4 A Dead Mother

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “What does that mean? An item, as in a couple?”

  “Close, anyway. She made a point of saying that your mom wasn’t head over heels in love or anything like that, but it was more than casual dating. Ruth used the word romance.”

  “That would explain the awkwardness I experienced when I arrived unannounced at Mom’s house that day. They certainly seemed uncomfortable when I waltzed in on them. Maybe I interrupted a romantic afternoon. Mom never even called it dating, although I knew she was seeing him fairly often.”

  “Ruth could have it wrong. Maybe Beverly and Cedric were just friends.” If so, had Leslie interrupted a disagreement rather than a romantic tryst? That could also explain the uneasiness or tension in the room. “Did you ever hear them arguing? Could you have caught them in the middle of a fight?”

  “No, I’m sure Ruth is right. It explains Mom’s sudden interest in her appearance—hair and clothes. Now that I think about it, she was even wearing makeup at times. I bet you noticed that, too, didn’t you?”

  “I did, but I never made the connection to a man. If I had, I’m not sure Cedric Baumgartner would have come to mind since I had no inkling their relationship had become a personal one. I suppose I should share with you what I’ve learned about his background that makes it difficult for me to believe your mother was serious about him.” By the time we reached El Paseo and parked in the lot behind Figaro’s, I’d finished dishing the dirt about Cedric Baumgartner the third and providing details about the neighbors with whom her mother had tangled.

  “This feels more like gossip than detective work,” I confessed. “I’m sure the police will chat with the neighbors and Cedric Baumgartner. I have my own team checking into their backgrounds and that ought to help us separate fact from fiction. I’m not even a hundred percent sure yet that we’ve got the right Cedric Baumgartner.”

  “The third, don’t forget that,” Leslie added. “Just to ease your mind, I saw his name written that way on a business card he left at Mom’s house. Sounds rather grand, doesn’t it? There can’t be many men running around calling themselves that whether it’s true or not.”

  “Did you see anything on that card about what business he’s in or where?”

  “Both. I remember it very well. What I read worried me about him. I remember wondering if his attentiveness toward Mom was about her money. I would have been even more suspicious if I’d known how close they had become or more about his history as a ladies’ man on the Continent or in Palm Beach. Anyway, he called himself a Registered Investment Advisor. Here’s another tie-in that will make your story feel less gossipy. The Alpha Advantage—the firm identified on that card—was in Palm Beach, Florida. What an upwardly mobile man to have gone from walker to RIA since your mother last heard about him. Of course, as I’m sure you already know, you’ve got to register with state authorities, but you don’t have to be educated or certified in any specific way to use that title.”

  “Your mother knew that, too, as I recall. She didn’t mention any names, but she did ask about what it meant to be a Registered Investment Advisor. That was in the context of a larger discussion about financial planning, the use of donor-advised funds, and other types of investment vehicles, as well as trust-related issues, so I didn’t zero in on the question about the RIA.” I heard a note of regret in my voice. Leslie picked up on it right away.

  “Hey, if she’d mentioned it to me, I wouldn’t have made much of it, either, since she’d spent the last year or so considering all sorts of options related to her estate. Heck, she might have asked, and I don’t even remember it. Now I wish that when I found that business card I’d confronted her about him. I would also have been more inclined to caution her if she’d been more forthcoming about her involvement with Cedric Baumgartner the third—personally or professionally.”

  “Do you think she would have given him a key to her house?” I asked as I pulled into a parking place not far from our destination.

  “Why not, if they were as close as Ruth claims? She gave out way too many of them as far as I was concerned. I’m certain that was because she was worried about Anastasia being in the house with no one to look in on her if she got sick or… or… you know… worse.” I reached over and patted Leslie on her arm when there was a little hitch in her voice.

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to have a locksmith rekey the house. You should also reset the alarm with a new code. I’m not sure what the intruders were after, but there’s always the chance that if they didn’t find it, they’ll be back. Once the police are done, I want to have my investigators do a search of the house, too, okay? It would help if we knew what to look for, but maybe we’ll know it when we see it.”

  “Sure. That makes sense. A new set of keys is a great idea. I’ll have to make a few visits and all I need is to run into a thief persistent enough to break in more than once. What could Mom have had in her possession that’s worth that kind of effort?”

  “I wish I knew. Maybe it’s related to some funny business with this investment firm. Not that I can imagine what she could have had in her possession that would have made burglarizing her house worth the effort to retrieve it.” Or worth killing her, I added silently.

  18 Cedric Baumgartner III

  We were silent as we entered Figaro’s and a Seating Host escorted us to our table. While Leslie scanned the menu, I took a moment to text Jerry with the license plate number I’d committed to memory. I asked him to see if he could get a lead on the owner of the car, adding “I’ll explain later” to that message. I already knew what I was going to order even though I opened the menu. The Mediterranean Roasted Vegetable Salad was a favorite with Honey-Pistachio Roasted Pears for dessert served with a dollop of mascarpone.

  We hadn’t been seated long when an attractive older man spotted us from across the room. It had to be Cedric Baumgartner. His nose bore a prominent bridge, bent almost beaklike. “Aquiline,” Mom had called it. He sat at a table near the wall of windows that provided a panoramic view of mountains, palm trees, and the sunny sky that blazes in the Coachella Valley more than three hundred days a year. A dark-haired woman in a tailored red suit was seated at the table with him. When he spoke to her, she turned to look at us.

  Not the brunette I spotted earlier on Leslie’s street, I thought. My eyes had dropped almost immediately to her nails. Not red, but a deep burgundy that made me wonder what the coroner meant by bright red. A quick scan of the room revealed the flicker of red fingernails elsewhere. Not all in the same shade of red that had popped into my head when Rikki Havens shared that bit of information from the coroner’s report. A vivid red like the color on the nails of the driver sitting in a car near Leslie’s house was evident in the room, but even those varied from an orangey to a rosier red.

  I’d asked Rikki to send us a picture. Maybe Kim could match the shade on the fingernail found in Beverly’s hair with a specific product. I hadn’t ever heard of anyone being able to make a nail polish data inquiry like you could do with paint chips using the FBI’s forensic paint database. Tommy might know a local salon owner who could help us make a match to a particular product. It was a long shot. Even with a match, there was no certainty that information would help identify the woman with “power nails” who’d killed Beverly.

  Some murder investigation—rehashing gossip and grasping at straws, I harrumphed inwardly as I stared blankly at the menu open in front of me for no good reason.

  “That’s him,” Leslie whispered as Cedric Baumgartner stood and walked toward us. He was well-dressed—bespoke suit, silk tie in a color that set off the silver in his salt and pepper hair and the blue in his eyes. He wore his hair longer than many men his age did. That somehow added to the patrician air created by his nose. To me, it conjured up images of George Washington as he appears on the dollar bill, or Louis Rukeyser, who, years ago, used to host an investment show my father watched religiously.

  Was his appearance accidental or affected? I wondered now that I knew Ced
ric Baumgartner the third worked in the investment business.

  “Ms. Windsor, I’m sorry to intrude on your lunch, but I wanted to tell you how devastated I am about Beverly’s death. She was one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever known.” I scanned his face as he offered his hand to Leslie. When she responded by extending her hand he clasped it in one hand and covered it with the other. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’m not well organized enough to answer that, Mr. Baumgartner. Jessica Huntington and I are still sorting out what I need to do in the wake of Mom’s sudden death.” When she mentioned my name, he glanced my way. I couldn’t tell if he already knew who I was or if he was curious and sizing me up as his eyes lingered. There was nothing immediately predatory about him, but I no longer completely trusted my crud-detecting abilities.

  “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Cedric Baumgartner.”

  “I’m sorry, you two. I should have made the introductions. It’s clear, I’m not all here,” Leslie said, avoiding eye contact with either one of us.

  “That’s completely understandable, under the circumstances. That you’re out and about and not in seclusion is remarkable.” He overflowed with the milk of human kindness as he spoke those words. Juxtaposed against the image of him as a “walker” in Palm Beach turned investment advisor, I couldn’t make it ring true.

  “Ah, we meet at last,” I said, shaking the hand he offered. “Beverly told me so much about you.” That wasn’t a completely honest statement, of course, but I was interested in how he would react. Leslie peered at him, perhaps also intrigued by his response. He smiled and made eye contact with me. The pupils narrowed, however, making his eyes appear to sink deeper into his head.

  “I wish I could say the same about you,” he replied in a neutral tone of voice, as if unmoved by my gambit. “Your name is not unfamiliar to me, though.”

  “I can understand that since you’ve run in the same social circles as my mother on the Continent, perhaps while she was still married to my father, Henry Huntington. Although, you might remember her better as Alexis Bortoletto than as Huntington.” That got through. The veneer of concerned family friend, elegant patriarch, or polished statesman—whatever façade he was projecting—momentarily crumbled. A flush of anger turned his face a rosy color. Those dark eyes darted side-to-side as if trying to determine who might be able to overhear our conversation. Then, like any skilled pretender, he recovered.

  “Oh, no, that’s not it at all. You underestimate your notoriety, Ms. Huntington. I can see now that it’s not just your wealth and generosity that have brought you that. You are even more stunning in person than in those copious media clips of late.” His voice was as smooth as butter as he delivered that compliment. The smile plastered on his face was more a grimace than a grin. I had not misunderstood for one second that the “copious media clips” he was referring to included unflattering tabloid spreads. The pseudo-Roman-patrician had just put me in my place as a plebeian.

  Touché! I thought. What I said, though, using my version of the same buttery tone was, “One can always hope that the media gives us what we truly deserve when it comes to notoriety. Events too often catch up and even overtake us, though, don’t they?” I smiled graciously. Those pupils of his shrank to pinpoints. His jaw clenched and unclenched. Any pretense of a smile vanished. He turned to Leslie and addressed her.

  “Please don’t hesitate to call on me if there’s any way I can support you as you deal with the loss of your mother and my dear friend.” He aimed a sideways glance at me as he uttered the word “friend.” Was he checking how I’d reacted to his use of the term friend or wondering how much I knew about the nature of their relationship? Leslie was staring at her lap, so she didn’t catch that or his offer to shake hands again.

  “Thank you, Cedric. That’s kind of you.” By the time she raised her eyes, Cedric had dropped his hand and left. I detected less confidence as he strode back to his table. He was in a hurry, now, too. “Check!” He said to his waiter before sitting down again.

  “What was that all about?” Leslie asked in a low voice. I was relieved when I caught a glint of amusement in her eyes as she glanced over at me. Our waiter stepped up to take our order, which meant I didn’t have to answer that question until Cedric Baumgartner the third had left the room.

  “I suddenly wondered how much Beverly knew about his past. Or if he’d pressed your mother into silence and encouraged her to keep the nature of their relationship from you. From me, too, for that matter. I wanted to put a little pressure on him and see what he’d do. What did you make of our exchange?”

  “He’s not who he pretends to be, that’s for sure. You pierced his cover and Mr. Hyde popped up with snide comments before Dr. Jekyll could shut him up.”

  “Wow! That’s perceptive. I could never have put my feelings into words as well,” I responded.

  “You brought out my worst fears testing him by hinting that you knew about his past, Jessica. I wouldn’t be surprised, either, if he’d kept that hidden from Mom. Why didn’t I tell her to investigate him?”

  “Beverly could have done that without either one of us urging her to do it.”

  “Ask that locksmith to swing by my house, too, will you? Mom had a set of my keys. I don’t want to walk into a surprise at my place either.”

  The image of the brunette with the red fingernails parked near Leslie’s house flashed past me. “I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to call my security guy—Peter March—and ask him to meet us at your mom’s house around five o’clock. That will give us time to do the walk-through with the police first. Then, I’m going to have him secure the house for you, his way.” Leslie’s eyes widened and then she nodded.

  “Can he follow me home?” She asked.

  “I’ll ask him to do that, too. I’ll be right back. I need to use the restroom.” I called Peter who didn’t hesitate to do as I requested. He knows all too well that I don’t scare easily. Then I wandered around a bit—found the banquet rooms that are used for those catered breakfast meetings. I checked out the entrances and exits into those rooms, as well as their proximity to phones. The one out front at the reservation station seemed much too public for someone not to have been noticed if they’d used it that morning. Another was more concealed in an alcove that appeared to stock supplies of linens and other items needed to reset tables. Mounted on the wall, the phone was in plain sight of the main dining room. The cord on the handset was long enough that a caller could take a couple of steps back and be out of view most of the time.

  “Excuse me,” I said as a server walked back into that area to grab a stack of linens. “Can guests use this phone?” Her eyes dropped to the cell phone I held in my hand. “I’m not asking to use it. I have my own as you can see. I’m just wondering if someone showed up for a breakfast meeting and their phone failed, could they use this one?”

  “Sure,” she responded.

  “I suppose it would be private enough, too, if you stepped back. I doubt anyone would even see you.” I was working my way up to asking more explicitly about anyone having used that phone recently. The server took me down another track.

  “Your guest would have more privacy using the phone in the manager’s office.”

  “Where’s that?” I asked.

  “Upstairs. The manager needs to let you in with a key, though. Access is restricted.”

  “Okay. Thanks, although that’s something of an inconvenience to the manager, isn’t it?”

  “She doesn’t mind if it’s important or an emergency.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not necessary. That would be quieter, too. I bet it doesn’t happen often. I’ve been here for lunch and breakfast meetings and I’ve only noticed someone asking for a phone once.” I was amazed how easily that lie rolled off my tongue. “That’s what made me ask, in fact.”

  “I heard some woman at a CV/Link planning meeting had a call from her kid’s school or something like that and couldn’t get throug
h on her cell phone. Stupid cell phone companies. There’s not one of them that can figure out how to provide uninterrupted service out here in the desert, is there?”

  “Unfortunately, you’re right. That poor woman must have been frantic to reach the school, although I heard she was with the other group that day, not CV/Link. How thoughtful of your manager.”

  “I’m not sure what difference it makes, but she was with CV/Link, not the Desert Smash tennis charity. If you have more questions, I’m sure Audrey Atkins would be happy to help you.”

  “No, you’ve been plenty helpful already. I won’t bother her unless it’s absolutely necessary.” I was so hopeful that Audrey Atkins would pass along the name of the woman who had made that phone call to Rikki Havens that I almost ran back to my table. I sent a text message to the detective telling her about the two groups that had held breakfast meetings that day and the fact that Audrey Atkins had let someone use her phone that day. Even if the woman the server mentioned wasn’t the one who’d called Beverly, we had the name of a gatekeeper who controlled access to yet another phone at Figaro’s.

  “Done!” I said when I returned to our table. “Peter will join us at five.”

  “Thanks,” Leslie said. We were rather quiet while we ate lunch. I’d peeked at my list of questions for her as I sat down, wanting to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. I let Leslie take the lead and answered a few questions rather than quizzing her further. Most of her questions were about practical matters. Suddenly, at the end of our meal, she spoke in an abrupt manner as we waited for the server to bring me my credit card receipt.

  “Jessica, I’m scared.” She announced in a husky voice barely above a whisper. “How am I going to get through this murder investigation? What if they don’t find Mom’s killer? What kind of person would be nervy enough to break into my mother’s home, in broad daylight after killing her?” Leslie shivered. “Aren’t you terrified that some maniac is running around out there? What if whoever it is decides one of us is in the way?”