A Hint of Murder

by Mary Maxwell

  “Like Dad?”

  She tightened her jaw and turned the page in the yearbook.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize that looking at your old high school pictures would be this stressful.”

  “It isn’t the yearbooks,” she said.

  “Then what’s got you all worked up?”

  “I actually heard from him today,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Dad?”

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “What was the occasion?” I asked.

  “He was going through a box that had been in his car trunk,” she said. “It was mostly paperwork from his old office, but he found a bunch of letters that I wrote to him when he was overseas.”

  “Oh, when he was stationed in—”

  She grabbed my wrist. “Don’t say the name. I hate hearing that word.”

  “Okay, I won’t say it.”

  She turned a few more pages. I watched her face until the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes began to soften. When it seemed that she was a bit more relaxed, I asked if she’d noticed any pictures of Simon Wargrave.

  “A couple,” she said, flipping pages in the opposite direction. “Let me go back and find them.”

  When she reached the right page, she pointed at a photograph of several students sitting on the edge of the stage in the school auditorium. I recognized my mother and father, but the others were complete strangers. I glanced at the caption, found Simon Wargrave’s name and then went back to the row of smiling faces.

  “He’s handsome,” I said. “Was he an athlete?”

  “Still is,” she said. “He’s always been a big fitness buff; running and volleyball and swimming and yoga.”

  “So he stayed in good shape even later in life?”

  She nodded. “I saw him on the beach a few weeks ago. He looked almost as good as he did when we were kids.”

  “And so do you!” I pointed at her picture. “I mean, the haircut wasn’t all that flattering, but look how adorable you were!”

  She leaned closer. “I look fat and bloated, Lizzie. How can you call that adorable?”

  “You’re too hard on yourself,” I said. “You’re a beauty, whether you agree or not.”

  She muttered a few words before pointing at my father’s handsome face.

  “Look at the hunk,” she said, her voice deepened by sorrow. “How did he ever fall in love with me?”

  “I’ll bet it was easy,” I said. “You guys look so good together.”

  “Hmmm,” she murmured. “Maybe once upon a time.”

  I studied Simon Wargrave’s face in the photograph. His chin was lifted slightly, his eyes were wide and his smile looked like a toothpaste commercial. I remember hearing the name, but I’d never met the man.

  “Was he nice?” I asked.

  “Who?” my mother said. “Sammy?”

  I smiled. “Sammy? I’ve never heard anyone call him that.”

  “His middle name was Samuel,” she said. “Simon Samuel Wargrave. As a very young boy, the family called him Sammy. He started insisting on Simon or Samuel when he left for college. But after he met Denise, he let her call him Sammy.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said. “I mean, in a playful way.”

  “I don’t know.” She reached out and touched my father’s face again. “I suppose so.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “I love you,” I whispered in her ear. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  She tilted her head until it touched mine. Then she said, “Did you want to look through these books together?”

  “I can do it later,” I said. “I just wanted to get a feel for what Simon and his friends were like back then.”

  My mother sighed. “He didn’t have too many friends,” she said. “Bullies don’t generally attract other kids unless they’re cut from the same cloth.”

  “Such as?”

  “Do you mean which other bullies Simon knew in Jacksonville?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well, there was an exceptionally tall boy named Craig Loomis,” she continued. “He actually ended up in prison for armed robbery. And I remember Simon and two other classmates: Kyle Fredericks and Doug Peralta. Kyle moved to Oregon after high school; Doug actually lives here in Crystal Bay. He has a small shoe repair shop and a lovely wife named Nan.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I think we’ve about covered it,” my mother said. “And I know that most folks thought Simon was a bully most of his life, but he was like a saint whenever I was around him.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Then maybe he was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who would want to kill a saint?” I asked.

  CHAPTER 28

  As I pulled up in front of her house, Nadine Pleshette stepped onto the front porch wearing an immaculate white pantsuit and glossy black pumps. I’d debated the wisdom of the unannounced visit on the drive from the Big Dipper, but decided that I would simply wing it once I arrived.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Nadine said, walking toward her car in the driveway.

  “How are you?” I called, sliding out from behind the wheel.

  “Running late!” When she motioned at the gleaming watch on her left wrist, I saw a glint of bright green on her right hand.

  Nice diamond-and-emerald bauble, I thought. Exactly like Darcy described.

  “Do you have just one second?” I hurried up the drive, reaching her just before she closed the car door.

  “Not really,” she said with a pouty tone. “I’m on my way to a meeting.”

  “This really won’t take long at all,” I said.

  She huffed. “If this is about the twenty bucks that I borrowed from your aunt the other day, then I—”

  “No, it’s not that,” I cut in. “I’m talking to a few folks around town about the Simon Wargrave case, just to maybe help the police with their investigation.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” she asked.

  “Community service,” I said with a big smile. “I like to support our men and women in blue.”

  She thought for a second. “But they wear brown uniforms.”

  I kept the smile going, despite the flicker of irritation bubbling in the pit of my stomach. While Nadine glared at me, I briefly explained that I’d worked as a 911 operator in Atlanta and had a lifelong affinity for solving mysteries.

  “It might sound nutty to some people,” I added, “but I truly believe that an engaged community is a safe community.” I paused. “You know, see something, say something.”

  Her glossy red lips pouted again. “Are you asking me if I saw something?”

  I shook my head. “It’s a slogan,” I said. “I was actually interested to know if you’ve seen Simon Wargrave lately.”

  The pout shifted into a puckered frown. “I barely know the man,” she answered. “Why would I have seen him lately?”

  “Well, you and he went to high school together, so I—”

  “Along with about two hundred other people,” she said, “but I haven’t seen any of them lately either.”

  The soft, melodic tone of her voice had been replaced with a hard, defensive edge. I was beginning to believe that my hunch was right; Nadine knew something about Simon’s murder, but it didn’t seem likely that she’d be sharing it with me anytime soon.

  “Are we done?” she asked.

  “Just a couple more questions, please,” I said. “Do you know anyone who owns a black Mercedes SUV?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “So what now?” she snipped. “You supporting the DMV, too?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Sugar, I hate to be rude,” she said. “But I’ve got business to take care of up in Ferndale. I can’t be late, and I have two stops here in town before I head north.”

  “Sure, of course,” I said. “I apologize for ambushing your escape.”

  She scoffed. “My escape? What on eart
h do you mean? I’m going to have dinner with friends who are visiting from Dallas.”

  I smiled. “What about Doug Peralta?” I said as she slid in behind the wheel and lowered the window. “Have you seen him in the past few days?”

  Nadine tilted her head to one side and sighed loudly. “Doug…” She hesitated. “What was the last name?”

  “Peralta,” I said. “He owns the shoe repair shop on Randall Street. He was also in the same high school class as you and Simon Wargrave.”

  A look of alarm flashed across her face. “That’s such a long, long time ago,” she said.

  “My memory’s never been all that great.”

  “You, Doug and Simon were in Drama Club together,” I said. “You did a production of Macbeth that was written up in The New York Times because it—”

  “Why are you being such a…pest, sugar?” She managed a watery smile. “You’re usually so sweet and nice when I visit your aunt’s shop.”

  “I’m sorry, Nadine.”

  She reached up and adjusted the scarf around her throat. I hadn’t noticed it before, but she was wearing a sterling silver pendant on a chain.

  “That’s really beautiful,” I said, leaning down for a better view. “Is it a family keepsake?”

  She fingered the chain. “It was a gift,” she said. “My family never had heirlooms or things like that.”

  As she fiddled with the necklace, I caught a quick glimpse of the two letters engraved on one side of the pendant: BG. My heart skidded at the possibility that Nadine was Baby Girl.

  “Well, it’s lovely,” I said. “But those aren’t your initials, so—”

  She suddenly covered the pendant with her hand. “No,” she said brusquely. “It was just a gift. Now if you’ll please excuse me—” She fired up the engine and began to slowly raise the window. “—I can’t be late to my meeting!”

  CHAPTER 29

  As soon as Nadine Pleshette roared out of the driveway and down the street, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Detective Shaw: Possible new person of interest. Call later to discuss?

  When I was walking down the driveway to my car, I heard a high-pitched voice from across the street.

  “Yoo-hoo!” a woman shouted. “Can I ask you something?”

  It was an older woman with short gray hair. She was waving one hand and holding a small brown dog tucked the other arm. The dog was panting and struggling to escape its owner’s grip.

  “Marie!” the woman hissed at the pooch. “You stop that right this minute!”

  She hurried over to where I stood, whispering to the dog and cursing under breath.

  “I hope that I didn’t startle you,” she said. “I was coming out to walk Marie, but noticed you over here as Nanette left.”

  I smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Liz Hutton.”

  “Phoebe,” she said, shaking my hand while her dog squirmed. “Phoebe Crenshaw.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Phoebe.” I reached to pet her furry companion. “And who’s this little nugget?”

  She heaved a sigh. “This is Biscuit. She’s a full pedigree pain in the butt.”

  I scratched behind the pup’s ears. She licked my hand and then went back to wriggling and whining.

  “Well, she’s cute as a button,” I said. “Are you two heading out for a walk?”

  Phoebe nodded. “We were,” she replied. “But then I saw you with Nadine.” She quickly looked around. “How was she? I’ve been worried about her.”

  “Oh? Has she not been feeling well?”

  Nadine’s neighbor shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said. “I’ve seen her over here smoking up a storm, and the only time she does that is when the world’s gone topsy-turvy.”

  “Well, I don’t really know how—”

  “Did she mention her new beau?” asked Phoebe.

  “No, we didn’t talk about anything like that,” I said.

  “That’s too bad,” the other woman said. “I’m worried that he’s…well, frankly, I’m worried that he’s up to no good.”

  “Who is he?”

  She shrugged. “Not a clue. I was walking Biscuit a couple of days ago, maybe around six in the evening, and the two of them were fighting like cats and dogs in the garage.”

  “Mrs. Pleshette and her new friend?”

  “Yes, it was…well, I’m just going to call it like I see it,” she said. “It was shameful! A grown woman out in full view of her neighbors wearing a slinky negligee with nothing over it.” She grunted her disapproval. “And that big oaf was pawing at her like she was a filet mignon.”

  “So they were making out?”

  She pursed her lips. “Right there for the world to see!”

  “Were they out in the garage for a long time?”

  “Felt like days,” Phoebe answered. “But it was probably five or ten minutes. And the way it ended was so odd. One second, they’re swapping spit, and the next thing you know, the two of them are hollering at the top of their lungs. Fighting about whether or not Nadine had promised to go with the guy to the Bahamas for a long weekend.”

  “They were arguing about a trip they’d planned?”

  “That was the first thing,” she said. “Then they screaming about the bully that used to torment Nadine’s boyfriend when they were all in school.”

  “Sorry,” I said, hoping to clarify what she’d just told me, “did you say the other guy was a bully?”

  Phoebe nodded. “Used to humiliate Nadine’s beau in gym class,” she said. “I couldn’t believe my ears, but I walked Biscuit across the street so I could hopefully hear a little better.”

  “Did it help?”

  “For a second,” she said. “But then Nadine spotted me, so she grabbed the man’s hand and they went inside.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” I said. “It would be interesting to hear more about their disagreement.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Phoebe told me. “I’m not crazy about listening to a bunch of profanity. When they first started bickering, they kept it clean. But the longer they screamed at one another, the more vulgarities they used. It was terrible; I had to cover Biscuit’s ears so she wouldn’t be exposed to such wickedness and disrespect!”

  “Smart move,” I said.

  Phoebe smiled. “I know she’s a dog and doesn’t really understand what’s being said, but they say that pets can tell what’s going on just from body language and how loud people are talking.”

  I moved closer. “That’s what I’ve heard, too,” I whispered. “Did you hear Nadine and her gentleman friend talking again after that?”

  “Just once,” Phoebe answered. “Late that night, Biscuit and I were watching The Good Place when I heard car doors slamming. I peeked through the curtains and saw them in the driveway again. He was saying, ‘Yes, I’ll bleeping do it,’ and Phoebe kept telling him not to.”

  “Did you hear what the man was referring to?”

  She frowned. “I wish,” Phoebe said. “It drove me nuts all the rest of the night.”

  “Anything after that?” I asked. “Either that evening or the days that followed?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Until I noticed Nadine out here talking with you just now, I haven’t seen her in two or three days.”

  “Do you know if she maybe went out of town?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Phoebe. “The lights were on at night. The newspaper and mail were taken inside every day. And I saw UPS deliver a package that wasn’t on the porch a while later.”

  “Okay, so you saw Nadine and her friend being amorous in the garage,” I said, recapping what she’d shared. “Then you heard and witnessed an argument a couple of nights ago. But that was the last time you saw Nadine.”

  “That’s correct,” she replied. “I knew that her husband was out of town for a couple of weeks at a training seminar. The poor man. He’s working his fingers to the bone while his wife is bumping uglies with Simon Warg
rave and some thug from Jacksonville!”

  “You hadn’t mentioned that yet,” I said, trying to disguise my surprise. “Are you sure Nadine was involved with both Simon and another man?”

  She nodded. “When I heard her arguing with the other fellow, he was threatening to go home to Jacksonville if she didn’t stop seeing Simon. He told her the only other option would be something drastic that she’d regret forever.”

  “So Simon’s murder could possibly involve a love triangle,” I said.

  “I suppose so,” Phoebe replied. “And it’s just foolish for her to be involved with any of that nonsense. I mean, if she’s cheating on her husband, then Nadine’s marriage doesn’t seem to be going very well. And how in the world could she possible keep two men happy at the same time if she and her husband are having problems?”

  CHAPTER 30

  It was a few minutes after nine that evening. I was finishing the dishes and listening to a true crime podcast about a famous jewelry store heist when Ethan Shaw called.

  “You got my message?” I said.

  “Yes, but there was heavy static on the line,” he said. “The only detail I could clearly make out was something about a silver necklace.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “It’s a sterling silver pendant with the initials BG on it. Nadine Pleshette was wearing it this afternoon. Plus, she was acting very cagey and didn’t seem too thrilled to be discussing the Wargrave case.”

  “When did you see her?”

  “Around five,” I said. “I left the Big Dipper at four, ran a couple of errands and then went to Nadine’s house.”

  “Hmmm…” He sounded distracted. “What time was that again?”

  “Five. Why are you curious about that?”

  He laughed. “I have a guess as to why Mrs. Pleshette was being cagey.”

  I waited for more. But when he didn’t say anything after a few moments, I asked if Ethan was expecting me to guess.

  “No, no,” he said, chuckling again. “Sorry about that, Liz. I’m trying to figure out the cooking time on my microwave pizza.”

  “No problem. Which one do you have?”

  “Red Baron,” he said. “The deep dish pepperoni for one. It’s all they sell at the gas station down the street.”