It was locked, of course. After dragging the heavy box to the center of the closest, I stood up and looked around. If I were Elaine Turnbull, where would I hide a key?
I went first to the jewelry case, which, now that I thought about it, probably should have been locked, too. There was no sign of a key there. Next, I looked carefully in every drawer of every piece of furniture in the bedroom. There was nothing hidden among her delicates other than a couple of old lavender sachets.
With a sigh, I gazed around the room one last time. I was sure the lock could be broken if necessary, but I wasn’t sure how to do that. And I was eager to open it now.
Suddenly, I had an idea. Feeling slightly self-conscious, I closed the bedroom door. Then I kicked off my shoes and climbed up onto Elaine’s bed. I sat on top of the bedspread on the left side—I deduced this was the side she favored, based on the reading glasses left on the nightstand.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and thought about the woman who had lived—and died—in this room. Elaine Turnbull. Friend of Crenshaw, patron of the theater, a generous lady, who had shared her time, money, and home . . . Also, a wife without a husband, a mother without a son, and a grandmother without a grandchild. For an instant, a rush of sadness filled me like a sob. Unwittingly, I had opened myself to this woman’s emotions. But it wasn’t all sadness. There was a jumble of feelings—a lifetime of feelings: freedom, elation, fear, worry, joy, pain.
With a gasp, I opened my eyes. What was I doing? I was no medium. I wasn’t even an empath. I wasn’t prepared to handle information like this. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.
Scarcely had these doubts crossed my mind when my eyes slid over to a framed picture on the dressing table. It was a faded photo of a little girl. I got up and went over to examine it. It was a candid, outdoor shot; the girl sat cross-legged in the grass, tilting her sun-kissed face to the sky. Her hair was in pigtails, her bangs blown back by the wind. Her gap-toothed smile was happy and carefree, that of a child who didn’t yet know the meaning of anxiety or self-consciousness.
This has to be Lana, I thought. I should look for more family photos. But first . . . Turning over the frame, I removed the cardboard backing. There, taped to the other side, was a small silver key.
“Thank you, Elaine,” I whispered.
Swiftly, with a feeling of authority, as if I’d been granted permission by the owner, I went to the closet, unlocked the steel box, and lifted the lid. Then I frowned. There was nothing inside that resembled a will. The box was filled with small notebooks. Hardbound journals. Diaries.
This could be useful.
I reached inside and pulled out the topmost journal. Gently turning the pages, I skimmed a few entries. Written with blue ink, in neat, flowing cursive handwriting, was a chronicle of Elaine’s thoughts and activities.
Happy to see attendance at the theater is up this summer. I must remember to compliment the new director. Think I’ll send her a gift basket . . .
Pesky “Uncle Arthur” is acting up today, making it difficult to write. Ray said I might need to go on steroids, but I think I’ll try massage first . . .
The dahlias are blooming in the English garden. Ernesto has an eye for beautiful landscape design, on top of his other creative talents. I knew I was right to give him free rein in the backyard . . .
Been thinking a lot about Harry lately. Today would have been our fifty-ninth wedding anniversary . . .
I shut the book, feeling conflicted. Reading someone’s personal diaries was a clear invasion of privacy. Sure, I’d found the hidden key, but that didn’t really give me a right to read this woman’s private thoughts.
On the other hand, there could be vital clues here. If Elaine had really written a new will, she might have mentioned it in her diary. She might even have noted where she put it. And her granddaughter . . . Surely she would have written about Lana and the efforts to find her.
My mind flashed to Dr. Lamb’s suspicions about the cause of Elaine’s death. It sure would be interesting to know what was on Elaine’s mind in the final days of her life.
I flipped to the last entry and read it quickly. There was nothing earth-shattering. The only thing that jumped out was Suzanne’s name.
Suzanne keeps pestering me for info about Harold’s old friends—even that old silver fox, Winston Betz. And here I always thought Winston was too old for me! I told her she was being too obvious—she’s only interested in him for his money. It’s unseemly. I asked her what would happen if someone told Winston the truth—or, better yet, told his children and grandchildren. She turned so red, I thought she’d pop a gasket. I had to tell her I was only joking, but I don’t think she believed me.
I found the date and saw that the last entry was written in July, just over two months ago. A cursory check of the other journals revealed that they were all older, going back for years. Elaine was a faithful writer. So, where was her most recent diary, covering the past several weeks? I felt certain she must have started a new one.
I closed and locked the box, then pushed it back into the corner of the closet. Pocketing the little silver key, I returned to Elaine’s room. It had begun to rain. Pattering droplets thrummed against the windowpane in a rhythmic, soothing refrain. Standing at the foot of Elaine’s bed, I looked around the room once more. She would have written in her diary in here someplace, I felt sure. Maybe she sat on the daybed beside the window or at the desklike dressing table. Or, more likely, right there in her bed. Propped on her pillows, with a glass of milk or tea on the nightstand, reading glasses on, perhaps the TV playing in the background . . .
She wouldn’t have left it lying about in plain sight— not when she wrote about the people living in her house and was so careful to lock up her journals. But would she have had it out that night after the dinner party? If she had, and it was with her when she died, that meant someone had taken it. But I didn’t think that was the case. She reportedly wasn’t feeling well that evening. From what Ray stated, she had come up to her room, turned on the television, and changed out of her dinner clothes. Wherever she kept her diary, I had a feeling it was still there.
The low sound of distant thunder rumbled outside the window. Briefly, I contemplated trying the same little trick I’d done to find the lockbox key. I quickly dismissed the thought. It was bad enough the first time. And the more I thought about Elaine’s recent demise in this room, the more nervous I was becoming.
How ’bout good ol’ common sense? I walked over to Elaine’s bedside and looked once more in the drawer of the nightstand. Hand lotion, handkerchiefs, ink pens, puzzle books . . . No diary. Next, I knelt on the floor next to the bed and reached my hand between the mattress and box springs. Feeling nothing, I started to pull back. Then I hesitated and reached in farther. Did my fingertips just bump up against something?
A resounding chime gave me a start.
Ignoring the bell, I once again reached my hand beneath the mattress. This time, I was certain I felt something, but in trying to grasp it, I only pushed it farther away.
The doorbell rang again, three times in a row. “People really don’t like to answer the door around here, do they?” I said aloud. With a sigh, I pushed myself to my feet and crossed the room to open the bedroom door. Now the ringing was joined by an urgent pounding. Hurrying down the hall, I was beginning to feel alarmed—even more so when a muffled voice hollered my name.
“Keli! Open the door!”
Chapter Eleven
Farrah stood on the doorstep, dripping water from the tips of her long blond hair to the ends of her flared plaid skirt. When I opened the door, she pounced like a cat to give me a soggy hug. Something crinkled between us. Pulling apart, she handed me a squished paper to-go sack from the Cozy Café. We both spoke at once.
“Oh, my gosh, Keli! What took you so long?”
“What in the world, Farrah! What’s going on?”
“I was getting soaked out there! I saw your car out front, but you didn’t pick
up your phone. And when you didn’t answer the door, I started to get worried. This place is kind of eerie, isn’t it? And have I mentioned I’m soaking wet?” She spoke in a rush, her voice rising with every syllable.
“You were worried? I’m fine. I was just in the middle of something and didn’t hear my phone. But why are you—are there sandwiches in this bag?”
“I brought you lunch! I want to hear all about your case.” She looked past me, taking in the size and opulence of the great room, from the gleaming parquet floor to the heavy, crystal chandelier. Her eyes grew big. “Is this where the gala’s happening on Friday?”
Just then, Crenshaw strode in from the east wing. He froze when he caught sight of Farrah. Or maybe it was the puddle she’d left on the floor.
Farrah directed her dazzled gaze to him. “The lord of the manor! Crenshaw . . . Alistair?”
“No.”
“Augustine?”
“No.”
“Humperdinck?”
He whipped out a handkerchief and offered it to Farrah. “No,” he said.
She smiled cheekily as she patted her forehead and lips.
“Where were you a few minutes ago?” I asked Crenshaw. “Didn’t you hear the doorbell?”
“I was out back talking to Ray. Then I received a call from—” His words were interrupted by the chime of the doorbell. “Ah, here he is now.”
Farrah and I watched as Crenshaw opened the door to admit a stocky, middle-aged man in a wrinkled, tan trench coat. He held a leather notebook over his head, and when he ducked inside he stamped his feet on the entry rug. His eyes flicked from the foyer to the great room. “Nice place.”
“Detective Rhinehardt!” I had crossed paths several times with Adrian Rhinehardt, chief homicide detective on the Edindale Police Force. Somber by nature and good at his job, he’d always proven himself to be fair-minded and reasonable. He was also both smarter and kinder than he usually let on.
He nodded at me curtly. “Hello, Keli. And Farrah, right?”
Farrah grinned and held out Crenshaw’s handkerchief. Shaking his head, the detective pulled out his own hanky.
A gasp from the hall made us all turn our heads. Celia came running over, a stack of white bath towels in her arms. I wondered where she’d been when Farrah was pressing madly on the doorbell. She evidently knew she would find rain-soaked guests congregating in the foyer.
“Doesn’t anyone know how to use an umbrella anymore?” She clucked disapprovingly as she handed a towel each to Farrah and Rhinehardt, then used one to wipe up the floor.
“Sorry,” said Farrah. She pulled off her boots and leaned down to help dry the floor.
Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Mr. Rhinehardt, why don’t you come with me to the library? We can discuss . . . matters there.” As he ushered the detective ahead of him, Crenshaw gave me a sidelong glance and tapped the side of his nose. I rolled my eyes and grabbed Farrah by the arm.
“Let’s go to the kitchen. Think those sandwiches stayed dry?”
“Probably. They were double-wrapped.”
By now, I’d learned my way around the kitchen pretty well. I half expected Celia to march in and scold me for messing up her domain, but she didn’t follow us. I put on a kettle of water to make hot tea, while Farrah filled me in on the latest happenings in her life.
“Any more suspicious stalkery stuff?” I asked.
“No.” She looked almost disappointed. “I guess I was wrong. After all, I wasn’t the only one who had my tires cut.”
“True. But your super did see a guy hanging around your car, and then you thought you were being followed not long before it happened. Maybe it wasn’t so random that your car was selected.”
“Wait, what are you saying? Now you think I do have a stalker?”
“I don’t know. I just think you should stay alert, that’s all.”
As we ate our lunch, Farrah peppered me with questions about the Turnbull assignment. I told her everything. I knew she was eager to help, and I was grateful for her friendly, supportive energy. When I told her I thought I might have located Elaine’s last diary, she hopped to her feet.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
I waved her back to her seat, as I finished off my sandwich. “In a minute.”
A sound at the doorway cut off her response. I brought my fingers to my lips to shush her, but she didn’t see me.
“Hello!” she called out. “Is somebody there?”
Half a second ticked by before Suzanne poked her head in. “There you are, Ms. Lawyer Lady! I’ve been looking all over for you. And you brought a friend—perfect!”
Suzanne was all smiles again, with no hint of her earlier distress. She clacked into the room, dragging a wheeled, pink suitcase behind her. The letters CC were embroidered on the side. Carrie Cosmetics.
“Suzanne, this is my friend, Farrah Anderson. Farrah, meet Suzanne Turnbull.”
“Lovely to meet you,” said Farrah. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
For an instant, Suzanne wore a blank look. Then she cast her eyes downward in an expression of appropriate solemnity. “Thank you. My mother-in-law was a feisty ol’ gal. It’s not the same around here without her.”
I stood up to throw away our lunch wrappers and wipe off the table. Farrah checked her phone. “I’m free for the next couple of hours, Kel. So, if there’s anything I can do to help you out . . .” She trailed off, waiting for me to take the lead.
“Join us for a makeover!” insisted Suzanne. “You have gorgeous bone structure. I have just the thing to enhance your natural beauty.”
“Um.” Farrah shot me a questioning look. I gave her a slight smile and barely cocked one eyebrow. It was all I could do not to touch the side of my nose. Crenshaw might have been on to something with his corny wordless hand signals. But Farrah didn’t need a sign. She was already on my wavelength.
“Sounds like fun!”
“Wonderful! Let’s go to the conservatory,” Suzanne suggested. “Even on a cloudy day, the natural light will be nice. And I think it’s starting to clear off anyway.”
She was wrong about the weather. It was still slate gray outside the wall of windows in the conservatory. But Suzanne had a lighted mirror in her pink suitcase, along with a trove of other makeup supplies. She spread them out on the table and asked us who wanted to go first. Farrah nominated me.
“It’s a shame your man is out of town,” Suzanne said, as she wiped makeup remover across my face. “We’ll have to take your picture when we’re through. You can send it to him and show him what he’s missing.” She giggled like a teenager at a slumber party. Farrah smirked with amusement.
“We’ll have to take Farrah’s picture, too,” I said. “She can send it to her boyfriend, so he’ll stop working so many late nights. Of course, he already wants her to move in.”
“You girls and your live-in boyfriends,” said Suzanne, with a shake of her head. “It must be a generational thing. I’d never move in with a man until he makes it official. I want the ring, the name, the works!”
Suzanne was brushing various powders across my face, which made me reluctant to open my mouth. Then she began to describe all the products: primer, foundation, concealer, bronzer, blush. I let her rattle on for a few minutes—I knew it was all part of her sales pitch. When she finally paused to rummage through her vast collection of eye shadows, I directed the conversation away from makeup.
“Suzanne, I hear there’s a gala at the manor this Friday evening. Will you be attending?”
“Oh, yes. Everybody who’s anybody will be there. I wouldn’t miss it. The university orchestra will be performing, and Ruby Plate Catering is providing the food. They always do a fantastic job.”
“I understand there was a party here the night Elaine passed away. Was that a gala, too?”
“Not quite. But Ruby Plate catered that one, too. There were four courses, all delectable, from the appetizers to the dessert. You have to try their chocolate lava
cake. It’s to die for.”
Maybe it was the expression on my face, or maybe Suzanne realized for herself how insensitive she sounded. “Oh, my goodness! Bad choice of words. Don’t get the wrong idea. Elaine didn’t die of food poisoning! She’d been ill for a while.”
I nodded. “I heard she wasn’t feeling well that night and went to bed early. Did you see her at all after dinner?”
“No, I was walking out with some of the guests. When they all left, I went to my room to work on my business. Social media is so important for entrepreneurs, you know. I have to do promo work every day.”
“Who’s selling tickets for the gala?” asked Farrah. “Are there any left?”
“Perry Warren is on the Arts Council. I’m sure he’d still sell you a ticket or two. Ooh, I can do your makeup that night, too! Unfortunately, there won’t be a lot of attendees your age—most are in the silver-haired set. But oh! There is one you might want to impress. I know you girls have boyfriends and all, but since you haven’t tied the knot, you really should meet Xavier.”
“Who’s Xavier?” Farrah asked eagerly. She was definitely less committed to her relationship with Randall than I was to mine with Wes. Plus, she generally loved all men.
“Xavier Charleston. He’s a young, wealthy art collector from LA. He’s new to this area. I can’t imagine he’ll stay long, but who knows? He’s trying to buy pieces from several local collections, and he’s been talking shop with Perry. Wait ’til you see him. He’s a real suave guy. Kind of reminds you of James Bond, if ‘double-oh seven’ had a beard.”
“I’d love to meet him,” said Farrah, her eyes shining. “Men with beards are so sexy.”
I gave Farrah a sideways glance, before turning back to Suzanne. “Is he interested in the Turnbull collection?”
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