by Mary Maxwell
“Mind if I make a suggestion?” I said finally.
Dina looked over. “That would be very welcome, Katie. What is it?”
“Why don’t you play the 911 tape? Maybe Mr. Devane or Mrs. Lancaster will recognize the caller’s voice.”
“Is that really necessary?” Carter asked. “Neither Velma nor I had anything to do with the fire or the death of our friend. You’ve already confirmed our alibis for the hours leading up to the incidents as well as the rest of that night.”
Dina concentrated on her phone. When she’d located the recording of the 911 call, she glanced up and asked if Carter and Velma were ready.
“Let’s get it over with,” said Velma. “You’ve wasted enough of our time.”
“I’m just doing my job,” Dina said, tapping the phone with one finger.
After a brief flurry of static, the emergency dispatcher greeted the caller before a woman announced that she’d spotted a fire at Pemberton’s auto body shop.
“It’s a raging inferno,” she said. “And the guy that owns the place is on the ground in front of the shop with—”
“That could be anyone,” Carter Devane said dismissively. “Betty Boop, Betty Rubble, Betty—”
Velma touched his arm to stop the tirade as the emergency dispatcher confirmed the location of the fire.
“Is that correct, ma’am?” the man asked. “You’re calling about Pemberton’s body shop on Dunkirk?”
“That’s what I said,” the woman replied. “It’s a huge fire. And the owner’s been beat up pretty bad. I’d say it looks like he was in the wrong place at not the right time.”
I was still watching Velma Lancaster when the anonymous caller invoked Ira Pemberton’s familiar phrase. Her fingers tightened around Carter Devane’s wrist and her face registered an unexpected surprise: wide eyes, lips parted slightly and shallow wrinkles across her forehead.
“Mrs. Lancaster?” I said when the tape ended. “Do you recognize the voice?”
“Not exactly,” Velma said. “It wasn’t the best recording in the world. But I did hear something…well, something fairly unusual toward the end.”
“And what was that?” Dina asked.
“There’s this thing that my dad has said ever since I was a little girl: ‘in the wrong place at not the right time.’” She glanced from Dina to me and then back again. “Did you hear it, detective?”
“Yes, of course.” Dina put her phone on the table. “The woman on the recording is, we believe, somehow involved with what happened that night.”
Carter Devane grunted. “Based on what? A 911 call?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Dina said. “As well as other evidence and witness interviews. Besides, Crescent Creek is a very small town, Mr. Devane. Several people with the Police Department are pretty sure they recognized the voice.”
“Well, who is it?” Velma demanded. “Why did you have us listen to it if you already know who she is?”
“I wanted to see if you’d recognize her voice or the phrase that your dad uses,” Dina answered.
Velma glared furiously. “So? That doesn’t explain why you’re pestering Carter and me.”
Dina smiled, keeping calm and staying relaxed. “I didn’t realize that I was pestering you, Mrs. Lancaster. In my view, I’m talking with you about the investigation into the murder of your friend, Jacob Lowry.”
The rebuke, subtle and delivered with a genial smile, did the trick. Velma Lancaster’s demeanor instantly softened. She straightened her shoulders, leaned forward in her chair and sighed.
“I’m sorry, detective,” she said. “It’s been a rough few days. I’m obviously not handling the stress very well.”
Dina’s friendly smile deepened. “That’s understandable. You’re both going through a challenging situation here. Between the burglary at Mr. Devane’s house, the death of your friend and the fire at your father’s business, it’s no wonder you’re feeling the pressure and emotion.”
“Yes, we are,” Carter agreed, putting one hand on his companion’s arm. “But Velma’s doing great with it all.”
She managed a feeble smile before directing her gaze at a spot on the floor. The expression on her face had transformed from irritated and angry to resigned, worn-out and eager to be anywhere but the cocktail lounge at the Crescent Creek Lodge discussing the fire and murder. I watched her eyes as they drifted back and forth in a restless loop. Then I asked her again if she recognized the woman on the 911 call.
“No, I don’t.” She slowly glanced up at me. “Nothing’s changed in the last, like, thirty seconds.”
“Do you know the woman your father’s been dating off and on?” asked Dina.
Velma frowned. “What about her?”
“We’re pretty certain that’s her on the tape.” Dina paused, waiting for a reaction. When there was no change on Velma’s face, she went on. “We believe it’s Marla Soble. But you know that already, don’t you?”
Velma raised one eyebrow, although she made no effort to speak.
“And you know,” Dina continued, “that she and your father have a rather tempestuous relationship.”
“Everybody knows that,” said Velma. “It’s the same type of thing he had with my mother; the man is dysfunctional and juvenile, so he has no idea how to treat a woman properly.”
“Is that why you tried to intervene with the blackmail scheme all those years ago?” asked Dina.
Velma laughed. “Intervene?”
“I’m aware of what happened when you were eighteen,” Dina said. “There’s no need to resurrect the past, but—”
“My father was abusive to my mother!” Velma blurted. “Nobody knows the real story except the three of us.”
“Well, as I said,” Dina replied, “there’s no reason to breathe new life into ancient history. I simply wanted to acknowledge that you do have experience fabricating narratives and manipulating the truth.”
“Hey!” Carter snapped. “That’s not necessary!”
“It’s the truth,” Dina said.
“And it’s relevant in situations like these,” I added.
One corner of Velma’s mouth quivered. “I may not have a clean record,” she said. “And my life may not mirror yours, Miss Reed. But I’m not a murderer. I could never do something like that.”
For a brief moment, I thought she might continue the rant. But her fervor cooled as quickly as it ignited, leaving a hushed chill in its place. I thought about saying something to defuse the tension, but then I realized Dina was readying her next question.
“Very well then,” she said, turning to Carter Devane. “What can you tell us about the significance of the earrings and book that were taken from your home?”
Devane’s face registered intense irritation before he answered. “Why do you want to know about those things?” he said. “Shouldn’t you be looking for Jacob’s killer? The burglary at my house seems inconsequential by comparison.”
Dina nodded. “We believe the incidents are connected,” she said.
Carter’s attempt at surprise was obviously feigned. When he asked for proof, Dina reached into her pocket and pulled out a copy of the rhyming threats.
“For starters,” Dina said, holding up the poem, “we have this; it was found at both your home and the scene of Mr. Lowry’s murder.”
“Okay,” Devane said. “Maybe the two things are connected. I still don’t understand why you’re talking to us again? Shouldn’t you be out looking for the person that murdered Jacob?”
Dina’s smile was friendly, but I caught the flash of annoyance in her eyes. “I’m not working alone, Mr. Devane. The Aspen PD is investigating the burglary. And there are several people from our department doing everything they can to identify Mr. Lowry’s killer. In the meantime, we need to get as much information and as many details as possible to figure out how and why the incident at your home is connected to the fire and murder at Pemberton’s body shop the other night.”
“Then what?�
� Velma said. “What do you want to know?”
Dina folded the sheet of paper and slipped it back into her pocket. Then she repeated her question about the significance of the items stolen from Devane’s home in Aspen.
“The significance?” Devane smirked.
Dina smiled and nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“For starters,” he said, mimicking her tone a moment earlier, “they belonged to me. And they were stolen. Isn’t that significant enough?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit out of the ordinary for someone to break in and take just those two items? Your home is a stunning showplace, Mr. Devane. I saw the Architectural Digest cover story from a year ago, page after page highlighting your expensive art, vintage antiques and priceless collectibles.”
Velma Lancaster leaned over and whispered in Devane’s ear. He pushed her away with one hand and turned back to Dina.
“The book and earrings were special to me,” he said. “For personal reasons.”
Dina waited for him to continue. When he didn’t elaborate on the cryptic reply, she pressed him to explain.
“The earrings originally belonged to Velma’s mother,” he said. “She inherited them when Mrs. Pemberton died. But they were associated with so many bad memories that she gave them to my wife a couple of years ago. That may not make sense to you, but it wasn’t a big deal to us. And the book was the first gift Velma bought for me back when…” He glanced at Velma, but she looked away. “…well, it was when my wife and I were considering a divorce and Velma had separated from her husband. We were both going through a very difficult time, and we dated briefly. But that’s all a long time ago. And we both eventually patched up our marriages, so…” He glanced at Velma again, but her gaze was still fixed on Dina. “I don’t see how this will help you find Jacob’s killer, detective. Shouldn’t you be focused on that instead of trying to dig up dirt and gossip from the past?”
Dina lifted her chin slightly, her lips forming a thin smile. “I’m not looking for dirt, Mr. Devane. I’m trying to get the full picture here, and the items taken from your home may actually help us find the person or persons responsible for your friend’s death.”
Velma slowly turned to face Carter. They shared a silent moment, the tacit perception that Dina was neither enemy nor persecutor; she was on their side and things would be less precarious if they dropped the defensive posturing.
“Thank you,” Devane said after a moment. “And I’m sorry if my temper keeps getting in the way. I’ve never lost a friend to violence before. And I’ve never been part of a police investigation. These things might be ordinary events for you, but they aren’t for us.”
Dina shook her head. “There’s nothing ordinary about any of this,” she said. “We approach each incident as significant, notable and worthy of the utmost consideration and effort.”
I shifted a bit to catch her eye. When she looked up from her notes, I asked if we could talk about the button that was found by Devane’s housekeeper after the break-in.
“I don’t believe that Mr. Devane or Mrs. Lancaster have seen that yet,” I said. “Maybe it’ll spur something helpful.”
“Good suggestion,” Dina said, picking up her phone again and scrolling through a series of emails. When she located the image, she looked first at Devane and then at Velma Lancaster. “I’d like to show you a photograph provided to us by the Aspen Police Department.”
When she held up the phone, the screen was filled with the button that the police recovered from Devane’s home after the burglary.
“What is it?” Carter said, studying the photograph.
Dina pointed at the phone. “It’s a button that your housekeeper found on the floor just inside the kitchen door,” she explained. “We’ve confirmed that it doesn’t belong to anything in your closet or your wife’s wardrobe.”
When Dina swiveled the phone back toward Velma, her jaw tightened.
“I’ve seen that before,” she said.
Dina raised one eyebrow. “The button?”
Velma nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I saw someone wearing a jacket with those buttons very recently.”
“And who might that be?” asked Dina.
When Velma answered the question, I saw Carter’s head jerk slightly in her direction.
“Are you sure?” Devane said.
Velma gulped in a breath. “Yes, I’m sure. But there’s got to be an explanation. I don’t think he’d ever be capable of something like...” She swallowed hard and slumped back in her chair. “Like breaking into your home.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “…or taking another person’s life.”
CHAPTER 31
As soon as I was back at Sky High, I went into the kitchen, dropped my purse on the counter and dialed Blanche Speltzer. She answered on the first ring with a cheerful greeting delivered against the muffled roar of a loud television. I smiled when I recognized the familiar theme song playing in the background.
“Are you watching The Bachelor again?” I asked.
“Is that a crime?” she said. “I happen to enjoy seeing beautiful people fall in love.” There was a brief pause as she clicked the remote to silence the television. “Well, fall in love,” she continued, “or fight like cats and dogs. These reality shows are mindless fluff for the most part, but I think there are kernels of true sentiment buried just below the artificial exchanges and exaggerated emotions.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Blanche. I don’t watch much TV these days. I’ve been catching up on movies and the news when there’s time to sit down.”
She laughed. “The news? Now, that’s where you’ll find artificial exchanges. All of the ‘breaking news’ this and ‘breaking news’ that. In the good old days, they actually reserved the hysterics for events that were truly significant. But now…” She grumbled and groused for a few seconds. “Oh, who even cares about all of that, dear? I’m sure you didn’t call to ask my opinion about popular culture.”
“Not exactly, but I did want to ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
“When we talked the other day, you told me that Matt Soble was a misfit loner during high school. You mentioned that he lusted after girls that wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
“That’s right,” Blanche said. “A misfit, a loner, a horn dog with no sense of good manners.”
“Did he know Velma Lancaster?”
“Well, yes, of course. He tried desperately to woo the girl, even though she made fun of him in front of his classmates.”
The casual comment left me momentarily speechless, so I listened to Blanche ramble on for a few minutes about Matt Soble as a teenager. He was a short, tubby boy with bad skin, unruly hair and the unfortunate habit of bathing less often than most people.
“He absolutely reeked,” Blanche said brusquely. “I sent a letter home to his mother on one occasion.”
“What did Marla Soble do?”
Blanche giggled softly. “What did she do? She came by the school and scolded me to within an inch of my life. She used horrible language, Katie. As I recall, she was so close to my face that I could smell the piña colada that she’d had for lunch.”
“It could’ve been worse,” I suggested. “Thank goodness it wasn’t garlic and onions.”
Blanche scoffed. “The woman’s a terror. I was in Food Town the other day, comparing the sodium in two brands of tomato soup, when I saw her trundle down the aisle toward me. She was blathering on her phone, completely oblivious to the fact that she was in a public place.”
“That’s way too common these days.”
“You’re telling me! I’ve learned more things about some people from their screeching phone conversations in public than from actually sitting down to talk with them in private.”
I smiled. “Oh, yeah? Care to share?”
“Not at the moment,” said Blanche. “I’ve got a chicken in the oven and it needs to come out in a couple of minutes.”
“Doesn’t that so
und good? Roast chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and sautéed string beans is one of Zack’s favorite meals of all time.”
She clucked with delight. “Mine, too! And that’s what I’m planning for dinner, Katie. I mean, everything but the beans. Do you want to swing by and join me?”
“Oh, thanks for the invite, but I still have to catch up on some Sky High business.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying for the past couple of days,” I joked.
“Well, how about a rain check? We can share a meal next week. Maybe Zack can join us, too.”
“That sounds really nice. I know he’ll be delighted after eating fast food while he’s in California.”
I heard the oven timer ringing in the background.
“That’s for me,” Blanche said. “I’ll be happy to call you back later if you have more questions about Matt or Marla.”
“Actually, just a couple more quick ones now?”
“Okay, doll. But let me take care of the chicken first.”
While she busied herself with the task, I listened to her humming cheerfully in her kitchen. It sounded like an old Barry Manilow song, but I wasn’t sure. When she got back on the line, I asked for the name of the tune.
“I have no idea, sweetheart. It’s something they were playing at the beauty shop yesterday afternoon.”
“Well, it sounded lovely. You seem really happy tonight, Blanche.”
“I am happy. Boris is taking me to Las Vegas next week for a little couple’s getaway.”
“Va-va-va-voom!” I cheered. “It’s exciting to hear you having such a good time.”
She snickered. “I always have a good time, Katie. With or without a man by my side. Life is much more fun when you have an attitude for gratitude.”
“Amen to that!”
“Now, what else did you need to know about Marla?” she asked.
“I was more curious about Matt.”