Hiss H for Homicide

by Toni LoTempio

  She laughed. “Of course. We sell books all the time that way. Nonfiction is easier to sell than fiction in that regard. Usually it requires no more than a chapter outline, sometimes a sample chapter or two, and a marketing plan.” A pause and then, “It’s all about the platform.”

  “Platform?”

  A long, drawn-out sigh, and then, spoken in a tone one might reserve for either a first-grader or a mentally challenged person, “It’s all about the author, and their credentials. His or her fame, or, in some cases, their notoriety. How savvy are they with social media? Do they Facebook? Tweet? What’s their topic? How hot is it? How likely is it to garner media attention? Things like that.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “And the juicier the topic, the better.”

  “I see. And do you have any books on tap right now that meet that criteria?”

  She hesitated. “Possibly.”

  I plunged ahead. “I researched an article on Marlene McCambridge on the Internet. They alluded to her visiting your offices.”

  Jendine let out a ginormous sigh. “Damn net. Can’t hide anything anymore. I really shouldn’t say anything, but . . . after today it’ll be public knowledge, so what the hell.”

  I glanced at Ollie out of the corner of my eye and returned his thumbs-up sign, thinking that the book deal wouldn’t be all that was public knowledge. “I’m all ears.”

  “I’ve got a book lined up with her for next fall . . . it’s going to be hot, hot, hotter than hot.”

  “Really?” I tried to keep the mounting excitement out of my voice. Not only had I gotten an editor to speak with me, I’d gotten the editor. Talk about a stroke of luck! “So, is this another book she’s writing with her partner?”

  “Nope.” Jendine’s voice dropped to a whisper. “As of two p.m. Pacific Standard Time today, that partnership is his-to-ree!”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, it’s true. She didn’t want to feel encumbered.” She fairly crowed into the phone. “Marlene is one of the hottest romance authors out there, and man, does she have stories to tell. This book is going to let quite a few skeletons out of their closets, I can tell you that.” She let out a throaty chuckle. “If I were one of those who’d confided in her over the years, I’d be afraid. Very afraid. This tome is going to set the literary world on fire!”

  “Well, that does sound interesting. I take it you’ve read the book?”

  “Um . . . no, not yet.”

  I eyed Ollie. “Really? Because if it were me, I’d have sunk my teeth right into that puppy and devoured it in one sitting.”

  “I plan to, once the book is delivered.”

  “You mean she hasn’t written it yet?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s complete. Marlene’s just giving it a final once-over. She sold that with just her outline, and it was some outline, let me tell you. The words were steaming off the pages. We have a major deal in place. Mark my words, that book is going to make millions. It’ll easily earn back that six-figure advance Marlene insisted on.”

  “It does sound exciting,” I stammered. “You know, getting a look at that outline would certainly help me spice up my article. I don’t suppose you could email me a copy, in strictest confidence, of course.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Jendine’s voice turned cagey. “We don’t want any details leaking before publication.”

  “But you said that’s still a year off.”

  “True, but the contents are so hot, we don’t want to give anyone any advance notice. This book is destined for the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, trust me. I have an instinct for these things. I can’t take any chances, sorry.”

  “But she’s definitely written it,” I said doggedly. “You know this for a fact.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Jendine snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting. I’ll switch you back to my admin. Just let her know the name of the article and the magazine so we can look for it.”

  Jendine hung up and I disconnected before admin number three could get back on the line to grill me for info about my nonexistent article. “Well,” I said, placing my phone down in the middle of the table, “at least we know there definitely is a book, and a detailed outline too. Hopefully it’s still somewhere in that house, unless the killer found it.”

  “If that’s the case, you can bet it’s been destroyed.” Ollie drummed his fingertips on the table. “Perhaps you should share this information with Samms.”

  “Are you crazy?” I gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Telling him this would surely put another nail in Desiree’s coffin, if not the final one.”

  “Or it might also open up other avenues of investigation.”

  “You know how the police work.” I sighed. “Once they find a suspect who fits their criteria, they stop looking. And while I grant you Samms is more broad-minded than most police detectives, it still boils down to the fact Desiree had motive and opportunity. And if they find the murder weapon, and if it is Desiree’s gun . . .”

  I didn’t have to say any more.

  My cell chirped. I glanced at the screen, saw Cruz Police Headquarters, and snatched it up. “Desiree, is that you?”

  “Yes, Nora. I’m using my one phone call for you.” She sounded calm but I detected a twinge of tension, like a finely tuned piano wire, humming through it.

  “I do sincerely hope you’ve managed to secure me a lawyer, because I’m definitely going to need one. A good one.” A pause. “They’re charging me with Marlene’s murder.”

  Eleven

  After assuring Desiree that her lawyer would be there soon, I dialed Peter’s number again. This time he answered on the second ring.

  “Thank God,” I said. “Did you get my messages?”

  “I only just got back from a conference in LA about five minutes ago,” he answered. “What’s up? Is something wrong? Is Lacey okay?”

  Peter had developed a ginormous crush on my sister when he was defending her on a murder charge a few months ago. I was pretty sure the feeling was mutual, and that part of the reason Lacey stayed with Aunt Prudence was to be near him. I assured him that my sister was in fine shape, completely law-abiding (at least I hoped she was), still working part-time for the St. Leo force, and then hit the highlights concerning Desiree’s situation.

  He was silent for a few minutes after I’d finished, and I could picture him running his fingers through his already unruly sandy hair, making it stick up even more. “Do you have any idea what they have to make an arrest so quickly?”

  “Well, as I said, Desiree originally discovered the body, and in the process left her prints all over the place. I don’t know this for a fact, but there’s a good chance they’ve recovered the murder weapon, and it’s Desiree’s gun.”

  There was dead silence for a few seconds and then he said briskly, “I’ll call the station. Who’s the officer in charge?”

  “Our old friend Leroy Samms.”

  “Samms? He’s on Cruz Homicide now?” He tried but couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “I thought he joined the FBI.”

  “Yeah, we thought so too. Lucky us, he’s filling in here. You heard about the Curtis Broncelli fiasco, right?”

  He let out a short grunt then took the number of the Cruz station, promised to keep me posted, then ended the call. I turned a troubled gaze to Ollie. “Someone’s framing her but good. I need to do something, and fast.”

  “Well, I’ll help in any way I can. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, Louis is working on finding out the whereabouts of Scarlett and Dooley. In the meantime, how’d you like to take a trip with me to the house across the way from the crime scene?”

  I explained about the anonymous phone calls to 911, and about seeing the curtain part during my own visit there. I pulled up the Yellow Pages on my phone. A few seconds later I had the Cruz Realty office on the phone, and none other than Ms. Joannie Adams.

  “Hey, Nora, I didn’t expect a call from you,” she said and laugh
ed. “Are you finally interested in unloading Hot Bread? If so, your timing is good. There’s been a lot of interest in commercial properties in Cruz.”

  “Not at the present time, Joannie. I called for a little information. You rented the Porter house to Marlene McCambridge, right?”

  “Yes, and it was a ginormous relief. That woman was a real pain in the you know where. We must have seen at least two dozen properties before she settled on something. My feet are still sore. I didn’t rest easy until she finally signed the lease agreement.” Joannie’s voice lowered. “I was biting my nails the whole time. She really wanted that brown stucco house, the one across from the Porters’, but it was already rented. I thought for sure she was going to hem and haw and ask me to try and talk the renter out of it, but I lucked out.” She chuckled. “Rita would have had my head if I’d lost that commission.”

  That I could believe. “I don’t suppose you have the name of the person who rented that stucco house, do you? I was out there the other day and I think I might have lost one of my earrings near that property. I’d like to get in touch with the tenant, see if they might have found it.”

  “Wait a minute, I can check. I didn’t rent out the property, but it should be in the computer. Ah, here it is. Got a pad and pen? Okay, it’s Anne—A-n-n-e. Last name: Onymus. O-n-y-m-u-s. Weird, right? I’ve been trying to figure out what nationality it might be.”

  Weird didn’t begin to describe it. The country of Phony came to mind. I thanked Joannie, then passed the paper over to Ollie. He looked at it, then did a double take.

  “That tip might not have been so friendly after all,” Ollie agreed.

  “I can’t believe Joannie actually thinks Onymus is a real name.” I whipped off my apron. “Let me ask Chantal if she can watch Hot Bread for the lunch crush. We need to find out who’s really renting that house.” I shot him a grin. “I’ll put ten bucks on Scarlett Vandevere.”

  He grinned back. “You’re on.”

  • • •

  We made the trip out in Ollie’s new car, or rather, his new vintage car, a 1967 canary yellow Ford Mustang convertible, probably one of the last cars on earth anyone would expect a six-foot-three man built like a 49ers linebacker to drive.

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting noticed in this?” I asked. It was a beautiful balmy fall afternoon in California, low humidity, the temperature in the mid-seventies. Ollie had the top down, and a gentle breeze riffled my auburn curls. “Should a low-key PI be driving such a stand-out car?”

  “That’s exactly what does make it so low-key,” he said and grinned. “But this baby can really fly! Sports cars was one of the few interests Nick and I shared. Someday I’ll take you out on the interstate and show you all the horses she’s got under that hood. But right now, we’ve arrived.”

  Ollie pulled up across the street and I peered over at the house. It looked even more desolate today than it had yesterday. My gaze flew instinctively to the second-floor window. The curtains remained tightly drawn; no unseen hand parted them as we got out of the car and hurried up the stone steps. I rang the bell and this time we were treated to the braying of a donkey, the cooing of a dove, and the bleating of a lamb before the sounds faded away into nothingness.

  Ollie shot me a look. “Interesting acoustics.”

  “To say the least.”

  We stood there for ten minutes cooling our heels; no one came to the door. I leaned over the porch railing and glanced up at the second floor, but the drapes remained intact. Ollie and I walked all around the house, even checked out the garage, which was empty.

  The place was silent as a tomb.

  “Looks like no one’s at home, for real this time,” I said finally.

  “So what now? A little B&E, perhaps?” He flexed his fingers and patted his rear pants pocket. “I’ve got brand-new credit cards in my wallet.”

  I chuckled, remembering our last attempt at a felony. “You’ve been practicing?”

  “All part of being a PI. You should be taking notes. You still want to get a license someday, right?”

  I offered him a thin smile. “It’s on my bucket list.”

  “Well, then. Consider this a part of your education, sort of an apprenticeship.” He made a sweeping bow. “Shall we?”

  He started for the front door but I laid a hand on his arm. “If we’re going to commit a felony, I can think of a better place to start.” I gestured across the road. “After all, we still aren’t sure if there is a manuscript. If there is, it might still be in there somewhere.”

  We hurried down the long winding drive and approached the Porter house. I noted the absence of crime scene tape from the door. In my experience, crime scene barrier tape was only removed when crime scene protection was terminated. And crime scene protection was only terminated after the detective, forensic investigator or other authorized personnel completed their crime scene investigation and processing.

  Ollie removed a shiny American Express Platinum card from his wallet and wiggled it in the air. “Here goes.”

  He knelt before the door, positioned the card . . . and then the door swung wide open. Ollie rocked back on his knees and bumped into me, sending me crashing against the side rail. I regained my balance and stared straight into the eyes of a handsome young man, his blond brows arching upward and an expression of mingled shock and surprise marring his chiseled features. He wore a pale blue T-shirt and dark denim jeans, and the blue of the shirt complemented his deep blue eyes. When he spoke, I detected the merest trace of an accent I couldn’t quite place. British? Australian?

  “So sorry, old chap. Might I ask what in hell you’re doing, kneeling at the front door like that?”

  I stepped forward quickly. “He was helping me. I thought I dropped my contact lens.”

  “Oh, no.” The stranger’s eyes moved over me in swift appraisal, taking in my own white denim jeans, freshly laundered, and pink cotton shirt with matching tank. He ran appreciative eyes over my figure, lingering just a tad too long for my taste on the swell of my breasts before raising his gaze all the way back to my face. “Can you see all right?”

  “False alarm, actually.” I managed a weak laugh. “It just floated to the side of my eye. It does that sometimes.”

  “Wouldn’t know. I’ve got twenty-twenty vision, myself.” He tapped below one eye with the tip of his forefinger. “What are you doing here? Are you with the police?”

  I started to shake my head but Ollie straightened, reached in his pocket and flashed his PI license. “Oliver Sampson, private investigator. This is Miss Charles, my assistant. Might I ask who you are?”

  The man examined Ollie’s license, handed it back. “Sure. I’m Simon Gladstone.”

  Ollie slipped his license back into his jacket pocket, then stood, legs apart, arms folded across his chest. He glowered at the man and said, “And just what are you doing here, inside a crime scene, Simon Gladstone?”

  Geez, he had me shaking. Ollie glowering isn’t a pretty sight. Simon, however, seemed unaffected by the fact a six-foot-three-inch man built like a sumo wrestler was practically breathing down his neck.

  “I have a perfect right to be here,” he said, a bit haughtily I thought. “Marlene McCambridge is, or I guess I should say was, my aunt.”

  Whoa, talk about being knocked over with a feather! “Your aunt?”

  He nodded and brushed a tear from the corner of his eye. “Yes.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I finally got out. “Were you and she close?”

  “Not particularly. I mean, she was a loner. Kept to herself quite a bit. They tell me writers are like that.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Anyway, she told me she’d be in Cruz for an indefinite amount of time. I only wished we could have had longer together. I was just getting to know her.”

  Ollie had been standing quietly by, his arms still folded over his chest. “You from around here?”

  He cleared his throat, and looked at me when he answered. “Heavens, no. I’m from t
he Boston area originally, but I’ve been studying theatre arts in England the past two years. Aunt Marlene said she was going to try and help me get a foothold in the theatre. That’s what I really want to do. I trained for the stage. But in the meantime, got to pay the bills, you know. I work three days a week over in Brisberry as a consultant.”

  “Do tell,” Ollie said. “I know quite a few businessmen over there. What firm do you consult for?”

  Once again, Gladstone looked at me when he answered. “Fallon Industries. You can check with the owner if you want. Ned Fallon.”

  “Why are you here today?” I asked.

  Simon gave a light laugh. “When I was notified of her death I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it. I had to come, see for myself.”

  “Did they call you to identify the body?”

  He shook his head. “That had already been done. No, I just needed to see the place where it happened for myself. Get it real in my own head.”

  “I see,” said Ollie. “And this was the only reason you came here? To see the spot where your aunt was murdered?”

  Simon fidgeted, then took a step backward so he was standing inside the doorway. “Of course. Why else would I be here? I needed to look the place over, because I’ll have to get a service to remove my aunt’s things.”

  “Samms gave you the okay to do that?”

  “Samms?”

  My antenna was starting to rise. “Yes, Leroy Samms. He’s the detective in charge of your aunt’s murder investigation.”

  “Oh, him.” He shifted uneasily and shook his head. “No, he hasn’t given permission yet. It’s only a matter of time, though, and I want to be prepared. So, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  The next instant the door slammed in our faces.

  “Well,” I said after a second. “Talk about rude!”

  “Never mind that,” Ollie growled. “We’ve got to get in there at once. I happen to know that Marlene McCambridge was an only child, and she never married. That guy is no more her nephew than I am.”