“I’m not finished talking to you.”
“Yeah, you are.”
He stood, took my elbow, gently raised me from the chair and propelled me toward the door. As he opened it, clarity suddenly washed over me and I snapped my gaze to his. “There are two books,” I said.
He stared at me. “What?”
“I remember now. The book I saw had the initials DS written next to ten a.m., not ten thirty. What’s more, they weren’t neatly printed; rather, they looked slightly smudged, almost as if they’d been written over an erasure. There were two books, and you got the wrong one.”
His face darkened for just a fraction of a second, and then it cleared. He gave me a gentle nudge outside the door. “You’ve been following that darn cat of yours to too many crime scenes. Now you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“I’m not—I have . . .” I started to say, I have proof, but stopped. All I needed was for Samms to confiscate my phone as evidence. “I have a gut feeling,” I finished lamely.
“I know you’re not good at taking advice, Nora, but please stay away from this one. It’s not a safe place to be.”
“Why not? You’ve supposedly apprehended the murderer, right? Or is this your way of telling me you have doubts about that?”
“Just steer clear of that crime scene. I don’t want to feel responsible, or worse yet, answer to Daniel if something should happen to you.”
“What might happen? And why would you have to answer to Dan—” I got no further as the door swung shut, very firmly, in my face. I started to walk away, then turned back. I stood in front of the door, hand raised to knock, and then I heard Samms’s deep rumble.
“Daniel Corleone, please. No? Well, tell him to call Lee Samms. It’s urgent.” He let out a deep sigh. “We’ve got a problem.”
A problem? I was darn curious as to this problem’s nature, but then I heard his chair scrape back and heavy feet making their way toward the door. I turned and ran down that hallway, as fast as one can run in four-inch heels. As I approached the front desk I caught a glimpse of a man in a three-piece suit talking to Lenny. He had a thin slash for a mouth, beady eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, a cruel set to his jaw. As I passed I heard him say, “Detective Samms is expecting me.” I knew sure as anything this was Morley Carruthers. I debated sticking around for a few minutes and trying to eavesdrop, but before I could make up my mind yea or nay my cell chirped. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Louis Blondell, then quickly pushed my way outside and answered.
“I hope this call is good news, Louis.”
“Nora, I have information for you.” Louis sounded jubilant. “Sable and Scarlett are both on tours, and the last few days they’ve been in this vicinity. I’ve got their schedules.”
“Great. You’re in the office? I’ll be right down.”
I hung up and hurried over to my car. As I slid behind the wheel, I saw Samms and another policeman hurry out the side door of the station, jump into a cruiser, and take off. For a second I was tempted to follow them. I had a gut feeling they were headed for the Porter house—but then I turned my SUV in the direction of Louis’s office. I wasn’t in the mood for more verbal sparring with Samms, and besides, Louis was waiting for me. As I made a left onto Main, I felt a familiar tightening in my belly. It told me there was more going on here than just Marlene’s murder. Hopefully very soon I’d find out just exactly what that might be.
Thirteen
Noir’s office was in the downtown section of Cruz, in a big rambling building with vaulted ceilings and wooden floors. It had originally been a firehouse back in the day, and when a more modern one had been built, someone had made the decision to chop the original structure up to make lots of small offices and generate rental income. Louis Blondell had always maintained he’d gotten the smallest office, most likely because that was what he could afford.
He’d started out with his own consulting business but had grown tired of it after a year and decided to sink his life’s savings into doing something he’d always wanted to do: publish a true crime/pulp magazine. A favorite aunt of his had died around the time he’d made this decision, and the tidy stipend she’d bequeathed him had gone a long way toward making his lifelong dream come true. Still, he wasn’t foolish with the money. He’d invested most of it, in order to have capital for the magazine, and he’d flatly refused to move to larger quarters. No one could claim he was extravagant with his office space; in fact, his office was rather Spartan. Desk. Chair. Guest Chair. The walls that didn’t have framed Noir covers hanging from them were lined with bookcases filled to overflowing with magazines and true crime books; I thought Louis must have every Anne Rule book ever published. A few scarred file cabinets were scattered around, and on top of one sat an ancient Mr. Coffee. He had a girl who came in three days a week to help out with arranging the magazine and typing; otherwise, it was pure, vintage Louis.
I pushed open the door and walked inside, my heels clicking on his hardwood floor. Louis sat, shoulders hunched, behind his desk, his head partially obscured by the thirty-inch-plus Dell flat-screen monitor in its center. Louis had once bragged he could type one hundred twenty words a minute, and as I watched his fingers fly across his ergonomic keyboard, I could believe it. He glanced up, saw me, then lifted one hand to motion me into the lone guest chair; with the other he pawed through the mound of papers next to his keyboard. He yanked a lined sheet of paper out of the myriad and passed it across to me. The paper was divided into two sections: the top half read Scarlett, and had a listing of cities and times; the bottom read Sable, with another list of cities and times.
“Those are the appearances they’re slated to make at some indy bookstores.” He tapped the paper with his nail. “See where both of ’em are gonna be tomorrow?”
I did indeed. Both of them were at the bookstore in Saint Leo. Scarlett’s appearance was scheduled for four, Sable’s at seven. I looked over the entire list. On the date of the murder, Scarlett had been in Carmel, and Sable in Castillo. The time of their appearances had been early evening. Both towns were less than twenty minutes from Cruz.
I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket. “You’re amazing. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Just write up one heck of a story when this is all over.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and by the way,” he called after me as I started for the door, “I hope you’re still interested in taking some PI courses. I haven’t forgotten about that column. We’ll have to carve out some time to talk about it.”
• • •
I let myself in the back door of Hot Bread about twenty minutes later. Nick was sprawled across the braided carpet near the storeroom door; he rose from his post to amble over, sniff at my shoes, and give me an injured “merow.” (Translation: Where have you been, puny human, and why did you not take me with you?) I bent over, gave him a swift pat on the head, and then the murmur of voices beckoned me toward the kitchen area. I pushed open the door and saw Chantal, Peter and Desiree huddled around the table, large mugs of steaming coffee in front of them. Peter was speaking to Desiree and I could tell by the expression on his face it was something serious. Desiree looked nervous, her head lowered, eyes slitted, tongue darting out at intervals to swipe across her lower lip. Chantal was leaning forward, her elbows on the table, listening intently to what was being said, but as the door swung back it let out a soft creak that caused all three heads to swivel in my direction. Chantal jumped up, nearly upsetting her mug, and hurried over to me.
“Chérie, you look exhausted! Come, sit down. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
“I could use one, thanks.”
I followed her back to the table and sat down while she went to get me a cup of coffee. Peter smiled at me across the table. “Hey, there,” he said. “It’s a shame we only get to meet under these circumstances.”
“Right. Next time we should double date, dinner and a movie.”
He chuckled. Des
iree reached out and her fingers closed over my hand. “You did an excellent job, Nora. Peter is very competent. He had me out on bail in no time flat. I don’t even have to wear an ankle monitor, or anything.”
Peter shrugged. “What can I say? I can be pretty persuasive. Thank the Lord for our ‘innocent till proven guilty’ system.” He threw me an apologetic look. “There was a condition though. I had to promise that Desiree would stay here under your watchful eye. I hope that’s all right.”
“Of course it is.” I took the mug Chantal pushed over to me and took a long sip before I continued, “After Samms and I were done reminiscing about the good old days, he told me the DA’s going for second degree, they found the murder weapon with only Desiree’s and Marlene’s prints on it, and he’s convinced himself it was a crime of passion.”
“Well, they found a .45 all right, but when I left they were still waiting for ballistics to confirm.” Peter scratched at his ear. “Crime of passion, eh?”
“Passion my rear,” snorted Desiree. “Although if I had killed her, I would have been pretty passionate about making sure she suffered as much as possible.”
“I’d be careful about making any remarks like that in public,” Peter cautioned her.
“It’s true, though. She must be laughing from wherever she is. Down there, most likely.” She pointed a finger at the floor. “She’s probably enjoying the mess I’m in. Honest, if she weren’t dead already, I’d kill her myself for putting me through this.”
Peter and I exchanged a look, and then I laid a hand on her arm. “Desiree, did Marlene have any family? Anyone she was close to?”
“Family? Let me see. Her parents are dead, she had one maiden aunt who must be almost a hundred, in some nursing home in Akron. No husbands, no in-laws. So, nope. There’s no one.”
“Are you certain? She had no siblings, no nieces, no nephews?”
“No aunts, uncles or cousins that I know of, anyway. When you think of it, except for me, and all those Latin boyfriends of hers, she was pretty much alone in the world. Kinda sad, really.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Because Ollie and I ran into a young man who said he was her nephew. Simon Gladstone.”
“Simon Gladstone? Really! Well, ain’t that a hoot.” She gave me a reproachful look. “Simon Gladstone is a recurring character in our Ada Spencer series. He’s a former cat burglar—a jewel thief to be exact—by night, a British playboy by day. He likes kinky sex and fast women with glittery diamonds.” She clucked her tongue. “That series was the only one Marlene ever contributed more than her PR skills to. It was her idea from the get-go. She outlined all the characters—Gladstone, Ada—even Ada’s shady sort of boyfriend, wealthy industrialist Nathan Eberhardt. I always thought she modeled Ada after herself ,and Nathan after Bruce Wayne.”
“Well, I guess this guy was a fan. No wonder he picked that alias. This Simon Gladstone turned out to be a thief as well.”
“Oh, no!” Desiree’s face paled and she gripped the table with both hands. “Don’t tell me he took . . .”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I chased after him but he got away. Ransacked the upper floor pretty good though.” I stretched my legs out in front of me, bumping Nick in the rear. He cast me an affronted look before rearranging himself next to Chantal’s chair. “Do you happen to know if Marlene had two appointment books?”
She cut me an eye roll. “What would she need two for? She didn’t have that many meetings, and to be honest, she didn’t keep up with the one she had.”
“That does seem to be the general consensus. However, when I was down at the station, Samms showed me another appointment book, exactly like the one back at the house—only this one had the pages intact.” I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone. “I had a hunch and checked the pictures I took. In the book Samms has, your initials are printed very clearly next to ten thirty a.m. In this photo”—I held it out so the others could see—“they’re written sort of cramped, next to ten a.m. Notice anything else?”
Peter squinted at the screen. “The initials look kinda smudged, like maybe they were written over an erasure.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I flicked on the keyboard option and started to type. “I’m going to send this photo to my pal Hank Prince.” Hank was a PI who’d been my confidential informant when I’d done the crime beat in Chicago. If there was information to be found, he and his stable of contacts could usually ferret it out. “Maybe one of his cronies can enhance that photo to tell what’s really written there.”
“Good idea,” said Peter.
I typed a quick text message to Hank, attached the photos and hit Send. Then I turned to Desiree. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you. Was Marlene McCambridge her real name, or did she change it?”
“A good question. I don’t know,” Desiree said. “She’s always been Marlene McCambridge to me.”
“Did you ever tell her you changed your name?”
“Of course. I was always completely honest with her, much to my detriment.”
“But she never alluded to having done the same?”
“No.”
I nibbled at my lower lip. “If she did, would Morley Carruthers have known about it?”
Desiree frowned. “Maybe, but only if she wanted him to know. She was a past master at keeping secrets, and her own the best of all.” Suddenly she scraped her chair back and stood up. “Wait a second. One day I saw her with a necklace. It was a pretty thing, a silver initial surrounded by a few diamonds. She kept it in a pouch in her purse. She saw me looking and put it away faster than you could blink your eye. Funny thing, though. You’d have thought it’d be an M, right? For Marlene or McCambridge? Nope. It was an E.”
“An E? Did you ask her about it?”
Desiree clucked her tongue. “You really didn’t know Marlene. If she wanted to avoid a subject, it was avoided. And she definitely didn’t want to talk about that. As a matter of fact, she seemed very upset I’d seen the necklace. I never saw hide nor hair of it again, I can tell you that.”
“In her purse, you say? I wonder if it might still be there, with her things, or if Simon Gladstone got that too. Speaking of her things, what’s going to happen to them?”
“Good question. I imagine they’ll just leave everything as it is until after her will is read. If you ask me, the real mystery is who she left her money to, if there is any. She’s been a bit strapped for cash the last few years, thanks to her taste in men. Another reason for her writing that tell-all book.”
“There’s something somewhere,” I said. “When Ollie and I called the publisher, she alluded to Marlene having gotten a large advance. Very large.”
“Really?” Desiree frowned. “Another thing she kept from me. She complained right up until the end how strapped she was for cash.” Suddenly her eyes went wide, and she clapped a hand over her heart. “Oh my God,” she breathed. Her other hand reached out and gripped mine so hard I nearly cried out. “I know who killed her.”
She released my hand and pushed her chair back with such force it nearly toppled over. Nick, startled, hopped up on the back counter and stood, back arched, tail twitching.
“It had to be Anabel,” she murmured. “Anabel Leedson, our agent. Or should I say my agent and Marlene’s former one.” She raised a hand, passed it across her eyes in a dramatic gesture. “If she did murder Marlene, I suppose I should look for a new one, especially if she’s trying to frame me for her crime!”
“What makes you think it’s Anabel?” Peter asked
“Marlene borrowed money from her, quite a tidy sum, too. The week before Marlene fired her, I happened to be in Marlene’s apartment. She had a pretty extensive library, and I needed to look up something. I heard her let Anabel in. They had quite a disagreement over the money. I heard Marlene tell Anabel she couldn’t scrape up anything to repay her, not at this time, and Anabel said that she had a few tax problems and needed the money to make a payment to the IRS.” Desiree let
out a bitter laugh. “Marlene told her in no uncertain terms that wasn’t her problem. I caught a glimpse of Anabel’s face. It was beet red, and she looked as if she’d like to hit Marlene over the head with something. The next week Marlene fired her.”
Peter looked over at me. “Sounds like a pretty good motive.”
“If Marlene got that advance, she sure could have paid Anabel back,” Desiree continued. “What she said to her makes sense, now.”
“What did she say?”
“Anabel told Marlene that she knew she had money, that she’d lied to her, and she owed it to her to return what she’d borrowed. She said that she’d worked hard for us all these years, and she never had a peep of trouble out of me, but Marlene was another story.” Desiree nibbled at her lower lip. “She told Marlene she was an ungrateful . . . witch.”
“Anabel knew Marlene had gotten the advance?” I asked. “How?”
“She didn’t come right out and say it, but it was implied. I believe her exact words were . . . now let me think a minute.” Desiree closed her eyes. “Oh, yes. She said, ‘You’re lying, Marlene. I know you’ve come into a good sum of money, and that you’ve been lying to me and to Desiree these last few weeks. I’ve been nothing but loyal to the two of you, and I’ve always defended you, even when you were wrong. You owe it to me to return the money I lent you.’ And then Marlene drew herself up and says back, ‘I don’t owe you anything, Anabel. If Desiree feels that way that’s her business. Myself, I’m an independent spirit. Tiffany Blake made you the agent you are today, and don’t you forget it! Without us, you’d be nothing! You should have lent me that money—no, you should have given it to me. Now, I’ve told you the truth. When I get some money together, I’ll repay you. Until then I don’t want to hear another word. I can make plenty of trouble for you if you keep pestering me, and don’t think I won’t do it.’ Then Anabel muttered something I couldn’t hear, and Marlene laughed—just like Margaret Hamilton did, you know, when she played the Wicked Witch—and she said, ‘Honey, that’s nothing compared to what I’ve got on you.’ And that’s when Anabel called her a lying witch, and stormed out.”
Hiss H for Homicide Page 11