life.”
“What—why?”
“I’d rather not go into it.”
He offered a look of understanding. “Did you say there was something else—a dress?”
Addison walked across the hall toward her room, the weight of her feet felt like giant bags filled with sand. Would he find fault with the dress too? Everything was unraveling. It didn’t make sense. None of it did. She removed the dress box from beneath her bed and lifted the lid, extending it out to him.
“Aren’t you going to take it out?” he asked.
She couldn’t. Not without touching it. “You can,” she said, placing the box into his hands.
He reached a hand inside the box and lifted the dress. It unraveled, revealing the stained blemishes across the front. “You believe these spots are blood?”
Addison nodded. “I’m not the expert, but it looks like blood to me.”
He reached into the briefcase-like bag he’d been carrying, pulled out a pair of glasses, and put them on. “Hard to tell. It could be anything. Where did you find this?”
“In an old chest in one of the storage rooms.”
The man inspected both sides of the dress, pressing his face as close as he could without touching it. “I don’t think this is blood.”
“What then?”
“Wine, maybe. Hard to say for sure.”
“Can it be tested?” Addison asked.
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