by Maggie King
I looked at Lucy. She asked Todd, “Would you recognize the man if you saw him again?”
Todd shrugged again. “Probably. I’m pretty good with faces.”
Now all I had to do was bring Todd a picture of this man. Someone with white hair and glasses. My sigh carried. I covered my rudeness with a smile and a warm “thank you” for his help.
“My pleasure. Can I do anything else for you ladies?”
“No, we’ll just get some breakfast.”
Over coffee and croissants, I said, “White hair and glasses, indeed.”
“Standard older guy looks,” Lucy laughed. “But who is this guy?”
I groaned. “He’s another one of these strays we’re collecting like cats. We haven’t identified the women in the car from Florida and now we have this guy.”
“The question is, was he Nina’s critique partner?”
“It makes sense that he was. But sense doesn’t give us answers.”
“If he was, apparently Nina didn’t take kindly to criticism.”
“So—we find this guy, take a picture of him, and get a sample of his handwriting.”
We threw up our hands in surrender and fell into fits of giggling.
•••
“Vince, do you know any playwrights with white hair?”
“I don’t know any playwrights, period.”
“The James River Writers group had a panel of playwrights at the Writing Show a few years back. I didn’t go to that one. I’ll check with them and see if they can give me a list.”
Vince and I sat in the family room eating lunch. Morris sat nearby, hyper alert for tidbits. “This is starting to seem futile. I just know that Brad killed both those women.”
Vince held up his hand in a stop position. “Then leave it to the police and stay out of Brad’s way.”
Ignoring my husband’s suggestion, I went on. “I’ve talked to everyone and his brother and her sister. In TV shows the detectives go from person to person, and each person leads them to the next person, until at last they hit upon the culprit. And it’s all done in sixty minutes. We’ve been at this for weeks.”
Vince gave me a wry look. “Welcome to my world. My former world, rather. Investigations take a long time and often go unsolved.”
I thought of Cold Case, the TV show that dealt with unsolved cases. I pictured the Rox-Nina murders being solved by a team of TV detectives, all to the accompaniment of period music. What was music for this period anyway? Katy Perry? Taylor Swift? Hiphop? As I preferred popular music from earlier decades, I wasn’t up on contemporary artists. I laughed as I realized I was stamping myself an old fogey.
Vince repeated, “Leave it to the police. Why don’t you concentrate on your writing?”
Not a bad idea but I didn’t admit it to my husband. I finished my sandwich and headed to my computer where I sent an e-mail to the address on the James River Writers contact page. Then I closed my e-mail program and took Vince’s advice—I got back to my real job of writing a romance. Murder was not romantic.
The next time I checked my e-mail, I saw that I’d received a list of local playwrights from the executive director of James River Writers. Sylvia Davies was one of the names. The names I recognized belonged to either women or younger men. I looked up the websites for the two names I couldn’t identify but the photos showed young, dark-haired men. No older white-haired men in this bunch. Of course, the roster included only members of the organization, so it didn’t necessarily account for every last local playwright.
I e-mailed the book group an account of my and Lucy’s conversation with the Panera manager. When I asked if anyone knew of any older male playwrights in the area, “no” was the unanimous response.
I groaned. I needed a “yes.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
INVESTIGATING TWO MURDERS made me forget my upcoming biopsy—until the call from the imaging center confirming my appointment pushed out all other thoughts. Up ‘til then I’d only confided in Lucy and Trudy, but during a Skype session I told the rest of the book group. I exchanged cyber hugs with my four friends, who wished me luck and promised to include me in their prayers.
Vince escorted me to my appointment. This time I had the waiting room to myself and only had to cope with my own anxiety.
The staff was pleasant and accommodating, binding my breasts with tape before I left. I could have reprised Julie Andrews’s role in the film Victor, Victoria where she impersonated a male who in turn impersonated a female. The only thing I needed to pull off that elaborate stunt was Ms. Andrews’ clear, soprano voice. Fat chance of that happening.
The only good part of the whole ordeal was the result that I summed up in one word and texted to the book group and to my sister: benign!
Vince and I spent several minutes laughing and hugging over my joyful news. Texts of “congratulations” and “great news” dinged from my phone.
And then I had a call of a different nature.
“Hi, Hazel. Uh, Brad Jones here.”
•••
I wouldn’t have recognized Brad’s voice. My sole experience with his voice had been at Nina’s funeral and it had been delivered full blast. This voice was low key, almost tentative.
“Hello, Brad.” My own voice sounded cool to my ears. Vince hovered nearby.
“Look, Hazel—I’d like us to get together and, er, talk.”
What had precipitated this turnabout? Curious, I agreed to meet him the following morning at his office and wrote down the address he gave me. “Oh, and Brad—I’ll be with Vince.” I looked at Vince, hoping he’d be available, now that I’d committed him. Thankfully, he nodded agreement.
“Vince?”
“My husband.”
“Oh, yeah, Vince. Okay. Fine. “
It would have to be fine.
“Well, I’m just stunned,” I said to Vince once I ended the surprising call from my cousin. “I’m glad you can make it.”
“You can hardly go off meeting that oaf on your own.”
I grinned. “I’d never meet that ‘oaf’—great word, by the way—on my own. I could always enlist someone from the book group. Or Kat.”
“In this case, I’d rather be there. He’s a major suspect, even if the proof is hard to come up with. It’ll be interesting to see what he has on his mind.”
“Yes, won’t it? My guess is that his patients, and maybe even staff, are going elsewhere and he wants to rev up the investigation. See what we know.”
I e-mailed the book group with this breaking news. All four of my partners in investigation considered this a possible turning point in our search.
•••
The next morning Vince and I drove down Forest Hill Avenue to the Westover Hills section of Richmond to meet with Brad at his dental practice. His receptionist made no attempt to hide her lack of interest in us as she reluctantly looked up from her magazine and slid back her glass partition when we approached her desk.
“Hello. I’m Hazel Rose and this is Vince Castelli. We’re here to see Dr. Jones.”
“Do you have an appointment?” Her froth of purple hair matched her lipstick.
“He’s expecting us at ten.”
“Well, he’s with a patient now. Have a seat.” She closed the glass barrier and returned to her magazine.
As instructed, we sat in the waiting area. Vince took out his phone and I surveyed my surroundings. Brad, or whoever had decorated the space, favored a tan-and-burgundy palette. A couple of the oil paintings that covered the walls looked like they might have been the result of the paint-by-number kits I recalled from my childhood. An expandable, and empty, coat rack hung from one wall section. Elevator-type music filled the air. I picked up a magazine and started reading an article on aromatherapy.
After ten minutes, a man with a lopsided mouth appeared. Brad followed close on his heels. “Hazel. Vince. Thanks for coming in.” We shook hands. Brad’s white smock covered a gray shirt and matching tie. “Let’s go on back to my office.
” The receptionist remained absorbed in her magazine.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Brad said as we stepped into his office. “My last patient was late. Can I get you some coffee?”
“Sure,” I said. Vince nodded his agreement. Brad stepped out, presumably to the coffee setup I’d spotted in the hall.
“Courtney, can I trouble you to make some coffee?” I didn’t miss Brad’s edgy tone.
“Sorry, Boss,” Courtney said placidly. I recognized the voice of the purple-haired receptionist. “I don’t do coffee.”
We took seats facing a desk that filled most of the office and waited while Brad attended to the coffee. Vince and I looked at each other and smiled. When Brad finally reappeared in his office he said, “Coffee’ll be just a few minutes,” and sat behind his desk. He clearly had the power position—with us, if not with his office help.
Brad started. “First I’d like to, um, apologize for my behavior at Nina’s funeral.” He put up a hand as if to fend off our objections, even though we offered none. “I was very, very upset and it must have affected my judgment.”
I made a dismissive gesture with my hand, but it didn’t mean I was softening. There was also the matter of Brad’s not acknowledging me as his cousin in the first place. Would he address that little oversight? “So, Brad, what can we do for you?”
“These murders have just devastated me. I think it’s time I got involved in finding out who’s responsible. I know you’ve been looking into it. The police are useless. They’re pinning their hopes on me and they can’t see the forest for the trees.”
Did Brad know that Vince was a former detective, one of those useless police? If so, did he care?
“So I’m here to help.” He managed a ghost of a smile.
“Do you have any information?” Vince asked. “If you do, you need to let the police know. Much as you think they’re incompetent, they know their job.” Vince’s look was hard, but not hard enough to tip off Brad as to his true feelings. But I knew.
“I know, I know. But isn’t there always information that only regular folks can find out? Things picked up in casual conversation with friends, acquaintances.” Gee, did Brad read cozy mysteries?
“So what have you picked up in casual conversation?” I asked.
“Nothing. Well, Evangeline Goudreau threatened Rox.”
“Evangeline?”
“She was Rox’s accountant at the Hamlin Group. Rox had to fire her due to incompetence. And, like I said, Evangeline threatened her.”
“That doesn’t sound like a casual conversation,” I noted.
“Yes, well . . . “ Brad trailed off.
“So what was the threat?”
“Oh, she was vague. Said she had something on Rox that Rox wouldn’t want made public. We both thought it was all hot air.”
If you thought it was all hot air, why did you go to Evangeline’s house?
“So do you think Evangeline killed Rox?” Vince asked.
“Could be. Although I don’t think she could manage it herself. The woman’s enormous.” Brad spread his hands to an improbable width to represent Evangeline’s girth. “Her mother probably could, though.” Brad’s wry expression suggested a memory that he wasn’t sharing, a ninety-one-year-old woman coming after him with her cane. I bit back a smile. Apparently he wasn’t fessing up to that incident.
“Coffee’s ready, Boss.”
Brad closed his eyes and shook his head. I imagined he was counting to ten, perhaps to delay an angry outburst. “How do you like your coffee?”
We kept things simple and settled for black. Brad left the office and returned with overly full foam cups.
“Did Evangeline approach Rox again?” I asked. “Any more threats?”
“Uh, no. Not from her.”
“From whom, then?”
He thought. “No one.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Threats shouldn’t take much thought.
“Brad, why are you interested in joining forces with us at this point?”
“Truth?”
“Yes.” I didn’t add that the truth would be refreshing.
What he said next wasn’t surprising. “My patients are leaving, going elsewhere. And now my staff. My best hygienist resigned yesterday. I’m down to one hygienist and a temp.” He snorted and hooked a thumb in the direction of the receptionist. “Miss Congeniality out there.”
So my guess about his patients and staff deserting him had been right.
Brad went on with his tale of woe. “When Rox was killed they felt sorry for me. But since Nina—” He shook his head. He failed to include Veronica, his first wife and the mother of his child, in the roster of women associated with him who’d met tragic ends. “And even Patty and Paul wouldn’t come in the house the other night.”
“Patty and Paul? I thought they went back to Pennsylvania.”
“I never heard that. If they did, they’re back.”
“Where are they living?”
“I assume in the same place, near Stony Point. Like I said, I didn’t know they’d gone anywhere.”
“But anyway, you said they wouldn’t come in. So why were they there?”
Brad looked like he might be regretting bringing up Patty and Paul. Because now he had to offer an explanation. “Promise not to repeat this?”
“Girl Scout’s honor.” I held up three fingers, with the tips of my thumb and pinky touching. I marveled that I remembered the sign. Had I made that many Girl Scout promises?
“I’ve, um, been helping them out. I give them money.”
“Oh?” I hoped I sounded encouraging.
“Yes, well, Paul has a gambling problem. And IRS problems.” That accorded with what Andy had told us. “They go through their monthly pension benefits pretty quickly. Patty and I have known each other our whole lives so I feel like I should help them out.”
No wonder Brad hadn’t wanted to meet me. He had Patty and Paul mooching of off him and apparently Andy had his hand out as well. But Brad had a lot of money. Although maybe three parasites were three too many and he feared I might make it a foursome.
“Well, this is quite a surprise,” I said.
“So what have you guys turned up?” Brad asked.
I shrugged. “Nothing really. But tell me, Brad, who do you suspect? Besides this Evangeline. And her mother.”
He thought. “There’s Foster Hayden.”
“Wasn’t he in Atlanta?”
“Yeah, so I heard.” His tone conveyed that he doubted Foster’s alibi. I noticed that Brad didn’t mention Andy. I supposed it was understandable that he not regard his son as a suspect, even though Andy had no qualms about pointing fingers at his father.
“Do you suppose the same person killed both sisters?”
“How would I know?” The scowling Brad was rising to the surface. He checked himself.
“Anyone else you suspect?” I asked.
“No. I was hoping you’d come across someone.”
“No one I could tell the police about.” As I said this, I looked Brad in the eye and held my gaze. He looked away.
After a moment’s pause, Vince stood. “Well, Brad, if you come up with anything else, let us know. Better yet, let the police know.”
We agreed to stay in touch. Brad handed us cards. Vince and I didn’t reciprocate. He’d called the day before, so I knew he had my number. For the first time I wondered how he came to have it. But I had called him months earlier when I was trying to arrange a meeting with my newly-discovered cousins. Had he kept my number for all this time?
We left our half-full cups of not-very-good coffee on his desk. As we walked away, I had a sudden thought. I called out, “Brad, were Rox or Nina on Facebook?”
“Rox was, said she needed to network for the Hamlin Group. I don’t know about Nina. I don’t have time for that crap.”
On the way home I asked Vince, “So what do you think?”
“Brad’s still a suspect in my book.”
“So I was ri
ght about his staff and patients leaving in droves. And now he has to put up with a lazy receptionist who doesn’t ‘do’ coffee.” Our laughter felt good. We hadn’t laughed much in recent days.
“I’m stunned about Patty and Paul being in the area,” I said. “Do you suppose they never even left?”
I called their old number. Out of service. Vince and I detoured to drive by their apartment, looking for signs of the blue van that Paul drove.
As we approached the apartment, the next-door neighbor, who I’d seen before, was outside, yelling at her toddler and carrying an infant on her hip. It looked like another child was due at any moment.
She looked surprised to see me. “Haven’t seen you for a while, honey.”
“No, I’ve been busy. I just came over to see Patty and Paul.”
The woman looked mystified. “But they moved. Didn’t they tell you?”
“They said they were moving, but didn’t say when.”
“Oh, honey, they left a good long while ago. At least a month.” Now she looked pitying.
So where were Patty and Paul? Did they go away and come back? Had they ever left? In any event, were they staying in the area? If so, where? Brad claimed not to know. Had their financial situation rendered them homeless? Paul had a van—maybe they were living in that. Or at some low-rent motel.
“Maybe they regretted meeting me and faked a relocation,” I said to Vince when I got back in the car.
“That seems rather elaborate. And, as I recall, you felt ambivalent about them.”
“True,” I allowed. Was I hurt? Kind of, kind of not. Perhaps Patty, and maybe even Paul, didn’t care for my company. Possibly they intuited my growing unease with them, or maybe they felt the same way. I think it’s unusual for one person to like the other if the feeling isn’t reciprocated. Another possibility was that they were embarrassed by their reduced circumstances. “Anyway, it’s their business.”
“But that won’t stop you from poking your nose into theirs,” Vince chuckled.