“Oh, no need to write it down. I’ll just keep it up here in my steel-trap mind,” Vera Mae said drily. She tapped her temple with her index finger.
Cyrus sat down and reached for a doughnut with a sheepish grin. “I was going to start Atkins today, but I think this calls for a celebration.” He wolfed down a jelly doughnut in three bites before reaching for a glazed bear claw. “So how many calls did we get today? Was anybody keeping track?”
I shook my head, and Vera Mae stepped in. “More calls than I could keep up with, Cyrus. The lines were pretty much jammed after the first commercial break, and they stayed that way for the rest of the show.”
She flashed me an apologetic look, and I shrugged. Ratings are ratings; this was no time for hurt feelings. My name is on the show, so spectacular ratings make me look good, right? (Freud would say this was rationalizing, but I wasn’t in the mood for psychoanalytic ramblings at the moment.)
“I knew it!” He reached over and gave Vera Mae a triumphant fist bump. “Wait till we get the ratings at the end of the month. We’re going to top every station around—I can’t wait.” He was looking longingly at a lemon-filled doughnut when Vera Mae and I stood up, ready to make our way back to our offices.
When he realized we were leaving, Cyrus suddenly scooted his chair close to Chantel, oozing charm. “Can you stay and talk for a minute? There’s something I want to run by you.” He let his hand rest lightly on her wrist, and she smiled at him.
I took a good look at his face and nearly giggled. I don’t think he had the slightest idea that he had a big smudge of confectioners’ sugar right smack on the middle of his nose. He leaned close, locking eyes with her like he thought he was Johnny Depp.
Vera Mae nudged me at the doorway. I lingered for a second, just long enough to hear Chantel purr, “Of course I can stay and talk with you, Cyrus. I always like to hear good news.”
Good news? How did she know it would be good news? Oh, yeah, she’s psychic. Silly me.
Chapter 17
I did a few errands after work, picked up some veggie stir-fry at Johnny Chan’s for dinner, and pulled up in front of the town house around six thirty. I was surprised to see an elderly Ford Focus with a bad paint job parked outside, right next to a flowering hibiscus bush. It had a WYME parking tag on the rear bumper. Irina?
Baffled, I let myself in the front hallway as the mellow sounds of Jimmy Buffett drifted out to greet me. Jimmy was singing about cheeseburgers and the joys of paradise. This is an ongoing debate here in south Florida: the constant pull between developers and local preservationists. The builders argue that their projects bring money and jobs to the area, but the locals are protective of their town and prefer that things stay pretty much as they always have been. As a new-comer, I’m somewhere in the middle. I can understand the developers’ point of view, but I was drawn to Cypress Grove because of its rustic charm, and I’d hate to see that disappear.
If you took a picture of Cypress Grove today and compared it to postcards from the sixties, the only difference would be the cars. The storefronts, the stately palms, the concrete pots filled with bougainvillea and vinca, are just the same as they were fifty years ago.
I stopped for a moment as a sudden thought swirled around my brain and then surfaced like a message in a Magic 8-Ball. Mark Sanderson was a developer, and his towering condo project would change the character of downtown Cypress Grove forever. The concrete building would clash with the Mayberry charm of the downtown area, and Cypress Grove would end up looking just like any other Florida city.
The tinkle of glasses and Mom’s throaty laughter brought me back to the moment, and I tossed my car keys on the hall table. Music and drinks? Were we having a party?
“Oh, here you are, darling! Look who stopped by, and look who she brought with her,” Mom added archly. Yep, it was Irina. With that English teacher. I scrambled to remember his name. Simon something. Simon Brent.
“Irina,” I said, managing a little smile, “what brings you here?”
“Well, we really shouldn’t have intruded,” Simon interjected smoothly, “but Irina and I were going out to dinner, and she insisted on bringing you this fruit basket. Someone sent it to the station for you.”
Pugsley was dancing around my feet, and I scooped him up for a quick hug before examining the ginormous fruit basket that was sitting on the coffee table. He immediately curled in next to me and licked my chin. I made a note to buy some doggie breath mints for him.
“A fruit basket?” After today, I doubted I had any fans left. This was a fancy one with all my favorites: ripe mangoes and jicama packed in tightly with star fruit and kiwi. I could see a box of Godiva chocolate peeking out at the top. A very generous gift. I looked at the note. It said, Thanks so much, Candace.
“Is from Candace Somerset,” Irina explained. “It came in about half an hour ago for you. She called first to get address. She wants to thank you so much for taking care of the cat Mr. Big.”
“It was nice of you to bring it over, but you certainly didn’t have to,” I told her. “I could have brought it home with me tomorrow.” I put Pugsley down on the floor, and he wound himself around my legs, his own subtle way of telling me that I wasn’t giving him enough quality time.
“Oh, no, I had to save it for you,” she said, her blond head bobbing up and down. “There would be nothing left of it by tomorrow. Lots of people at the front desk when it came in. Big Jim read the note to us,” she said, tsk-tsking disapproval. “He was giving it the ear, you know.”
“The eye,” Simon said. “You mean he was giving it the eye.” Funny, he was smiling, but I thought I heard a note of irritation in his voice.
Just for a microsecond, I felt a flash of suspicion. Wouldn’t an ESL teacher be used to these sorts of mistakes? I felt a telltale prickly feeling on the back of my neck. There was something about this guy that wasn’t quite right. Nothing I could put my finger on, but I knew it was there. There was something a little too slick about him, from his puppylike enthusiasm to his penetrating stare.
“Yes,” Irina agreed with a giggle. “I am meaning the eye. You are so right, as usual,” she said, leaning into him a little. “Is a good thing I bring it here to you, Maggie. Big Jim would have eaten the whole thing, and the night staff would have helped him.” She made a little dismissive motion with her hands. “They are pigs. Pigs at the trout.”
“Trough,” Simon corrected her. “Pigs at the trough. A trout is a fish.” This time I caught a distinct note of exasperation. I wished I had Cal Lightman from Lie to Me on speed dial; he’d know whether Simon Brent was telling the truth.
“Yes, trough. Anyway, you know how the radio staff loves the free food. Nothing is safe there.” She turned to Simon, her eyes wide with amusement. “One time they are eating the dog food. No joke. Remember the doggie yummies, Maggie?”
“Yes, I do,” I said, reaching down to pat Pugsley’s head and nudge him toward his Abercrombie & Fitch plaid doggie bed. “That was actually pretty funny.” Lark poured me a glass of iced tea, and I took a long swallow. “A client sent me some gourmet doggie treats from Switzerland for Pugsley. The writing on the bag was in French. I left them on my desk, and the next day they were gone. Vanished.”
“The evening staff ate them,” Irina explained when Simon still looked puzzled. “I am telling you the truth. Night staff is like bottomless pit. Any food they see, they suck it up like a vacuum cleaner. Like this, whoosh!” Irina did a passable imitation of a Hoover, and Lark grinned.
“Speaking of food, is that from Johnny Chan’s?” Mom asked, eyeing my takeout bag.
“Veggie stir-fry. And some egg rolls.”
“Oh, we should go. You are planning the meal,” Irina said, moving to the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just wanted you to have the fruit.”
“Wait a minute,” Lola spoke up. “Why don’t you join us for dinner? I’m sure there’s plenty.”
“Is trouble for you, I think.” Irina cast a hopef
ul smile my way, and I could see she wanted to stay. A delicious aroma was wafting out of the Johnny Chan’s take-out bag, and she licked her lips.
“It’s no trouble,” I assured her. “I bought plenty of stir-fry, and Lark always makes her own wild rice to go with it. We can combine it with the white rice from Johnny Chan’s, so there’ll be more than enough to go around. The portions are huge.”
“Done!” Irina clapped her hands together and beamed a worshipful smile at her ESL instructor.
Simon was an entertaining dinner guest, and he knew exactly how to wrap Lola around his finger. To my amazement, he’d actually seen some of her movies, and she loved talking about “the old days” in Hollywood with him. Of course, she never makes them sound too far in the past, because that would date her.
Lola likes to remain au courant, as she says, and can talk knowledgeably about all the young stars from Robert Pattinson to Lauren Conrad. So unless you had access to her birth certificate, you’d never know her biological age.
“Tell me how you landed the part in Night Vision,” Simon asked. “I bet that was really something. Wasn’t that movie shot somewhere in North Africa?”
“Well, the principals were”—she quickly corrected herself—“I mean, some of the scenes were shot there.” A nice save. If she didn’t include herself with the principal actors, Simon would realize that she’d had a very minor role in the film.
I happened to know that her character didn’t even have a name. Lola played a part that was described in the cast list as “Airline Reservations Clerk.” It was a step above an extra because she did have a line or two, but nothing to brag about. Knowing Lola, she’d figure out a way to put a good spin on it.
“As it happened, my scenes were shot right in Hollywood on a sound stage.” She paused, lost in thought. “They also did some exterior shots in California. You know that stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway that they used in the opening shots of M*A*S*H? They did a few shots out there.”
“That’s a great stretch of highway,” Simon said. “Who did you play? I only remember a few people from that film.”
“My character’s name was . . . Karen,” she said quickly. “A small part, more of a character role, I’d say.” Karen? How about Ms. No-Name Ticket Agent. Lola has a vivid imagination. She smiled and quickly changed the topic. “But no more ramblings about Hollywood. Tell me what it’s like being a language instructor. It must be fascinating.”
Lola rested her chin on her hand and gave Simon her best sultry stare. She was at full throttle, looking deeply into his eyes and using her smoky Kathleen Turner voice. She’s a born flirt. A few days ago, I caught her telling a portly middle-aged guy at Starbucks that she’d always been fascinated by life insurance and how she’d love it if he could explain the difference between whole life and term insurance to her. Huh? I couldn’t believe the guy fell for it, but he did and promptly asked Lola to lunch (she declined).
When I asked her later why she’d been practically throwing herself at him, she clued me in. “Oh, so embarrassing! He’s a dead ringer for an indie film producer I worked for a long time ago. By the time I realized my mistake, he was smitten with me. What can I say?” She made a little moue of disgust. “So I had to pretend to be intrigued by life insurance before I could make my escape.”
After dinner, we all sat around the kitchen table sharing a lime cheesecake (one of Lark’s specialties, made with soy cheese) and coffee. Simon seemed particularly interested in hearing more about Chantel, and my antennae were up. I remembered that he had asked to meet her the other day at the studio. Was it possible that he was a fan?
“Are you interested in the occult?” I smiled to show him the question wasn’t entirely serious.
Simon leaned back in his chair and nodded when Lark offered him another slice of cheesecake. “Well, if you mean demons and vampires, no,” he said affably. “But I think there’s something out there, you know? Chantel’s predictions can’t all be lucky guesses. So I guess I’d say I’m neutral on the whole idea of the paranormal. I’d like to find out more information before I make up my mind. I guess you could say I’m open to the idea.”
I was tempted to tell him that the National Enquirer had run a piece detailing Chantel’s predictions and the outcomes. She was accurate less than thirty percent of the time. I’d probably have the same track record, if I bothered making predictions. But I decided to keep my snarky thoughts to myself. After all, I was still reeling from Chantel’s performance on my show today; it would be mean-spirited to criticize her. And worse, it would make me look like sour grapes. Never an attractive quality, and as a shrink I should know better.
“Chantel seems to have popped up out of nowhere,” Simon said idly. “I wonder what her background is.” He paused. “Does anyone know if that’s even her real name?”
“Didn’t she give you a copy of her press kit? She passes them out like candy.”
Simon laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. But I don’t think you can really tell much from a press kit, do you? Some publicist has been paid to gloss over the real facts and give a wildly flattering picture of the celebrity.”
“Interesting, I’ve never thought of it that way,” Lark said. Lark always sees the good in everyone and never believes that someone might have an ulterior motive or a hidden agenda. We’re polar opposites. I’m the cynic, always ready to see the worst in human nature. You’d be surprised how many times I’ve been right. As Vera Mae says, “I always go by first impressions. It saves a whole lot of time.”
“You could do the Google on her,” Irina said, trying to be helpful.
“That’s a good idea,” Simon said politely.
I could tell his heart wasn’t in it, and I had the sneaking suspicion that he’d already tried it. I knew, of course, from my reporter friend Nick Harrison, that Chantel’s real name was Carla Krasinski, but I had no intention of sharing that information with Simon. I wondered why an English-language instructor was so interested in Chantel. I couldn’t imagine him as one of her devoted followers, and he was asking entirely too many questions. What was really going on behind that handsome GQ exterior?
“Maggie, does Chantel make you think of someone else?” Irina said suddenly. She snapped her fingers. “ ‘Remind’—that’s the word I mean. Does she remind you of someone?”
“No, I don’t think so. Do you mean a movie star, or someone like that? Who does she remind you of?”
“No, it is not me who says that. It is Vera Mae. She says it twice. That Chantel reminds her of someone, but she can’t put her hand on it.”
“Can’t put her finger on it,” I said automatically.
“Do you mean another celebrity?” Simon asked excitedly. “Or someone else? Maybe someone Vera Mae ran into in broadcasting?” His whole face lit up, blue eyes glittering, as eager as Pugsley with a new chew toy.
“It’s certainly possible.”
“Then that makes it even stranger,” Simon said, stirring his coffee. “She’s quite the mystery woman, isn’t she? Chantel told me she’d never been to Cypress Grove before.”
“Chantel told you that?” I remembered how Simon had insisted on talking to her that day Irina was giving him a tour of the studio.
Simon flushed. “We were chatting.” He spread his hands on the table and took a breath. “I was just making conversation. I thought I might be able to persuade her to come to my class to give a presentation. I figured my students would really enjoy it.” He glanced down and away as he said this, and a little muscle jumped in his jaw. A sure sign he was lying, as any fan of Lie to Me would tell you. In any case, it was one of the lamest answers I had ever heard.
“What did she say about speaking to your class?” I asked, putting him on the spot. I was pushing a little too hard, to the point of rudeness, but I didn’t care. I wanted to get a handle on this guy.
He colored slightly. “Well, she said she’d love to, but she was terribly busy at the moment. You know, the séances, the talk sh
ow, and of course working on the book.”
“Of course,” I said with more than a touch of irony. “After all, according to Chantel, that’s the reason she came here in the first place. For a little peace and quiet to work on her book.”
“I’m surprised to hear it, because I never thought of Cypress Grove as a writer’s retreat,” Lola said, sipping her coffee. “Lots of writers live in Miami and South Beach. Loads of color and excitement, always something going on.” She sounded a little wistful. “I’m more of a ‘bright lights, big city’ girl myself.” She grinned at Simon, probably hoping to switch the subject back to herself, but he toyed with his spoon and didn’t answer.
“It does seem like an odd choice,” he said finally. “But who knows what drives the artistic temperament. Maybe this is the ideal spot for her to work on her memoirs.”
“So many sad things have happened since Chantel arrived in town,” Lark said slowly. “Two people have been murdered. I can hardly believe it.” She must have caught my look, because she added, “Not that she’s responsible. I just meant it’s a strange coincidence.” I was about to remind her about Freud’s comment that “there are no coincidences,” when she let out a little sigh. “Maybe it’s bad karma. In any case, it’s very sad.”
“Oh, yes, quite sad,” Simon agreed. His tone was perfunctory, and I found it hard to believe he actually cared one way or the other about Althea and Mildred. After all, he was new in town himself, and the women were just strangers to him.
We spent another few minutes talking about the murders and the fact that the Cypress Grove PD seemed to have no leads. Irina reminded me that Althea’s funeral was tomorrow morning, and I felt my spirits sink even further. There wouldn’t be a funeral service for Mildred; her relatives were planning to hold a wake and burial out of state. I made a mental note to make a donation to the town library in Mildred’s name.
To my surprise, Simon mentioned that he planned on attending Althea’s funeral. Odd, right? Why would you go to the funeral of someone you’ve never met? I remember Rafe telling me that sometimes killers like to show up at the funerals of their victims, but I found it hard to imagine Simon Brent as a murderer. On that note, Simon and Irina left, and after taking Pugsley for a quick walk, I turned in.
Stay Tuned for Murder Page 14