Sleuthing Women II

by Lois Winston

  “Interesting. They haven’t figured in any newspaper reports on the murder, have they?” Mom asked.

  “We asked for a quote for the article,” Nick interjected, “but they never got back to us. They may have already gone back to their homes, unless the Cypress Grove P.D. asked them to stay in town.”

  “I can’t imagine why they would. They’d never be suspects, would they? What do you think, Maggie? Did Rafe ever mention them to you?”

  “I only saw Rafe for a few minutes today,” I admitted. “I have no idea about his theory of the case.” Everyone knows that Rafe and I are romantically involved and so they naturally assume I have an inside track on any crime investigation.

  It seemed to me that the Morgan sisters couldn’t have been involved in anything because I clearly remembered them sitting side by side, looking insufferably bored with the event. If I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured the scene, I was pretty sure that they were welded to their seats for the entire time. They were right in my sightline, except for the brief time I spent in the basement, and of course, we were alone down there.

  Except for the killer. And the sneezer, I added mentally, remembering the soft sneeze followed by the sound of someone creeping up the steps.

  SEVEN

  It wasn’t until dessert that Vera Mae came up with her theory of the murder. Nick was diving into his tiramisu and the rest of us were attacking our generous helpings of spumoni when Vera Mae put her hands flat on the table and cleared her throat.

  “Okay, here’s what I think happened. The killer had to be a guest at the party,” she said flatly. “That much we know for sure.”

  “Wait a minute, not so fast. It’s not a sure thing at all.” Mom signaled the waitress for more coffee all around. “There’s still the off chance that Greg’s murder was a random act of violence, that someone broke into the mansion and was hiding in the basement. Maybe Greg surprised them in the middle of a theft. That would explain the corkscrew as the murder weapon. It was obviously not premeditated. No one brings a corkscrew to a murder.”

  “You have a point,” Vera Mae agreed, “Someone could have slipped into the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement speakeasy. But what were they looking for? And why didn’t the kitchen help see them? See, that explanation just doesn’t hold together.”

  “The kitchen help wouldn’t know all the guests at the party,” Nick said. “If the killer was well dressed, he or she could have blended in and just walked down the cellar steps. After all, there was a scavenger hunt going on. People were wandering all over the house.” Nick whipped out his notebook. “I still like the idea that Greg might have arranged to see someone in the speakeasy. That he knew his killer.”

  “Shari Phillips told the police that someone texted Greg when they were sitting together and he got up to answer it,” I offered. “She’s not sure who texted him and there’s no way of knowing if it’s even related to his death.”

  “What about his phone?” Mom asked.

  “It’s missing,” I told her.

  “That complicates things,” Nick offered, scribbling in his notebook.

  “Who knew about the storeroom off the speakeasy?” I asked. “It’s not on any map of the mansion that I’ve seen.”

  “But it must have been on Greg’s architectural drawings,” Mom said. We were all silent for a moment and the server left a steaming pot of hazelnut decaf.

  I just didn’t buy the random-act-of-violence explanation. I was convinced the killer was in plain sight at the party. We finished up our coffee and agreed to meet again when we had more information.

  It was a lovely evening as Mom and Vera Mae and I strolled back to my car. The air was soft and balmy, the cicadas humming in the trees. We dropped off Vera Mae at her house and were still discussing the murder as we drove home.

  ~*~

  “Maybe Greg surprised someone in the commission of a crime,” I said to Mom. “But what was the killer doing in the basement? That’s the part I can’t get past. Why would anyone break into a home full of guests, a home that was brightly lit?” I pulled up in front of the condo and turned the ignition off.

  “Maybe the intruder was hiding in the basement waiting for everyone to leave. He could have been stealing wine,” Mom offered. “Vintage bottles can go for thousands of dollars. Even tens of thousands. Just check out the Sotheby’s ads.”

  Wine. High-end wine. That nudged my memory of my trip to Bacchus, the wine store. I quickly filled Mom in about my visit and dug my phone out of my purse. “I snapped this when I visited the shop; it was pinned to a bulletin board on a back wall.” I passed the phone to Mom.

  “Why, that’s the Hotel Nacional in Havana,” Mom said with a wistful smile. “I have fond memories of staying there. In the old days, of course. Nowadays, it’s not that easy for Americans to travel to Cuba unless they’re part of a group.” She examined the photograph more closely. “Yes, I recognize the lounge area and the pool. It goes right down to the sea. Who posted this? Was it the owner of the wine store?”

  “Yes, his name is Gavin Benson,” I told her. “Ring a bell?”

  “No, but I can ask Edgar about him. Edgar used to live in Key West and he knew people doing business in Cuba. At that time, it was a lot easier to make a connection there.”

  “Mom, if you could check that out, it would be terrific.” I took another look at the picture. “It certainly looks like a business deal, not a vacation.”

  “Wine and cigars,” Mom said thoughtfully, studying the image before passing the phone back to me. “Send it to me and I’ll show it to Edgar tomorrow. I need to talk to him about setting up better auditions for me. He wanted me to try out for a TV commercial on denture cream. Can you imagine?” she said with more than a hint of outrage in her voice. “I told him that’s not at all the image I want to project!”

  ~*~

  I had just stepped out of the shower the next morning when I was surprised to get a call from Molly Sanders.

  “Am I calling too early?” she asked nervously. “I figured you start the day early since you work at a radio station.”

  “It’s not too early,” I assured her. “Mom and I were just going out for a quick breakfast but there’s no hurry.”

  “Come over here instead,” she said with a touch of urgency in her voice. “I have home-made coffee cake just out of the oven and sticky buns.” She quickly rattled off the address and I realized it was only a few minutes from the condo. “I’ll be glad to see Lola, I was sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to her the other night. So much happened with—“She stopped abruptly, realizing there was no graceful way to finish the sentence.

  “It was a terrible night for everyone,” I said gently. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Molly. And I still have your folder of press clippings, if you need it back.”

  “Keep it as long as you want, that’s not what I have to talk about.”

  “Molly Sanders?” Mom said, already dressed for the day in a lime-green Boho top, white capris and espadrilles. I thought about her comment to Edgar, her geriatric agent, and I had to admit she was right. With her shoulder-length blonde hair and trim figure, she didn’t look like someone who should be advertising denture cream. Maybe it was time for her to retire Edgar, and get someone who could really help her career.

  I nodded, replacing the receiver. “She’s invited us over for breakfast. She wants to tell us something, this might be interesting.

  “I’ll take Pugsley downstairs while you finish dressing,” Mom offered. “Wonder what she has in mind?” she mused as she reached for Pugsley’s leash.

  ~*~

  Minutes later, we were ushered into Molly Sanders’ pretty sun porch at the back of a well-kept Victorian house. I wondered if she had inherited it. It looked like a lot of house for just one person, with its porticos, wrap around front porch and manicured lawn. I knew from the grapevine that Molly was an only child and had lived with her parents and cared for them in their later years.

&nbs
p; “Very pretty,” I said admiringly, as the three of us sat at a round wicker table overlooking the back garden. She had flowerbeds in full sunlight, a riot of color with day lilies, begonias, petunias and impatiens. A cascade of purple bougainvillea cascaded down a white wooden trellis and a collection of ferns and shade plants circled a lovely weeping willow. The sun porch had palms in porcelain pots and the hanging baskets of yellow roses that reminded me of the Seabreeze.

  “It’s a lot of upkeep,” she admitted. “Six bedrooms, you know.” I nodded. I had seen the dormer windows on the top floor. “I thought about renting out rooms, but you lose your privacy.” A lawn crew arrived and she waved at them as they started tending the rose bushes. “It would be nice to have a little income, though. I suppose I should have worked after Dad died, but I let it go too long and now…” She gave a little helpless shrug. “Who would hire me?”

  So Molly needed an income stream. Interesting. She dressed well and had expensive taste, but maybe she was short on cash. I had the feeling there was more to the story, but I sensed Molly had said as much as she was going to on the subject. I glanced at Mom who was staring at the elaborate flower beds, the crystalline pool filled with koi, the waterfall trickling down some artfully placed river rocks. This would be pricey to maintain, no doubt about it.

  “It’s very pretty out here,” I commented.

  “Yes, I love the peace and quiet,” Molly said. She gestured to a closed laptop on a wicker end table. “I like to do my charity paperwork out here. I was working on the Preservation Committee newsletter right before you arrived. I asked you here today because I think I know who called into the station and said those awful things when I was on the air yesterday.”

  “You do?” I was taken aback. This wasn’t what I expected.

  “Was it some kind of a prank?” Mom asked. “Someone’s idea of a joke?”

  Molly gave a delicate cough. “I’m afraid not. I’ve made a terrible enemy and it all happened quite innocently.” She put down her porcelain coffee cup and looked at me. “Did you meet Roger Nelson at the party? He owns the local hardware store.”

  “I met him,” Mom said quickly. “We chatted about his daughter, who moved to New York.”

  “That’s the problem.” Molly’s face was creased with embarrassment. “Arabelle. It’s hard to believe but Roger has quite a grudge against me and has sent me threatening letters. I’m positive that he’s the one who called. He managed to disguise his voice, of course.”

  “Did you turn the letters over to the police?” Mom asked.

  Molly blew out a little breath of air just as the wind chimes softly tinkled in the garden. “I was too embarrassed. I would have had to explain the whole thing. I had hoped it would just go away and he’d get over it. Silly of me, isn’t it?” She looked at me searchingly. “I hope you can help me, Maggie. I just can’t see my way clear to doing the right thing. I even considered talking to Arabelle but I think it would upset her and it might make Roger even more furious.”

  “But why is he so angry with you?” I looked at Molly’s sweet expression and found it hard to believe anyone would be outraged by her. But hadn’t Rafe said there could be more to Molly than meets the eye?

  “It’s about Arabelle and her unhappy love affair. I’m the one who introduced her to Greg Towner. She was smitten with him and well, one thing led to another.” She put her hands in her lap, waiting for us to say something. We were silent for a moment, as she stared out at the garden, struggling to regain her composure.

  “It didn’t end well, I understand,” I offered, hoping she would continue. “The romance between Greg and Arabelle.”

  Molly gave a derisive little snort. “That’s an understatement,” she said. “She fell hard for him and he was a total cad.” She paused and smiled. “Is that what they call it these days? When a man uses a woman and then discards her?”

  “A player,” Mom suggested. “It sounds like he was a player.”

  Molly nodded. “Yes and he played poor Arabelle like a fiddle.”

  “But Molly,” I interjected, “Roger surely can’t blame you, can he? If Arabelle chose to get involved with Greg, that was her problem, wasn’t it?”

  She grimaced, helping herself to some coffee. “He doesn’t see it that way. Arabelle was such a sweet girl, so shy and innocent, always willing to help out with my charity work. I enlisted her help with the Preservation Committee, and I suppose it looked like I was throwing the two of them together. I knew Greg was married, of course, and I never thought Greg would get involved with her.” A pleading note crept into the voice. “Greg broke her heart and Arabelle left town when he took up with Shari Phillips. I couldn’t have predicted things would turn out this way, could I?”

  “Of course not.” Mom said, patting her on the hand. “And I can’t imagine why Roger Nelson holds you responsible. It makes him sound a bit unhinged.”

  Unhinged. Maybe unhinged enough to murder Greg Towner? Roger Nelson hadn’t even been on the suspect list, but now I decided that maybe we needed to take another look at him. I remembered him looking morosely out the window at the Mayfair House party. I thought he was depressed, experiencing a dark mood. But maybe he was enraged?

  “More coffee?” Molly said brightly. She seemed relieved to have told us about Roger Nelson, although I had no idea how Lola and I could help her. “I have another pot brewing.”

  “Well, I could be tempted,” Lola told her. “It’s delicious.”

  Molly left for the kitchen and Mom stood up, stretched and checked out a hanging basket. “Beautiful,” she murmured, “Molly seems to have the magic touch with plants.” She edged closer to the laptop and a devilish gleam came into her eye. “Do you suppose she really was working on a newsletter?” she asked. Her index finger nudged the lid on the laptop.

  “Mom! That’s private. Stop snooping.”

  “Oh, Maggie, don’t be such a stick in the mud. Just a peek.” She opened the lid and gasped in surprise. “Well, this wasn’t what I expected.” We heard Molly’s footsteps approaching and she quickly closed the lid and took her seat.

  After indulging in another cup of Molly’s terrific coffee, Mom asked a question that could be important to the case. “Molly,” she began, “I hope you don’t think I was eavesdropping, but I overheard you talking to someone the night of the party.”

  Molly’s coffee cup froze in mid-air. “Really? And who might that be?” She gave a nervous chuckle but I could tell Mom had touched on a nerve.

  “Well, that’s the problem.” Mom put on her most innocent face. “I don’t know who you were talking to. But I heard you say, ‘I can’t believe you showed up tonight.’”

  “I’m not sure—” Molly began, probably hoping to deflect the question.

  “But I’m sure,” Mom said firmly. “I heard you quite clearly. It’s probably not at all important, but did you mention it to the Cypress Grove PD? You saw someone you didn’t expect to see. Could it have any relation to Greg Towner’s death?” Mom cast me a quick glance. Molly had no way of knowing that Mom had already mentioned the overheard remark to Rafe the night of the murder.

  “Oh, heaven’s no,” Molly said, backpedaling swiftly. She put her cup down a little too firmly and it clattered against the saucer. “I remember now. It was one of the kitchen staff. She’d been away at a family reunion and said she’d have to drive all night to be back for the party. I was relieved to see her, that’s all.”

  “Interesting.” There was a long beat when no one said anything.

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t sound relevant to the case,” I said, getting up. Molly looked relieved and I had the feeling she was eager for us to leave. “That was a wonderful breakfast, thank you so much.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Lola chimed. “We’d best be on our way, and we’ll let you get back to the…” She paused ever so slightly. “…newsletter.”

  Molly nodded and licked her lips, shooting a quick glance over at the laptop. A tell if ever there was one.<
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  As we made our way out to the car, I couldn’t stand the suspense. “So what was on the laptop?” I asked Lola, sliding behind the wheel.

  “Our little Molly is a gambler,” she said with a chuckle. “She was logged into a popular high-end site.”

  “On-line gambling,” I muttered. “I can’t believe it.” I thought of Rafe’s comments about the seemingly perfect Molly. “I wonder what this means for the case?”

  “Probably nothing,” Mom admitted. “But it tells me Molly is looking for an income stream. You heard her say she wished she had taken a job years ago.”

  “Yes, I did. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.”

  “It might mean she’s short on cash or it could be she has a whole lot of debt,” Mom said, revving up the AC. She paused as her cell phone chirped. “A message from Edgar,” she said, squinting at the screen. “Gavin Benson is bad news,” she read, raising her eyebrows. “He was involved in some dodgy deals back in the day when we both lived in Key West. Maybe involved in selling stolen goods in Havana. Stay away from this guy.” She snapped the lid shut. “Wow. Gavin Benson sounds like a piece of work. The plot thickens.”

  I immediately thought of straight-arrow, trusting Ted Rollins of the Seaview Inn. He seemed happy to be doing business with his new wine distributor, the owner of Bacchus. Should I spill the beans on Gavin Benson or let sleeping dogs lie?

  EIGHT

  I dropped Mom off at the condo and headed into work. I had just greeted Irina when Rafe texted me. “Followed up on Gavin Benson. Shady guy. I don’t see the connection with Mayfair House, though. Was he at the party?”

  “No,” I quickly texted back. “No connection as far as I can see. Anything new?”

  “Checking out Larry Ackerman. Later.”

  Larry Ackerman. He was the household manager I’d met briefly at the party. Seemed a bit cool and aloof, not Mr. Congeniality. I wondered what he would do when renovations started next week? His job would disappear. There probably wouldn’t be any reason to keep him on when the mansion was transformed into an art center. And the Preservation Committee probably had its own candidates ready to step into managing the place. Had Ackerman built up enough of a reputation that he could snare another job in Cypress Grove?