“Probably not.” I took another sip of my own coffee and wrapped my hands around the mug. “So Ken is staying at the Mountainside? I rather thought he’d be with his wife. I heard she inherited some property in Deer Park.”
“Hmm, well, kind of tough to move in with your wife when you get served divorce papers,” Wendy said. Her tone seemed almost gleeful. “He got served yesterday afternoon, right at the police station. Talk about embarrassing. But he deserves it. Cathy should have done it ages ago.”
“Some women get used to a certain lifestyle,” Tara said. “They want to keep it no matter what.”
“Cathy was a bit of a wimp, but no more,” Wendy remarked. “I always thought she was too good for Ken anyway. He was little more than a blackmailer in a suit. He used things to keep people in line, mainly for Ulla. Take me, for instance.” She pointed at herself. “Way back when I first started at CNC, I was a contingent worker. They put me on Ulla’s show, and I was assigned to handle her publicity. She fought me at every turn, spoke down to me, made me do demeaning things. I couldn’t take it anymore. I threatened to sue her for harassment and she laughed at me, so I got a lawyer and filed the suit. A week later I got called to the VP’s office. Ken was there. They offered me a choice. I could go ahead with the lawsuit, which would end up being held up for years, or I could accept a permanent position as one of Ulla’s producers. Bottom line, though: I could never reinstate the suit.”
“So you chose the perm job,” Tara said.
“Yep. Only in recent weeks … let’s just say I was considering other options a lawyer friend of mine advised. Ken somehow got wind of it and told Ulla. She called me in and, with a big smile on her face, told me that if I pursued it, I’d never work in television again. And I’ve no doubt she could have done serious damage to me.” Her head came up and she looked me straight in the eye. “I know what you’re thinking. A good motive for murder, right? Except that Ken jumped the gun. I was only considering it because I’d had a bad day. I have had a pretty cushy job with Ulla. Her death puts me in a worse position. Anyway, Ulla and I reached an understanding. I made her see that Ken had misinterpreted the facts.” She laced her hands in front of her. “That detective grilled me on this, and somehow I don’t think he believed me.”
My eyebrow quirked. “Will?”
“No, his name wasn’t Will. It was Charles, I think. Yes, that’s right. Charles Callahan. Detective Charles Callahan.”
I could just imagine how Charlie Callahan must have put Wendy through the wringer. It sounded to me, though, that if her story checked out, she could be crossed off the list, which made me feel better. I hadn’t liked the idea of Tara’s cousin possibly being a murderer.
Wendy rolled her napkin into a ball and tossed it off to one side. “Getting back to Mrs. Colgate, at least she doesn’t have to worry any more. She inherited a bundle from her dear old dad, and now Ken’s out on his behind. It seems as if all the women in Ken’s life were finally wising up. Ulla was getting fed up with him, too.”
I leaned in and said in a low tone, “I’d heard that he had something going on with Candy Carmichael.”
“Yes, but oddly enough it wasn’t of a romantic nature. He was secretly working to get her the spokesperson gig for Glow lip gloss instead of Ulla. The advertising execs at the cosmetics company were split. Some thought Ulla was perfect; others thought she was too old, and they wanted someone younger. Ken was supposed to have a meeting with them tomorrow in Charleston to discuss, but I believe it’s been postponed. Indefinitely, since we’re stuck here, at least until the coroner’s report comes in.” She leaned forward and said to me, “Just between us, I’m positive that’s why Candy hauled herself down here to this event. She wanted to discuss some last-minute strategy about Glow with Ken.” She leaned back with a deep chuckle. “Bet she’s sorry now.”
I took another sip of coffee. “What about Ken and Savannah?”
Wendy blinked. “What about them?”
“Anything going on between the two of them? I happened to see them in a pretty tight clinch in the parking lot yesterday.”
“Oh, that.” Wendy waved her hand carelessly. “Like I said, Kenny always had a roving eye, and Savannah just likes men in general.” She paused. “Funny you should say that, though. Ulla asked me the same thing only yesterday.”
“She did?”
“Yep. It was during her first break. I was walking past the storage room, and suddenly she popped out, pulled me over to the side, and asked me if I knew anything about Ken representing Savannah in some sort of movie deal.”
I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Really? A movie deal? Was Savannah thinking of becoming an actress?”
Wendy shrugged. “I have no idea. She didn’t go into detail. I knew she was mad—Ulla’s face always got like a stone statue when she was furious—but I told her I hadn’t heard, and she just said thanks and then walked off. Truthfully, after what he put me through, I was tempted to lie and make up something, but … I don’t play that way.” Wendy paused. “It was odd, though. While she was talking to me, I saw someone else slip out of the storage area behind us.”
“Did you recognize the person?”
“Oh, yeah. It was Cathy Colgate. I figured that it must have been her who tattled on Ken and Savannah.” She paused. “Talk about weird, right? I mean, Cathy used to go out of her way to avoid Ulla, and here she was, spilling info to her. Odd, if you ask me.”
Tara and Wendy finished their coffees and headed out. I sat at the table for a few minutes after they’d left, thinking. Cathy Colgate had found out about her husband and Savannah partnering to market the book that had been Savannah’s in the first place, and Cathy had blown the whistle on them. Why? Was there more to it than met the eye? Had Cathy done it to lull Ulla into a false sense of security, make her think she was her friend, and then …
On an impulse, I got my iPhone out and used the white pages app to find a phone number for Bart Beckman. Fortunately, it wasn’t an unlisted number. I dialed it, and after five rings, an answering machine picked up. I left a brief message: my name, the fact that I’d been at the event when Ulla passed, and I had a few questions regarding his sister, if he wouldn’t mind speaking to me. I left my number and hung up. I hadn’t mentioned any connection to the police and hoped he might not ask when—or if—he returned my call. I’d cross that bridge when I had to. I chuckled, thinking that both Will and Charlie Callahan would probably not approve of my tactics, but oh well. Will would forgive me, especially if I could give information that would solve the case. Charlie Callahan—well, I couldn’t care less about his opinion.
I started to put my phone back into my pocket, when it began to vibrate. I snatched at it, wondering if it might be Bart calling back so soon, but then I saw Leila’s number. I hit the answer button. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
“Hey yourself. You went out early this morning.” Leila sounded chipper, but I detected the remnants of a faint yawn.
“I thought it was my morning for early duty at the shelter. I forgot that I switched with Sissy, so I don’t have to go back till tonight. What’s up?”
Another stifled yawn and then: “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Just a muffin and coffee. Why?”
“Well, drag that famous appetite of yours out of retirement. My editor left a message. The Mountainside Inn is debuting what they advertise as an ‘out-of-this-world brunch, the likes of which Deer Park has never seen,’ so he wants me to go down there and get the scoop. It’s on the paper, so of course I thought of you.”
The Mountainside Inn, where Ken, Savannah, and Candy were all staying. That could be very interesting. “Aww, I’m touched. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take Jim?”
“He’s actually covering another event in Browertown, but he might meet us there later for some pictures.”
“Well, then, count me in.”
“That’s what I figured,” Leila said, not even trying to keep the smugness from her tone
. “Especially once I heard your pals Colgate, Savannah, and Candy Carmichael are staying there. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll even sit near them at brunch, and you can interrogate them.”
“You’re no fun at all,” I complained. “I only just found that out. How did you know?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know such things. Plus, Jim and I ran into the new chef at the bar at Antonio’s last night, and he told us all about the new guests. So, I’ll see you at home in a few?”
“You got it.”
I started to slide my phone back into my pocket, then on impulse decided to try Maggie one more time. Naturally, it went to voicemail.
“One of these days you’ll pick up, Maggie,” I murmured. “But what will you tell me when you do?”
Chapter Sixteen
“Okay, Sherlock, what’s the plan?” Leila grinned at me from the passenger seat of my convertible and rubbed her hands together. “Or maybe I should be calling you Jess Fletcher?”
“Very funny. As for a plan, well, I don’t have a formal one. It seems as if each one of them had a good reason to want Ulla out of the way, except for maybe Wendy Sweeting, provided her story about the lawsuit checks out.”
Leila leaned her cheek against the headrest. “I’m actually liking Cathy Colgate for the deed. It all depends on how much she hated her husband and just what her connection to Ulla was. Are you going to share anything we find out with Will?”
“Of course. I want him to have all the credit for solving this,” I said. “Either he’s busy, or his phone battery died, because I left two messages and he hasn’t called back yet.” I sighed.
“You are going to tell him about that note, right?” Leila asked. As I nodded she went on, “That’s really creepy, you know. Do you think it was Ken or Candy who did it?”
“They had the opportunity. It had to have been put in my jacket when I left it in the bar. I was only gone a few minutes.”
“You know what Will is gonna say.”
I sighed. “Oh yes. But I’m not planning on listening. Right now all I’m interested in is having a meaningful conversation with one or all of our potential suspects. Who knows, maybe one of them will crack and say something useful.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re hoping for a confession à la Perry Mason, somehow I doubt it.”
I pulled into the spacious parking lot of the Mountainside Inn and parked under a spreading elm. We exited the car and strolled leisurely toward the building, pausing for a moment to admire the beautifully manicured garden with its colorful foliage of magnolias, pansies, and English daisies. A large wrought-iron sign read: “Mountainside Inn. Visitors Welcome”. The quaint cobblestone walk led up to a charming white building with two stone pillars on the outside, reminiscent of old-style Southern plantations. Inside was a spacious lobby with cypress paneling and a twelve-foot-high molded ceiling from which hung a cut-crystal chandelier. Straight in the center of the lobby was the large, oak-paneled reception desk, and over to the right was the large dining area where a sign outside the entrance read: “Sunday Brunch, 10–2.” The sound of clattering silverware and lively conversation reached our ears, and we headed in that direction. Leila displayed her press pass, and a young girl wearing a royal blue maxi dress led us to a table in the corner, across from the sumptuous buffet table. I hadn’t been particularly hungry, but the spectacular display of fruit and food made my mouth water.
We’d barely taken our seats, when a young busboy hurried over to our table and poured water into two goblets. Leila took a sip of water and looked around the room. “This table is excellent. It gives us a good view of the hall outside as well as the elevator doors. We can see our quarry as they enter, or if we spot one of ’em walking through the lobby, we can run outside and grab him or her.” She paused. “Not literally.”
“I know what you meant. We’ll need some sort of pretext to talk to them, since I’m not officially on this case. I leave that up to your creative mind. You are the writer after all.”
“Gee thanks. Now I need food. I don’t lie very well on an empty stomach.”
“If it’s any consolation, you don’t have to think up anything elaborate. Besides, it’s not an interrogation. It’s just a … friendly conversation. We might learn something of interest, and then again, we might not.”
A tall, red-headed boy wearing a black jacket and a nametag that said “Desmond” sauntered over to our table. “Ladies,” he said with a smile. “My name is Desmond, and I will be your waiter this fine morning. Would you care to look at our breakfast menu, or will you be having the brunch buffet?”
“Brunch,” we chorused.
Desmond smiled. “Excellent. There is a fine selection of juices on the buffet table, if you wish. Would you like coffee or tea?”
We both ordered coffee, and as soon as Desmond departed, we made our way over to the buffet table. There was indeed a wide selection of food: bacon, sausage, hash browns, grits, rolls and pastries, plus platters heaped with fresh fruit. A large chafing dish held heaping servings of eggs Benedict, my personal favorite. Two white-hatted chefs stood behind the white-sheeted table, one manning an omelet station, the other serving up pancakes and waffles. A bit farther down the line, I saw two large, silver, covered platters with placards in front. One said “Roast Beef” and the other said “Turkey.”
“They start carving them at noon.”
I whirled around and found myself staring straight at Doug Harriman. Today he had his glasses on. His eyes were still a brilliant blue, though, and they twinkled behind the tortoise shell–framed glasses. I noted he held a plate on which was piled an assortment of fruit, some granola bars, and a plain scone. He saw me looking and patted his stomach. “I’m saving myself for the main course,” he grinned. “Although I confess I’ve always been a healthy eater.”
That, unfortunately, was a claim I couldn’t make. “How nice to see you again. You wouldn’t be following me, now, would you?”
“Quite the contrary. I was about to ask if you were following me. I saw you and your friend walk in.” He gestured toward the other end of the table. Leila stood in front of the omelet station, balancing one very full plate and extending an empty one toward the chef. “Is that who you were meeting last night?”
“Yes, Leila Addams. She’s a reporter for the Deer Park Herald.” I paused. “She’s also my roommate.”
“Really? Lucky her.”
I wondered if my cheeks could possibly look as warm as they felt. “So,” I said lightly, “how did your business meeting go? I assume that’s why you left.”
“Yes, and I’m really sorry about that. But with a new job and all, when the boss calls …” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Anyway, I went back to the bar afterward, but you were gone. I should have checked the dining room, but I figured maybe you and your friend were discussing serious matters and wouldn’t welcome a third wheel.”
I barked out a laugh. “Serious matters?”
He leaned in close and said, “I’ve heard about your detective abilities. Considering Ulla Townsend practically died in front of you, I figured you’d have an interest in figuring out what happened to her.” He paused. “They haven’t yet released the official cause of death yet, right?”
I shook my head. “Not as far as I know.”
“But I bet you’re working on finding it out, aren’t you?”
I stared at him. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” he said, eyes twinkling, “my motives are purely selfish, I’m afraid. I bet my employer that you would figure out what really happened to Ulla before the police did.”
My eyes popped. “That’s a pretty bold bet, don’t you think?”
He chuckled. “Not really. I had a tough time getting my employer to agree to it. She has a very high regard for your deductive abilities. We reached a compromise on a timeline bet. I said you’d solve it well before Saturday. She said within two weeks.”
“She?” Suddenly it was starting to make a strange kind
of sense. “Don’t tell me your employer is—”
“Sydney! How nice to see you here?”
I glanced up and, sure enough, saw none other than Petra Littleton striding toward me. Trowbridge Littleton’s widow had not only been a former Miss North Carolina, she’d been a runner up for Miss USA in her heyday, and truth be told she didn’t look much different twenty years later. Her dark hair, which she usually wore in a chignon or a French twist, today was loose and flowed like a waterfall around her slim shoulders. Her makeup, as usual, was flawlessly applied: she looked like an airbrushed canvas. The lime-colored sheath she had on looked very simple, but I figured it probably cost more than I’d made in a month at my last job. Her feet were elegantly shod in matching lime-green wedges that added at least three inches to her already impressive height of five foot eight. Both Kat and I had gotten in the woman’s good graces when we’d introduced her to her little pup, Jonesy, and I especially had earned her approval when I’d exposed her husband’s real murderers, taking her off the suspect list. I had a definite idea now who’d been singing the praises of my deductive ability to Doug.
I couldn’t resist smiling back at Petra. While most people thought her stuck up and snobbish, I’d always rather liked her. “Hey, Petra. We haven’t seen you in a while. You weren’t at the last shelter board meeting.” As Littleton’s widow, Petra had inherited all his real estate holdings, one of which was the shelter. Petra had recently taken a slot on our Board of Directors, the result of a very large donation she’d made in her late husband’s name. Although, if you asked me, it was more of a thank-you for us hooking her up with the little Bichon Frise pup.
She waved one heavily bejeweled hand in the air. “No, sorry. I’ve been so busy. I never realized managing all of Bridge’s properties was so much work.” Her hand came down to rest on Doug’s arm. “Thank goodness I found a capable properties manager at last.”
I looked from one of them to the other. “So, you are Doug’s boss?”
Death by a Whisker Page 15