Pray for Us Sinners, a Cozy Mystery (A Ronnie Lord Mystery, #2) (The Ronnie Lord Mysteries)

by L. K. Ellwood

  It amused Ronnie that Allayne would introduce herself as ‘Elaine from high school,’ as if Ronnie had not known of her success. Perhaps she was modest enough not to introduce herself as ‘Allayne Witt, the fabulously wealthy Emmy winner who did so much better than you in life’.

  “Why is she calling me?” she wondered aloud. How did Allayne get her new number? Surely soap opera divas were not that connected that they could call the phone company on a whim?

  “Maybe her ears were burning?” Gina suggested.

  What sounded like another phone being tossed in the air assaulted Ronnie’s ear, and soon Allayne was speaking to her again. “Hi again, sorry about that. Hello?”

  “I’m here.” Or am I, Ronnie wondered. Allayne Witt had called her just as she and Gina were talking about her. How weird was that? “Did, uh, you need to speak with my grandmother? She was here, but she left for church a few minutes ago. My sister Gina’s here, though.”

  At the mention of her name, Gina leaped from the couch and gestured wildly for Ronnie to retract her words. “I don’t want to talk to her!” she hissed. “What the hell am I going to say? I know I’ll just say something stupid.”

  “Well, actually, I don’t know with whom I should really be talking,” Allayne said. “I did try your grandmother and she wasn’t home, and I just found out your parents aren’t in Florida anymore. Your uncle gave me this number. I was calling with regards to your, um, Great Aunt Lorena, is it? The one the pope’s turning into a saint?”

  “She was my great, great-aunt,” Ronnie affirmed. “Actually, he doesn’t turn people into saints, he—” Ronnie stopped herself. She did not feel like explaining the canonization process to Allayne. She was aware of the actress’s Jewish heritage, but had read in some magazine article that Allayne had traded those beliefs for some hybrid of the Eastern religions and New Age mysticism, complete with a parade of gurus, yogis, and vegetarian chefs tramping in and out of her California home.

  “Yes,” Ronnie finally said. “The canonization is set three months from now in Miami. Most of the immediate family is going. What would you like to know? If I can’t help you, I’ll find someone who can.” Perhaps she’s researching for a role, maybe the soap’s sending her character to a convent, Ronnie thought.

  “Well,” Allayne faltered again, and Ronnie detected that the girl sounded a bit embarrassed to be speaking to her. Before Ronnie could add something, another dull thudding noise exploded through the receiver.

  “Hello? Who is this?” came a brash, nasal voice that could only belong to Lorraine Witz. “Is that Veronica Lord?”

  Oh, Lord. Before Ronnie could acknowledge her, Lorraine spoke up again. “Listen, Veronica. What we have to talk to you about, I don’t feel comfortable doing it over the phone. How soon can you get over here? It’s an emergency.”

  Three

  “Every time I drive by her property, I ask myself why Allayne chose to plant her house here, of all places,” Gina said as Ronnie’s Firebird swooped from the main road onto the gravel path that led to Allayne Witt’s Florida home. Two Witt, a split-level monstrosity of picture windows embedded in pale pink stucco, was nestled in a clearing surrounded by a motley assortment of trees. Recently planted palms, their fronds still wrapped in clear plastic, lined a large manmade lake in the backyard, while a small orchard clustered in front.

  Ronnie noticed the trees blocked the view of the house from the main road, and she surmised that was done on purpose to discourage Allayne’s more rabid fans. Of course, a gated entrance could have better solved such a problem, if one existed. She had to wonder about the type of person who would camp out in front of a celebrity’s home for just the slightest brush with greatness. Probably no different than the people who left medals and prayer cards on Lorena’s old grave.

  Ronnie guided the Firebird to a stop behind a silver BMW two-seater. “Where else would you have suggested she build a house? Downtown Jax is full, and I don’t think she’d want the monorail running through her bedroom.” Ronnie yanked the parking brake back with a loud clicking noise.

  “I don’t know,” Gina sighed. “I figure somebody with her money would have bought one of those palatial spreads at Ponte Vedra by the golf course, or at the beach in some gated community.”

  “How much do you suppose Allayne makes a year? Primetime actors get paid per episode, but soaps run daily. How does that work?” Ronnie wondered aloud as she undid her seatbelt. Aside from her car and the BMW, there were two other luxury cars parked slipshod along the gravel-covered circular driveway in front of the house. The blue Mercedes bearing the Florida tags which read SOAPMOM had to belong to Lorraine, but who owned the red Porsche 911 convertible? Was that Allayne’s, too?

  “You figure nearly two hundred grand total for these two cars, and an extra fifty or sixty for Mom’s wheels… about two mil for the house and landscaping.” Ronnie ran the numbers through her head and whistled. “You know, I should have majored in drama, too. Of course, I don’t think Allayne finished college, just ended up on the show.”

  “Actually, the country just needs to prioritize better, and pay teachers what they’re really worth,” Gina said, laughing.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Hey, why does she call this place Two Witt?” Gina asked. “There’s only one of her. For her mother?”

  “‘To wit,’ a shortened form of ‘that is to say’. From the Middle English to witen, and the German wissen, to know.” Ronnie glanced at her sister’s bewildered expression, then added, “My guess is that the property sits on two acres of land.”

  Gina cast a goofy smile. “It’s great to learn, ‘cause knowledge is power!” she sang. “Hey, can I take your class next semester?”

  Ronnie sighed and opened her door. “You’re sure about coming with me?” she asked, realizing all too well that it was too late for Gina to change her mind. The drive back to Ronnie’s house was a good twenty minutes.

  “I’m fine.” Gina tapped her purse, which contained her cell phone. “Debbie said she’d drop the boys off at the house. Bill should be home by now, and if not they have a key.”

  They got out of the car and were not two steps to the front porch when one of the glass-paneled front doors swung wide open. Out bustled a woman in her late fifties, about five-foot-six with a heavy bosom concealed in a floral print blouse that hung loosely over her navy blue polyester slacks. An unruly shock of brown curls flecked with gray crowned her head, and bright pink nails glowed through open-toed sandals. She gestured wildly for Ronnie and Gina to follow her.

  “We heard you pull up, but you stayed put,” cried Lorraine Witz in a fit of panic. “What’s the matter with you, just sitting in your car? You thought we had a valet?”

  Gina raked a hand absently through her own dark bangs. “Uh, nothing’s wrong, Mrs. Witz, we were just—”

  “Inside! Tell me inside. I’m letting in flies. Laney doesn’t need all the germs.” Lorraine had them both by an arm now and steered them towards the door. Ronnie winced as the woman’s sharp, pink nails bit into her bare flesh.

  “Sure,” she groaned, and nearly threw one of her own sandals trying to match Lorraine’s swift, bobbling pace. What was with the urgency, to say nothing of the woman’s hawk-like stare toward the main road? Was she that paranoid to think the paparazzi lay in constant vigil in Allayne’s little forest? Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen among commoners.

  Why call them over to Two Witt in the first place, Ronnie wondered as they were led through a cheery foyer trimmed in sea foam green and large vases of feathery flower stalks like the ones found at Pier One Imports. Hopefully Allayne would be more accommodating with answers and act less peculiar than her mother.

  They turned a corner. “Watch your step,” Lorraine warned. Ronnie watched, then looked up to greet the lady of the house.

  One look at Allayne Witt perched on a billowing loveseat in the pastel-draped sitting room told Ronnie that Allayne would be fortunate to say anything at all. Th
e Nurse Bethany Torvill character she played on Southwest Memorial nowhere resembled the peaked, frail figure washing out against the light beige fabric of the sofa. A thin, pink scarf covered Allayne’s head, and full lips lined in shining peach smiled painfully as Allayne gestured Ronnie and Gina to sit.

  Truly the camera does like her, Ronnie thought as she recalled all the recent media coverage which showed an otherwise robust young woman. Either that, or Allayne had some of Hollywood’s best makeup artists on retainer and lurking about the house to ready her for such day trips.

  A generous spread of triangular finger sandwiches and tea cookies were arranged on a large platter on the coffee table in front of the actress. Allayne folded a white hand tipped in peach nail polish into her lap and motioned to the opposite loveseat with the other. Ronnie caught the reflection of a ring studded with emeralds. “Hello, ladies. I must apologize for not getting up, and for how I look today.” She bowed her head shyly. “This hasn’t been one of my better days…”

  “We can always come back another time if you need to rest,” Gina broke in quickly. Neither of the Alger sisters had accepted the offer to sit, but both reluctantly moved closer when Lorraine urged them deeper into the room.

  “Sit down,” she commanded them. “I can’t have people hovering around all the time. It makes me nervous.”

  Ronnie bit back a comment. Allayne waved away her mother’s pushy behavior and reached for a sandwich. “Oh, no, Gina. I’m just tired, is all. Besides, now’s a good a time as any to talk with you.”

  “How are you feeling?” Ronnie’s gaze was fixed on the skull-molded scarf, which Allayne gingerly touched.

  “Fine, really. You’re probably wondering about the scarf…”

  Ronnie’s mouth opened, and she felt suddenly embarrassed for having gawked. “Oh, no. We—”

  Allayne laughed at the sudden unease pervading the room. “Oh, don’t feel embarrassed for me. The hair loss was expected with the chemo. Yes, I’ve been going to the Mayo Clinic, I’m sure that’s common knowledge around town by now,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve been wearing a wig on the set for the past several weeks, and when I go outside—”

  Lorraine bent over for a pumpernickel pimento cheese sandwich. “He’s a wonderful man, who makes her wigs. Only uses real human hair. He’s been making Dolly Parton’s wigs for years,” she bragged. Ronnie pretended to look impressed.

  “It itches like hell,” Allayne wrinkled her nose, “so believe me when I say I’m more comfortable this way.”

  “You really can’t tell on TV, they do a good job of hiding your illness,” Gina said. Ronnie cast an amused sideways glance at her sister, who had never purposely watched an episode of Southwest Memorial in its entirety in her life. To her it was just background noise at either the deli or at Nana’s house.

  “Thanks.” Allayne’s smile was genuine.

  Presently a young redhead in a crisp, gray dress and white apron appeared from around another corner bearing a lemonade pitcher and glasses. In what Ronnie judged as an attempt to exhibit her authority over lesser folk, Lorraine ordered the tray next to the sandwiches and dismissed the girl with a disinterested, regal wave. “Thank you, Dakota, we’ll take it from here,” she said. “If anyone calls please inform them that we are engaged in very important business and don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  Ronnie took delight in the face Dakota made behind Lorraine’s back and watched as the girl slipped away as silently as she entered. Lorraine only shook her head.

  “Dakota,” the woman grunted to Gina as she poured the drinks. “The names people give their children. Probably where she was conceived. Why not just name her Minivan?”

  “Mother,” Allayne intoned sharply.

  “I’m just saying.” Lorraine held up her hands in self-defense. “Anyway, enough talk about the help. You want to know why we wanted you to come, and I’m going to tell you. If Laney here tried to, we’d be here all night. I swear, if the writers for her show wrote like she talks, no story line would get resolved.”

  “Mother,” Allayne echoed, looking clearly embarrassed. Ronnie’s heart went out to her.

  Lorraine thrust filled glasses in everybody’s hands and helped herself to another sandwich before settling down in the plush beige chair situated between both sofas. “They need to fire those putzes as it is, with the way they’re getting my Laney embroiled in some silly ghost story.” She jabbed Gina sharply in the arm. “Did you see it this week? The ghost of Brantwood, not even played by the original actor, comes to Bethany while she’s at Wendell’s house and says boo. Then they start showing these flashback scenes from when Brantwood was alive, and it’s the original actor!”

  “Mother! Enough,” Allayne cried, spilling her drink.

  Ronnie and Gina looked at each other, bewildered and speechless. Ronnie knew immediately that she and her sister shared the same thought: that if Allayne did indeed have a tendency to talk in a roundabout way, it was clearly genetic. The temptation Ronnie felt to point out that Brantwood as a first name was just as silly as Dakota passed quickly, for fear that Lorraine would launch into another tirade.

  As it happened, Lorraine did that very well on her own. “I mean, there no substance to the show anymore, not like ten years ago when Laney first started there,” Lorraine was saying between bites of deviled ham on rye. “It’s nothing like the glory days of Bethany and Brantwood, either, when Laney was winning Emmys. They make all the other soap super couples look like—”

  Allayne finally managed to interrupt her mother’s alliteration. “So anyway,” she said with a sharp glance at her mother. “We had heard—”

  “Hey, one of you is a writer, right?” Lorraine lurched forward so that her ample behind teetered on the edge of her chair. Allayne melted back into her sofa with an exhausted sigh. Ronnie wanted to laugh out loud. Clearly the Big Important Thing the Witzes wanted to discuss did not exceed the priority of Allayne’s career in daytime television. Ronnie thought of her new home, how much work was left to make it livable, and how this unusual visit was taking her away from that. At least, she thought, grabbing a sandwich, we’re being fed.

  “No,” Ronnie said quickly. “I teach English composition at the Ash Lake campus of FCCJ, and some lit courses.”

  “And I don’t work. I homeschool my two sons,” Gina added. “It takes too much of my time to pursue other interests.”

  The older woman appeared not to like either answer. She masked her disappointment by patting Gina’s knee and standing. “Well, I’m going to get the number of the head writer of Southwest Memorial anyway. I remember those little skits you performed in the Scouts. You two could do a much better job compared to the hacks wrecking my Laney’s career. Trained monkeys could do a better job.” She continued to mutter to herself as she disappeared down a darkened hallway.

  Ronnie turned to Gina. “So now I’m a trained monkey?” she asked with mock hurt. “You know, she could’ve just told me that over the phone. Saved us a twenty-minute drive.”

  Allayne exhaled loudly. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry you had to endure Hurricane Lorraine,” she whispered. “That’s what everybody on the set calls her when she comes to visit.”

  The three enjoyed a good laugh at that, and Ronnie smiled as a hint of pink surfaced on the young woman’s cheeks. For that brief moment the glow of health was restored.

  “Mother just gets aggravated when she gets it in her head that the so-called powers that be are trying to torpedo her precious Laney’s career.” Allayne rolled her eyes. “She’s convinced this latest ghost story thing is a ploy to get me so angry that I’ll decide not to re-up when my contract comes up next year. Like I’m being discriminated because of the cancer.”

  “Are you?” Ronnie wanted to take the words back immediately. She had no idea how sensitive Allayne was with the subject, but she relaxed when the actress sipped from her glass and smiled.

  “No, my producers have been great. They’re even thinking of writing it into the show.”


  Gina, meanwhile, set down her glass and leaned forward. “Well, I can’t imagine that your mother called us here to take jobs as script writers, since she doesn’t have the power to do that,” she mused, then looked up at Allayne. “Or does she?”

  Ronnie eased back and crossed her legs. No sense in being uncomfortable, since the point Allayne had wanted to make so long ago did not appear on the horizon of the conversation. Perhaps the longer they stalled they would be offered something more substantial to eat, Ronnie decided as she now nibbled a cookie.

  “No,” Allayne said. “Mother might have her say on a lot of things, but my career is not one of them. I have an agent-slash-publicist who takes care of my business. Danny is wonderful, and he’s been especially supportive throughout this cancer. That’s his Porsche outside, by the way. He’s been staying here since we arrived, but he’s in his room working. If we’re lucky, we can try to get him to come down to say hello.”

  “Nice car,” Ronnie murmured with a twinge of jealousy.

  Allayne nodded. “Yeah, I don’t much like to flaunt my money like he does.”

  This house doesn’t flaunt wealth? Ronnie gave the room another silent once-over, spotting framed soap opera magazine covers on the walls and elegant Lladró figurines scattered on occasional tables. On the mantelpiece just above Allayne’s head Ronnie noticed a familiar statuette.

  “Is that…?” Ronnie pointed.

  “Yeah, it’s the real thing, too.” Allayne nodded to her Daytime Emmy Award, giggling. “The other one’s in LA, though I’m thinking I’ll bring it here next time I come. I can’t tell you how often actors come home to find their awards missing.”

  “Stolen by the losers?” Gina smirked.

  “Usually it’s the help, fenced to collectors and such. So you can see why Mother’s not too keen on Dakota. Personally, I wouldn’t care if either of my Emmys were stolen.” Allayne gently touched the hollow where there was once a breast. “I’ve come to realize some things are more important.”