Death at a Talent Show (Book 6 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  I couldn’t bear to watch another moment of this. Into the microphone, I said, “Stephanie, as temporary spokesperson for the Carlton PTA, I hope you’ll return to your position as president.”

  Now two-thirds of the way across the room, she whirled on a heel and faced me, her jaw slightly agape.

  “In any case, this entire community owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude for the outstanding job you’ve done for us, for many years now.” I led the room in a round of applause, which started slowly, but was thunderous by the time Stephanie left.

  The next day, I was back at Carlton Central as scheduled, volunteering in my son’s sixth-grade class. It was the grade school’s career day, and this time I spent the time drawing cartoon animals upon demand and dressing them in whatever garments the students suggested. This audience was far more receptive than the audience at the high school, and the time passed quickly.

  Afterward, Martin, whose daughter was in Nathan’s class, bumped into me in the hall. I’d gotten so used to seeing him in his magician’s black pseudo-tuxedo that I barely recognized him. He was now wearing his accountant’s clothes: a brown suit and a light blue, button-down collar shirt with a diagonally striped tie. His thinning black hair was no longer plastered back on his head, nor was his mustache waxed to dramatic Snidely Whiplash tips. He greeted me pleasantly.

  “You’re here for career day?” I asked.

  He nodded and rolled his eyes. “My daughter’s home, pretending to be sick today. She didn’t want to sit through another of my attempts to make being an accountant sound exciting to a group of children.”

  “You could always pull a rabbit out of your pocket to liven things up a bit.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” he said, his thin lips spreading into a wide grin. He snapped his fingers, and produced a stuffed toy in his other. hand, which he held out to me by its long ears. “I couldn’t bring the real thing with me, since I’m coming directly from my office.”

  “He’s very cute, Martin. I’m sure the kids will get a kick out of him.”

  “Unless he gets hopping mad,” Martin said, making the stuffed toy bounce in the air.

  I forced a smile. I had to admit that if I were twelve and my father were the sort to bounce a stuffed rabbit at the phrase “hopping mad,” I might just want to feign sickness, too. “It was nice seeing you again. I hope your talk goes well.”

  He frowned and pushed his stuffed rabbit inside one of his sleeves. “It’s days like this, when my own daughter is acting ashamed of what I do for a living, that I really regret having such a dull job.”

  “Martin, all adolescents are embarrassed by their parents. It’s part of the growth process. You’ve got a wonderful home and lifestyle—” I hesitated, realizing that I was merely making a reasonable assumption, but continued. “—and deep down your daughter knows that. Or at least she will years from now when she’s an adult herself. Think of how rough it would be if you really were a full-time professional magician. You’d be on the road all the time, doing warm-up acts for low pay.”

  “Yes, but there’s a thrill to being in show business that’s without parallel. You’ll see what I mean tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  His jaw dropped a little and he searched my eyes. “You haven’t forgotten about my show at the children’s wing of the hospital, have you?”

  Yikes! Two weeks ago I’d agreed to fill in for Stephanie for the show he’d mentioned. It had completely slipped my mind. “That is tomorrow. I’d forgotten the date.” Along with everything else.

  “Can you still make it?”

  “Sure. I don’t have anything suitable to wear, though, and I haven’t—”

  “Maybe you could borrow Stephanie’s gown.”

  I smiled at the thought of my ever borrowing an item of clothing that belonged to Stephanie. “I can’t fit into Stephanie’s gown, even if she’d lend it to me, which she never would.” Not even stuffing my husband’s fluffiest wool socks into my bra would compensate for a pair of differences in our anatomy.

  He gestured at my clothing. “You can be an assistant in exactly what you’re wearing now-khakis and a sexy looking blouse.”

  “You think this blouse is sexy?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself.

  “Absolutely. Well, I’m late for my talk. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at six, and we’ll go over your routine verbally.”

  I was so flattered that I merely said, “Okay. Great.” I could count on one hand the number of times anyone but Jim had termed anything about me sexy, and still have four fingers left.

  “Don’t worry. There’s nothing to it, and you’ve already seen the whole act several times. You’ll be great.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Have fun, Martin.”

  I decided to walk across campus from my son’s elementary school to the high school and have a word with Jack Vance about last night’s fiasco of a PTA meeting. All the while, I wondered where my brain had been when I’d first agreed to be Martin’s assistant. He’d gotten me so focused on the fact that this was to bring joy to ill children that I overlooked my complete distaste for my would-be role. And he’d just now done it again by calling my blouse “sexy.” The man might be an inept magician, but he certainly had mastered the art of misdirecting his audience.

  Jack Vance’s door was open, and he was clearly not there. Nadine raised her eyebrows at me, her personal version of: Yes? Can I help you?

  Feeling awkward after having gone behind her back to her boss, I said, “Hi. Lauren’s not here today, is she?”

  “Not on Tuesdays. I’m surprised you don’t know your friend’s schedule better.”

  Her voice was so snide that I immediately retorted, “Oh, I do know her schedule. I’m just not very intelligent.”

  She met my eyes in surprise. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry. Things are too tense here. In my eleven years in this job, this is the testiest it’s ever been around this place.”

  “I’m sure this is the only time someone’s been shot in the building.”

  “That’s true, thank God, but it’s more than that.” She shook her head and said scornfully, “That woman. She brought this on.”

  “What woman?”

  “Just thinking out loud. Don’t mind me. This whole business has totally gotten to me. Even brought one of my dolls in just to calm myself.”

  She gestured at the doll that was leaning against her in-basket. It was one of those porcelain dolls that I’d seen advertised so often in women’s magazines, I knew a lot of women must collect them. I just didn’t happen to be one of them. “How sweet. Where did you get her?”

  “I made her myself. I have a little part-time business. Dahl’s Dolls is its name. At one point I was planning on going into this full-time.”

  “You’ve since changed your mind?”

  She frowned. “My future business plans have run into some setbacks, thanks to my former…” She let her voice fade, but the rife bitterness tainted the air. She forced a thin smile. “Business and friendships don’t always mix, as they say.”

  Nadine was such an enigma, and this might be my chance to get to know her better—and trap her. Whether or not she was guilty of murdering Corinne, she appeared to be accepting bribes. I knew about the innocent-until-proven-guilty concept, but frankly, I wanted her out of my children’s school. “I’d love to see how you do these. Back when I was a Girl Scout leader in Boulder, I took my daughter’s troop to a doll manufacturer. It was quite a process.”

  “Yes, it really is fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “I couldn’t believe how expensive the materials are, though. I sure couldn’t afford the hobby myself.”

  If Nadine picked up on my implication that she perhaps needed an alternative source of revenue, she ignored it. “I’ve been at it for a long time. I have quite a collection of antique dolls, in addition to the ones I make myself.”

  “Would you show them to me? Maybe I c
ould get you to custom-make one for my daughter.”

  Nadine brightened immeasurably. I realized that it was the first sincere-looking smile I’d ever seen cross the woman’s face. “I’d be delighted to. When would you be able to come over to my place?”

  “You make them at your home?”

  “Right in my living room.”

  “Don’t you need to fire them in a kiln?” The moment I asked the question, a possible answer occurred’ to me. “You can just use the kiln in Mr. Paxton’s class room, though, right?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “We’re not allowed to make personal use of school property. There’s a company in Albany that I rent kiln space from.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not doing anything after school, if you’d like to come over then.”

  “I’d love to. Can you jot down your address for me?” She did so and handed it to me, but I didn’t recognize the street name at all. She began to give me instructions, but I have no sense of direction. We finally settled on my meeting her at the end of the day and following her home.

  I glanced at my watch and wandered to my car. It was an hour and a half till school would let out, and I had plenty of time to go home. But if I stayed at the school, I might be able to watch Dave Paxton at work and get a feel for what teaching an art class would really be like. My business, Molly’s eCards, was making me no money whatsoever. It was time for me to think about finding a new career. I wasn’t about to go back to college to get my teaching certificate, but I might be able to start some night classes for adults in cartooning or drawing.

  Resolved, I headed back to the high school. Nadine was now being friendly to me and handed over a visitor’s badge after only the briefest of explanations as to where I’d be. With a bounce in my step, I headed to the art room.

  Dave looked up at me and smiled. “Back so soon?”

  He then said, “For those of you who are unaware, this is a fellow resident artist, Molly Masters.”

  “Thanks. Would you mind if I listened in on your class?”

  “Not at all. You can drop in any time, in fact.” He gestured at the bowl of fruit in the center of the room. “As you can see, we’re doing a still life. I was just making the rounds, commenting on the students’ work. Why don’t you do the same? Start on the opposite side?”

  “Okay.” The students were working with oils. I loved the medium myself, but had given it up when my children were babies, always telling myself I’d get back to it someday. Though I now occasionally painted, I never really got involved full force again; life had taken me in other directions, as it has a way of doing for us all.

  Partway around the circle, I recognized the shock of red hair of one of the students and battled a case of deja vu. Jasper Newton looked so much like his father at this age that it was almost eerie. “Jasper, Hi.”

  He nodded to me.

  “Hey, Molly,” Tiffany Saunders said. She stopped her work to come over to me as I stood next to Jasper.

  “Hi, Tiffany. I’d forgotten you two are almost the same age. It’s such a coincidence, really. Your father, Jasper, and your mother, Tiff, were once in an art class with me.”

  “Yeah,” Jasper grumbled, “and I’m sure she never noticed my father was even alive, the same way Tiff—” He stopped abruptly and blushed as if shocked that he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.

  “Jasper, that’s not true. I’ve always liked you. You’re the one who never talks to me.”

  He gave me a glance that was clearly meant to signify, Leave us alone for a minute. I turned my back on them and suggested to the student at the easel I’d just passed that he add more yellow to his now lime-green rendition of “white” grapes.

  Using a talent that I’ve picked up over the years of being a mother, I nevertheless overheard Jasper reply to Tiffany, “Yeah, but that’s ‘cause you’re beautiful and smart and funny, the hottest girl in Carlton. I always figured: What would she want to talk to me for?”

  I glanced over at them. Clearly flattered, Tiffany gave Jasper an appraising visual once over. In flirtatious tones she said, “Try me sometime and find out, Jas.” Now blushing herself, she returned to her easel.

  I felt my own cheeks warming and was touched to think that maybe I’d just inadvertently brought the two of them together. If my memory and the rumors were accurate, they’d both ended relationships within the past year.

  Now that I looked at them in that way, they would make a truly cute couple. Instead of blurting out something stupid like, “Aw, shucks,” I looked at Jasper’s painting. “Nice work, Jasper.” Actually, two of the pears suggested certain female anatomy, but I suppose that was predictable.

  Having listened to my compliment, Tiffany returned to look at his painting herself. “You’re pretty good.” Their eyes met. Looking positively daffy, he said, “Thanks. So are you.”

  Dave Paxton, who was already rounding the circle of student easels from the opposite direction, said, “Time to get back to work, Tiffany.”

  He smiled at me and whispered into my ear, “I’d get a whole lot more finished portfolios out of my classes if I could divide them into just girls and just boys.”

  A couple of hours later I was at Nadine’s town house as scheduled. It was a nice enough place, if somewhat cluttered. There was barely a flat surface not occupied by a porcelain doll, I picked up a doll that was propped up against a table lamp. The doll was no bigger than my hand.

  Through what was perhaps only some trick my memory was playing on me, I remembered handling a nearly identical doll when I’d first spoken to Corinne Buldock about the variety show. “Am I imagining things, or didn’t Corinne used to have a doll just like this one?” I asked.

  “Yes, she did. She considered it a lucky charm, and often brought it to school with her. We used the same cast to make both of them.”

  “She used to make dolls, too?”

  Nadine pursed her lips. Even here in her home she had a schoolmarm aura about her with her tight, short curls and the ever-present reading glasses perched on the end of her button nose. “She was my business partner. For a short period of time.”

  “Why just for a short time?”

  “She just decided she was too busy. I bought her out. There were no hard feelings.”

  Despite her words, her clenched jaw and averted eyes indicated otherwise. I studied the doll in my hand, wishing it could provide a clue about Corinne’s murder. “This one’s so little.” I couldn’t resist saying, “Hello, Dolly.”

  Nadine shot me a withering look. I started to pick up a second doll that was on the top shelf of the cabinet. “Don’t touch that!”

  I stopped and looked back at her in surprise.

  “That’s an antique. Worth a small fortune. I already had one antique doll disappear on me.”

  “Disappear?”

  “Unfortunately. Neither Corinne nor I were very good at keeping track of inventory. As best we could decipher after the fact, she shipped it to some girl in Minnesota by mistake. We sold it at less than a tenth of its estimated value.”

  She then showed me her work area. She described the step-by-step process of making dolls in such exacting detail that I remained standing throughout, afraid that if I sat down, I would immediately nod out. Noble to my cause, I feigned interest while letting my thoughts wander toward how well she fit the image of the killer. Nadine’s wig had been un-centered that night. Would I have noticed that on the killer? No. From the moment that person pushed by me, my vision had been riveted to the gun.

  When Nadine’s lecture reached the part where the doll was finally shipped out, I thanked her profusely and gave my apologies, saying that I needed to ship out myself and get home to my kids. Her presentation had caused me to lose sight of my objectives for being there. My visit had not been a total waste, though. At least I’d learned that Nadine had what hinted at a motive, if she thought that Corinne had damaged her business enterprise.

  I drove around in circles trying to get o
ut of her neighborhood, till I decided to pull over and follow the next car that passed, hoping its driver was on the way out of the development. The technique worked, and I soon found my way onto the main road that led home.

  Suddenly, my backseat seemed to explode. I could see a flash of light reflected in the rearview mirror. The boom was so loud it felt as though the reverberations were traveling up my spine.

  I screamed in fright and pain. My ears were ringing. My neck and shoulder felt as if they were on fire.

  Chapter 9

  Congratulations! You’re My 20,000th Caller!

  I slammed on the brakes and pulled on the steering wheel to veer off the road. Stupid reaction. A signpost was now looming in front of me. I managed to swerve and miss the sign, but almost crashed into a telephone pole. The back tires spun on the icy vestiges of that weekend’s snowfall. My Jeep went into a full skid and spun into the oncoming lane.

  My ears were buzzing so badly that I could feel but not hear myself scream as a pickup nearly hit me front on. I managed then to calm down enough to regain control of my car. I pulled onto the curb and to a stop.

  I flung open my door and got out, breathing deeply and attempting to reassure myself that I was all right, just deaf and in considerable pain. A car pulled over behind me, and its driver, a young man in a dark business suit and tie, rushed toward me.

  Too scared and disoriented to pay much attention to him, I steadied myself by gripping the top of the door. It was only when the man touched my arm that I realized he’d been talking to me.

  “Are you all right, lady?” I could tell by his mannerisms that he was shouting at me. His voice sounded a hundred miles away.

  I looked into the backseat and saw little charred pieces of debris embedded everywhere. Amazingly, all of the windows were still intact. “A bomb. Someone put a car bomb in my backseat.” I couldn’t hear my own words.

  Had my eardrums burst? The pain in my ears was intense, as was a roaring noise. It sounded as though my head were inches away from Niagara Falls.