by Judith Rolfs
Blaine Cartier’s picture filled the 19” screen.
“Blaine!” Sarah stifled a moan.
The TV anchorman’s deep, throaty voice continued. “At the time of Ms. Cartier’s death, she was planning for a trip to Europe. The police are seeking leads to the perpetrator of this heinous crime against a defenseless woman. Anyone who observed unusual activity in the vicinity of the crime scene please contact Police Chief Bolan at the Cortland City Police Station.”
Sarah forgot her yogurt and stared as if hypnotized. “No one heard the shot at Blaine Cartier’s rented condominium that led to her death. The secretary at the school where Blaine worked called the police the day after Blaine failed to show up for her night class, a behavior highly unlike her. Now back to you, Christy, at the studio.”
A female anchor came on. “In other news, the DOW dipped slightly...”
Waves of sadness washed over Sarah. She dashed back to her office and picked up the phone.
“Be available, sweetheart, please.”
“Hello...” Pete Steven’s voice came on the line from across the ocean in France.
Tears coating her lashes, Sarah gave him as much information about Blaine as she had. “Blaine’s trip to Europe and her excitement over her part-time job, all that’s ended with this hideous act.”
“Sweetheart, how awful.”
“Thanks for being there tonight. I knew you’d understand.”
“Of course. Here’s the best comfort I have. You told me she was a Christian, honey. She’s with God and her daughter now, and they’re both in a far better place.”
Sarah stammered, “Right, I know that, but I needed to hear someone else say it.”
“We’ll talk some more tomorrow night. I should be home around 1 a.m.”
“See you then. Bye, I love you.”
Hearing Pete’s voice helped Sarah back to her stable reality that Blaine’s sudden death had shattered.
Her heart still ached for Blaine but overflowed with appreciation all the same. She was now with God. And God had gifted Sarah with a man who understood her concern for people. How many nights had he sat at home and prayed as she was ministering to someone? If only she could have done more for Blaine.
Blaine’s murder was so personal. Sarah cared deeply for her clients. She sat for a long time, head in her hands. Finally, Sarah stood. Even though she’d have preferred to call it quits for the day, she was a professional.
Sarah blew her nose. A few stray tears streaked her cheeks. God help me. She checked her makeup base and added lipstick. She was wrung out but needed to pull herself together for her next client at six, a last minute appointment in the slot she kept open for clients in crisis. Blaine’s murder was taking its toll. Who could have committed such a monstrous act?
Suddenly, like the soft fall of a feather, inner peace filled her again. Just in time, as her secretary buzzed her client’s arrival. Sarah took a deep breath. “Send her in.”
FORTY-TWO
The phone disturbed Whitney’s prayers. She wiped a tear away and answered in a hoarse voice. “Whitney Barnes here.”
“Hi. You sound funny. Do you have a cold?”
“No.” Rich’s voice lifted her spirits a tad. “What’s up?”
“Just wondering if you’re busy.”
“Terribly. If you call watching the rain entertaining.”
“Another unusually soggy March evening for Cortland City. It could easily be ten inches of snow. That’s how I console myself. Seriously, what gives?”
Whitney sighed. “Actually, I’ve been melancholic ever since I heard the news about Blaine Cartier yesterday.”
“A tragedy.” Rich inhaled a loud breath.
“Such a lovely, pain-stricken woman. Plus, another woman’s death made memories of my mom surface again.” Whitney felt a gnawing at her insides.
“I’m sorry.”
“Actually many of my memories are good, and I’m forcing myself to recall them.” Whitney recounted the rainy-day fun she’d had as a child twirling and splashing, playing her invented game, puddle hop. “Mom let me play in the rain if I wore a slicker and boots. In the evening she and I often baked cookies before story time and bed. Daddy traveled every week and was rarely there. Mom and I were best buds.”
“Sounds like a special relationship.”
“Right about that. I can’t count the times I want to call her and talk. Guess I’ll always miss her. But you didn’t call to hear this…”
“I have a great idea for you. How about dinner at the Lucent Lounge on 33rd Street to cheer you a bit? I’ve been fantasizing about their prime rib—the best within fifty miles of Cortland City.”
“Well I am in the middle of preparing my memoirs for posterity, but I’ve hit a snag and could be torn away.”
“Lucky for me.”
“I’m doing vegetarian these days, so beef is out, but I’ll watch you devour a cow if you’ll guarantee me some pasta.” Was she actually chuckling?
Rich laughed. “Say seven?”
“Fine. I’ll meet you there.” She resolved not to bring up Blaine’s death again tonight. He wouldn’t know any more than she did, and she couldn’t bear to dwell on her sadness any more today.
* * *
Whoever decorated the Lucent Lounge loved the color blue. Royal blue velvet drapes hung from high arched windows. The thick 1980s shag gave an illusion of walking on the ocean. The table covers were a subtle shade of powder blue, complementing walls painted a soft azure.
“How’s your blues capacity?” Rich spoke in a low voice. “I hope strong.” His laugh was a deep chuckle.
A surprisingly tall Oriental headwaiter led Rich and Whitney to a corner table and disappeared.
Whitney giggled.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Excuse me, may I examine your kitchen? Is it blue?”
“Rich, you’re making me as silly as you.”
“Me? I’m just a talk show host turned restaurant and blues critic for the evening.”
Whitney couldn’t stop smiling.
Dear God, there’s a wonderful place for small talk and dumb jokes in life. She loved experiencing this relaxed mood with Rich. Whitney had never seen him out of a suit. She liked his broad shoulders and the blond carpet of hair on his arms. She fought a desire to touch it.
More jokes and laughter flowed through dinner as Rich shared his funniest guest stories and she her most amazing interviews.
Whitney was totally enjoying the evening until Rich broke the spell. “I don’t want to ruin this lovely night with negative news.”
A chill prickled Whitney’s spine. Now what?
Rich cleared his throat noisily. “As you know, we’d planned to do another TV series and include you and Ellie, but the network brass axed the plan. Nothing personal, I hope you understand. I assumed you’d like to know before it reaches you via the grapevine.”
Whitney gulped. “The owners of my paper won’t be pleased. They were excited about the marketing opportunity presented by my TV appearances. I admit I’m disappointed too. I was hoping discussing these deaths on talk TV would lead to someone coming forward with information on the murder of Ellie’s mom and now Blaine.”
Whitney coached herself to remain composed. “What’s the reason?”
Rich shrugged. “Publicity is good, but it’s got to be the right kind. You and Ellie pulled in a lot of negative e-mails.”
“Why?” Whitney’s throat constricted.
“The subject of depression, death, and the murder of women is too scary for some people. We had objectionable calls from advertisers, and they pay the bills. I’m sorry. I was looking forward to working with you again.” Rich’s gaze held hers until her cheeks warmed.
She turned away. How immature to react like this. I’m not a school girl.
Rich continued. “The female issues, diet tips, intimate communication topics will continue. Dr. Sarah Stevens will be on, just not you and Ellie.”
“Surface stuff. I get it.” H
is announcement both angered and saddened Whitney. A lump formed in her stomach. “Was the purpose of this dinner to let me know?”
“Of course not. I could have called you at work to tell you.”
“But not as gently, right?”
She studied his face to see if he could deny that.
Whitney pushed her dessert plate away. Heaviness had descended on the evening. The man she’d begun to care for had both given and stolen her lightheartedness.
* * *
Whitney crawled into bed and comforted herself. At least I didn’t sit home all evening, and the food was good. Be glad for small blessings.
She breathed out a prayer. This petty disappointment was nothing compared to the loss of life these poor victims and their families suffered. Blaine, a lovely young woman, dead—worse yet, murdered. That was real tragedy. Jillian’s children motherless, left in the clutches of self-absorbed Tara. Ellie deprived of her mom’s presence way too soon just as Whitney had been.
What had she discovered thus far to help solve these crimes? Whitney punched her pillow. All she knew for certain was a small handgun had been used in each Cortland City death.
Not that guns alone were bad. She wouldn’t buy that lie. Handguns just as often prevented killings as caused them. Rallying against weapons was fruitless—as if guns turned humans toward murder, not the evil in their hearts. She sighed, deep and loud.
At least the police realized Blaine had been murdered. They weren’t mistakenly calling this crime a suicide. Whitney had hoped someone watching the show might recall a clue. As far as she knew, this hadn’t happened.
She wasn’t just being on the show for this media exposure, she finally admitted. She’d enjoyed the experience and found Rich attractive. Now their contact would probably end.
Lord. Please help me sort my feelings.
Sleep came immediately, but at 4 a.m. Whitney awoke dreaming Ellie’s mom, Jillian, and Blaine screamed her name. Her thoughts churned, preventing further sleep. Were the deaths linked to one another or coincidental? Why had only women been targeted? This didn’t match with national statistics.
How might she find the killer before another murder occurred?
FORTY-THREE
A gray-green fog enveloped Whitney’s car and turned her morning commute into a creep. When she finally arrived at work, her first call came from an executive at one of her major advertisers reporting their ad for Midnight Madness contained the wrong sale hours. Whitney gave him two free half-page ads in the next edition. He received it like a paltry crumb of compensation, although it was the best she could do.
Whitney’s staff assistant knocked on her door. “Chief Bolan’s here.”
“Show him in.” The Chief strolled past him silently on thick rubber-soled shoes. Whitney respected the man and smiled a warm welcome.
“Morning, Whitney. Thanks for your time. I need to ask you some questions about Blaine Cartier’s employment. I understand you recently gave her a job.”
“That’s correct. Sit down, please.”
“The details?”
“Sure.” Whitney explained how Blaine had called in response to the ad, and described the interview. “Her resume and the subsequent work she turned in were excellent,” Whitney added.
“What individuals were listed as references?”
She pulled the vitae as she spoke. “The chairperson of the English department where she was currently employed, Dr. Stevens, and Dr. Trindle, as well as her daughter’s internist.” Whitney paused. “Chief, Blaine’s work was quality. That’s all I had to know. Here are her previous places of employment, her educational background, etc.” Whitney’s eyes burned. Anger and frustration mingled in her voice. “Sadly, now she’s dead.”
“I’d like a copy of this for the phone numbers.”
“Certainly.”
“Anything else you recall from your interview that might have bearing on this case?” He subtly refrained from saying Blaine’s murder.
“Just that she seemed very pleased to have this part-time job. I wish I could be of more help, Chief.”
“Did she mention any close personal friends, male or female?”
Whitney shook her head. “We’d only met once. Her two features haven’t even run yet. However, she did say she’s still recovering from a painful divorce and the death of her daughter.”
The Chief slipped his notepad into his shirt pocket and stood.
“Chief, I’d like nothing better than for you to find the person who did this. I’ll help however I can. Do keep me posted. Our readers are very concerned when a death of this nature occurs in their locality.”
“Me, too.” Chief Bolan visibly clenched his jaw and strode out.
* * *
The phone rang off the wall with business calls the rest of the morning. By lunch Whitney longed to go home and climb under the coziness of her down blanket. But Chief Bolan had given her an idea.
She rang Dr. Karen Trindle and caught her between appointments.
After chatting briefly, Whitney got around to the purpose of her call. “By the way, Blaine Cartier used you and Dr. Stevens as references on her resume. I wonder if you might have seen her for individual counseling.”
“No, she attended one of my lectures on coping following divorce and came once to my divorce support group. I always tell divorced women they can use me as a reference. Many are returning to the work force for the first time in years and have no previous experience.”
“I wonder why she didn’t continue in the group or come for private counseling.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t truly ready to work on her issues yet.”
“Do you recall anything she mentioned that might lead you to believe she could have had an acquaintance who turned on her? As you may know, the police concluded she let her killer in without a struggle.”
“No, I haven’t been following the details of the case.” A long pause followed. Whitney could hear her turning over a paper. “Of course, there’s her ex-husband. By the way, why are you so interested? Is this another of your death investigations?”
Whitney caught the negative sting of Karen’s words and grimaced. “I liked Blaine and am simply doing my job researching current news. There goes my other phone. Thanks for your time. Bye.”
Whitney made an appearance at the local Rotary meeting before returning to the office to check messages. Ellie had left a voice mail request to get in touch as soon as possible.
Whitney called back before removing her coat. If Ellie was down and wanted company for dinner, she’d force herself, even though she preferred to go straight home and get some rest tonight.
Ellie answered on the first ring.
“Hey girl, what’s up?”
“My sleuthing paid off more quickly than I dared hope. You’ll never guess who drives a BMW. You won’t believe it...”
“Ellie, I hate suspense. Tell me.”
“Peg Blackston, Dr. Karen Trindle’s secretary.”
“Interesting. How could she afford a BMW?”
“It’s several years old. She may have bought it used. They hold up well.”
“Even second-hand cars go for quite a sum.”
“Maybe she inherited it from a relative. All I know is she has one. Didn’t you say Peg has relatives in Ireland and was in Ireland when your mom went?”
“Yes, but what possible motive could Peg have for harming my Mom?”
“Beats me, but it bears checking.”
“How did you find out about Peg’s car?”
“I went to the manager of the BMW dealership in town and inquired how many silver gray cars he’d sold over the past five years. He knew immediately why I was asking because the police had already been there, and he’d already looked up the data. When I mentioned my mom had been murdered, I think he felt sorry for me and told me, too.”
“Good work, Ellie.”
“There’s more. I called the local gas stations in town and told them I was helping my reporter frien
d investigate the story. That’s how I found out Larry Cartier also owns a BMW, although it’s more of a gray-beige. Do you think his wife, Althea, might have…?”
“Interesting. I don’t know, but it’s worth following up.” Whitney shuddered at the thought of his replacement wife committing murder.
“What puzzled me is whoever killed Blaine wasn’t worried about having the car spotted and parked right in her drive.” Ellie sighed. “Then again, I guess it’s no problem since BMW’s are crawling all over town.”
“Keep in mind we’re jumping to a conclusion here that the owner of the BMW was her killer. It’s not necessarily true that the owner of the car is the murderer.”
“It seems logical, but you’re right—we can’t be sure.” Ellie’s tone deflated.
“We need more than a car, Ellie. We need motive, sweet girl. Pray we find it.”
* * *
Blaine’s ex-husband, Larry, sucked in his breath when he looked at the envelope that came in the mail. He recognized the handwriting, shoved it in his pocket, and hurried into the bathroom. He locked the door behind him, even though no one else was home.
Fortunately, Althea was at the grocery store, one of her favorite haunts. She’d put on ten pounds since they married. He shoved his thumb under the flap, ripped the envelope, and pulled out the taped shut letter. His heart chilled when he read the attached note from Blaine’s aunt. “Found this sealed among Blaine’s things with postage on it. She’d specified on a post-it-note that the envelope be mailed. Thought you should have it.”
Larry considered for a second throwing it in the garbage. He never handled emotion well and expected this might hurt.
Blaine’s death had already impacted him more than he’d ever thought possible. He turned the paper over twice before he quietly read the letter.
“Larry, if you’re reading this it means I have left this earth first. It may be months, two years or twenty, or more since our divorce. Whatever, I want you to know you’ve been fully forgiven for abandoning Cindy and me and remarrying. I really mean that.