When Sleuthing Spells Trouble, page 3
“Oh, for goodness sakes, Carm.” Gillian thrust her hands into the pockets of the pink and gray sweater she wore. “Stop beating a dead horse. She got a plea, and now she’s out on parole. So what?”
I leaned forward. I had to admit, I was a bit curious about why Carm seemed so passionate over a woman she’d never met.
“I’ll tell you so what,” Carm said vehemently. “The press is going to start sniffing around here and dredge up that case all over again. Cruz doesn’t need publicity like that. It’ll be bad for business.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as she continued, “As a matter of fact, there was a woman in my shop today, and I’ll bet a week’s worth of receipts she was a reporter for one of those gossip rags. I overheard her on her cell phone. She was talking to someone about dogging Mariah’s footsteps until she got at the truth of what happened that night. Sounds like a loser proposition to me.”
“Really? A reporter?” Gillian’s brows drew together in a frown. “Hmm, maybe you’re right after all. Who needs reporters nosing around, bothering people and asking a lot of questions.”
“My point exactly!” Carm cried triumphantly. “The woman should have moved to New York or Philadelphia or Seattle to get a fresh start. Better yet, she should have moved out of the country, where she wouldn’t be known. I bet she wants the attention, gets off on it or something.”
“I doubt that,” said Gillian. “And even if she did, who are we to judge? I’ll bet Blackthorne deserved what he got,” she added. “Shrinks can be the pits. I saw one for a bit, so I know. They talk out of both sides of their mouths.”
“Some do, some don’t,” responded Carm. “But Mariah could have just divorced the guy instead of killing him. Unless, of course, she signed a prenup and would have walked away with zip.”
“Good thing you didn’t have a prenup,” Gillian shot back. “Then you wouldn’t have been able to take your husband to the cleaners and open your store.”
Carm’s eyes blazed, and I decided to interrupt before things got really ugly. “Speaking of your store,” I cut in with a smile at Carm, “word on the street is it’s fantastic. You seem to have a real hit on your hands.”
Carm preened, her argument with Gillian temporarily forgotten. “Thanks. I think so. I’ve got a good mix of products, all ranging from inexpensive brands to the more upscale ones.” She gave me a critical glance. “You should stop by, Nora. I offer a ten percent discount to new customers, but for you, I’ll give fifteen.”
“That’s very generous, Carm,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t use much makeup, though. Usually just lipstick and eyeliner, sometimes a little blush.”
Carm leaned over to peer at me more closely. “You’ve got great skin. So do I. Some others aren’t so lucky.” She slanted a glance Gillian’s way. “I keep telling Gil that she should come in for a makeover.”
Gillian’s hand flew to the side of her face. “What’s wrong with my makeup?” she cried defensively.
Carm shrugged. “Nothing, sweetie. You don’t look bad at all, but I could make you look even better. The no-makeup look is in, you know.”
Gillian lifted her chin. “No, thanks,” she said. “I like the way I look. Besides, I can’t afford all those fancy foundations and blushes you sell.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Carm said, her tone wheedling. “I’ll give you the first one free.”
Gillian gave her head a vehement shake. “I don’t need a makeover. It’s not like I’m trying to attract a man, after all. I’m through with all that nonsense after the last go-round.”
I could sense the bitterness in Gillian’s tone and apparently Carm did as well. She moved closer to Gillian and laid her hand on her arm. “You mean your husband, right? Sorry, I didn’t mean to dig up old wounds. It’s just that, well, I get so passionate about my products.”
“It’s okay. I get a little too self-conscious sometimes.” Gillian pulled at a loose thread on her sweater and added, “I know you’re entitled to your opinion of Mariah Blackthorne, but all I’m saying is we shouldn’t judge what people do when we don’t know all the facts. Besides, even if it should turn out she did murder her husband, she can’t be tried again or resentenced for the same crime. I saw it in a movie with Ashley Judd. It’s called double jeopardy.”
Carm frowned and looked at me. “Is that true, Nora?”
“It’s true Mariah couldn’t be tried for the crime again,” I said. “But if she should remember what happened that day and someone else is responsible, that person could be tried for the crime.”
Now Gillian frowned. “You’re kidding? After all this time? I thought there was some sort of time limit on that stuff.”
“You mean a statute of limitations. There are on felonies and misdemeanors, but not for the more serious crimes like murder or sex crimes.”
“Hah!” Carm leaned over to give Gillian a poke in her ribs. “Guess you didn’t learn as much as you thought from watching those Perry Mason reruns.”
Gillian made a face, then slid her gaze to me. “What about you, Nora? What do you think about Mariah Blackthorne’s return?”
Carm looked at me, a spark of interest in her eyes. “Yeah, I’d be curious as to what you think, Nora. After all, you used to report on crimes like that, right?”
I wasn’t about to get in the middle of another heated discussion, so I just shrugged. “Truthfully, I’ve been so busy with the shop lately I’ve hardly had the time to keep abreast of current events.”
Carm shot me a look that plainly said she wasn’t buying it. Gillian, on the other hand, clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Well, it’s better to be busy than not, especially in these times,” she said with a wise nod. She nudged Carm and pointed to my blackboard. “What do you want to eat? Everything sounds so good, especially that John Stamos sandwich.”
Carm waved one hand impatiently. “Those specialty sandwiches are always good, but I’m in the mood for something simple, like maybe . . . grilled ham and cheese?”
“That does sound good. Make that two.” Gillian glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot, I forgot Irene has to leave early today. I’ve got to get back to the store.” Her lips twisted into a rueful grin. “We’ve been pretty slow lately, and Irene’s been making noises about cutting my hours down to bare bones.”
“Oh, Irene’s always threatening to cut her staff’s hours,” Carm said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That old bat has the first dollar she ever earned framed on her wall, I’m certain of it.” She gave Gillian’s arm a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Gil, if she cuts your hours I can always use you a couple days a week. My business is booming, although who knows what will happen now Mariah’s back in town.”
Gillian’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “You just want to convince me to change my makeup.”
Carm grinned. “Yeah, that too.”
“I’m sure your store will do just fine,” I interjected smoothly. “Teenaged girls love makeup and perfume, and they won’t really care who Mariah Blackthorne is.”
“I guess that’s true,” Carm said a bit grudgingly. “And speaking of part-time help, I should be getting back too. I’ve got a new part-timer starting today.”
I prepared their sandwiches quickly, and once they’d departed made a beeline back to the rear table. I’d barely sat down before I heard a familiar scraping sound. Scrabble tiles started flying out from underneath the table faster than I could snatch them up. There were seven in all, and I arranged them on the tabletop, chuckling as I saw what they spelled out: trouble. Nick’s head popped out from underneath the table.
“Merow.”
I bent down and gave him a quick scratch behind the ear. “You could be right about that, Nick, and I guess Louis was right with what he said about public opinion. Carmela certainly feels strongly against Mariah, doesn’t she? I really wouldn’t have thought that of her. She’s always seemed so easygoing.”
Nick blinked twice. “Mrrrr.”
“Yes, I know, there’s just no accounting sometimes for the things people get on a soapbox over. Well, one thing’s for sure. Mariah Blackthorne had better steer clear of Carm’s store, or Carm just might eat her alive. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Refreshing my memory on trial details.”
“Merow.”
I called up my favorite search engine and typed “Mariah Blackthorne Trial” into it. A plethora of news articles came up. Nick hopped onto the chair next to mine and watched as I clicked on several, skimming over them. In one the reporter—male—had focused on Mariah’s appearance, calling her a “knockout” and remarking that she was a combination of “classy and gorgeous.” From the accompanying photo, taken of Mariah at the defense table, I had to agree. She sat tall and regal, her dark hair spilling across her shoulders. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and I noted that she still wore her wedding band. “The High-Society Widow” was the caption underneath the photo. News articles like that had probably gotten under Carmella’s skin.
I skimmed several more articles, but the one from the Monterey Observer seemed to have the most information regarding the background of the case itself. I leaned forward and read the article:
Woman Accused of Murdering Husband in Cold Blood Faces Sentencing
Cruz, CA: Mariah Wilton Blackthorne, who two weeks ago pleaded guilty to a charge of manslaughter in connection with the brutal slaying of her husband, psychiatrist Christian Blackthorne, faces sentencing today.
Dr. Blackthorne was found dead in his study by the couple’s maid, Ms. Velma Cutter. He lay sprawled across his desk, his skull bashed in. Mrs. Blackthorne lay unconscious not five feet away from the body, her hand curled around what authorities later determined to be the murder weapon.
Upon initial questioning Mrs. Blackthorne claimed that she could not remember events leading up to right before the murder. Earlier in the day, she’d been preparing for a special dinner party for her husband’s birthday; however, during the course of the morning she overheard a conversation that confirmed her suspicions that her husband had been having an affair. According to Mrs. Blackthorne, she was so upset that she went for a drive along the coast to think things through. Upon her return to the house later that day, she went into her husband’s den to have a discussion and saw him sprawled over the desk. She went over, saw that he was dead, and then blacked out. She has no recollection of how she came to be on the other side of the room, or how she came to be clutching the bronze bust that was proven to be the murder weapon.
Mrs. Cutter, summoned as a hostile witness, testified that on more than one occasion she’d heard Mrs. Blackthorne express concern that her husband might be unfaithful. Next up, Dr. Paul Lassiter, Blackthorne’s partner, could not confirm or deny the rumors of Blackthorne’s infidelity, but he did testify that the suspicion was a niggling thorn in the marriage. Lassiter testified to witnessing several incidents where Mrs. Blackthorne and her husband argued, and Mrs. Blackthorne on at least one occasion threatened her husband’s life. However, even Lassiter could not entirely discount the possibility that Blackthorne might have received a call from a woman that morning.
Following Lassiter’s testimony, Leon Childs, Mrs. Blackthorne’s attorney, and the DA met behind closed doors. It is rumored that Childs and the DA might have reached an agreement for Mrs. Blackthorne to plead guilty to manslaughter and the ten-year sentence it carries.
I frowned at the screen. “Neither the housekeeper nor Blackthorne’s partner did Mariah any favors with their testimonies, although the housekeeper was viewed as hostile. Lassiter seemed particularly vicious toward Mariah, though . . . maybe to call attention away from himself? Any thoughts, Nick?”
I glanced up and saw that Nick had moved over to sit in front of my large picture window. Some robins had made a nest in one of the branches of the tall elm on the street in front of my shop, and Nick spent his afternoons watching them and tapping at the window as they flew past, making guttural sounds in his throat. Now he raised his paw and tapped his nails against the glass. After a few seconds he pressed his face against the windowpane and let out a loud hiss.
“Hey, stop that, Nick. You’ll scare the birds.”
“Meower,” he said. He tapped again at the window, more insistently this time.
I scraped back my chair. “Okay, okay. What’s got you riled up?” I walked over to the window and peered out. The street was deserted save for a large, dark blue sedan parked across from my shop. The car looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. I put my hands on my hips and looked at Nick. “There’s nothing out there, Nick.”
He swiveled his head to give me a golden stare before jumping off the counter and heading toward his food bowl, tail held high.
I returned to my laptop, where I typed “Paul Lassiter—testimony Blackthorne trial” into the search engine. There were several articles, and they all said pretty much the same thing. Lassiter testified that on several occasions Blackthorne had mentioned that his wife was on the verge of “losing it” and that her possessiveness and jealous tantrums had him on edge. He spoke of a dinner party he’d attended at the Blackthornes’, only a few weeks prior, where he’d overheard a particularly violent argument between them over Blackthorne’s supposed infidelity. Not many details were given. It seemed to me as if he were deliberately painting a picture of Mariah as a jealous wife, prone to fits of anger.
My cell phone started to vibrate. I ignored it and kept on reading. A few minutes later the landline in the shop rang. Still I kept on reading. The call switched over to my answering machine, and after the beep I heard a familiar voice boom out, “Nora! If you’re there pick up! It’s me.”
Me was Hank Prince, a dear friend and my old CI from my Chicago reporting days. I scraped back my chair and made a dive for the phone. “Hank! What a nice surprise! What’s up?”
“You sound a bit out of breath. Is this a bad time?”
“No, not at all. I was just researching a possible article for Noir.” I tucked the phone under my chin and eased one hip against the counter. “Say, I thought you were planning on taking a trip out here soon.”
“I was, but my plans got changed. I’m needed here in Chicago. It’s an urgent case.”
“Aren’t they all?”
He chuckled. “True, but this one really is urgent.” He paused. “I’m calling because I kind of need a favor.”
“Really? That’s a switch. Usually it’s the other way around.”
“First time for everything. So, what do you say? Or are you too busy? Have you gotten yourself involved in another mystery?”
I glanced over at my laptop with the account of Mariah’s trial still up on the screen. “Sort of, but you know I’ll help you, whatever you need. You’re always there for me, after all.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Hank said. “A friend of mine desperately needs your help. I’ll let her fill in the details. She should be at your shop very soon. I’ve known her a long time—years, in fact. She didn’t do what they think she did. Mariah’s innocent, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Did you say her name is Mariah?” That wasn’t a common name. He couldn’t possibly mean Mariah Blackthorne, could he? I was just about to ask his friend’s last name when I heard a burst of loud static in my ear. “Nora?” I could make out Hank’s voice, faint and very far away. “Bad connection. I’ll have to call you back.”
There was a last burst of static and then the line went dead just as the bell above my shop door jangled. I glanced up, and sucked in a breath as I saw two women framed in my doorway. One I had never seen before. The other I’d seen only a few short hours ago on my TV screen.
Mariah Blackthorne.
Nick’s head popped out from underneath the table. “Merow.” Told ya.
Chapter Three
I set the phone down and stepped out from behind the counter. The two women were turned slightly away from me, studying the board where I posted my daily specials. I took a tentative step forward, and Mariah suddenly swung around to face me. Her face broke into a wide smile and she held out her hand. “You have to be Nora Charles,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s nice to meet you at last. I’m Mariah Blackthorne.”
“Yes, I know who you are.” I took the proffered hand, shook it and winced. Mariah had a pretty strong grip.
The woman standing beside her cleared her throat—loudly. Mariah released my hand and gestured toward the other woman. “Pardon me. This is my friend Elle Gardner. She was good enough to pick me up at the prison earlier and bring me here.”
I realized then why the dark sedan across the street had seemed so familiar. It was the one I’d seen Mariah ride off in. Elle didn’t offer her hand, merely nodded. I nodded back, and then Mariah cleared her throat. “Hank did call you, right? He told me he would.”
“He did call,” I said, “but unfortunately he couldn’t say much other than a friend of his needed some help. There was a bad connection, and he got cut off before he could tell me any details.”
“Oh, dear. I imagine it was a bit of a shock, then, when you saw me here in your shop?” Her brows drew together and her lips turned downward in a worried expression.
“Maybe a little bit,” I admitted. We stood there awkwardly for a few moments and then I gestured toward one of the front tables. “You should sit down. Are you hungry? Can I get you something?”
Her worried expression morphed into a smile. “How nice of you to ask. I am famished. I couldn’t eat a bite this morning. Too excited about finally being free, I guess.” She squinted at my board, then pointed. “The Betty White sounds good. Grilled chicken breast and provolone on a wrap. I’ll have that.”
Elle nodded. “That does sound good. Make that two.”
“Great. I’ll just be a few minutes. Sit anywhere and make yourselves comfortable.”
