A Fatal Booking, page 10
“Yes, I’d love to see more. I’m so impressed with your artistic talent,” Sandy said. “Pete and I were just marveling at how anyone could so perfectly illuminate stories with illustrations.”
Pete grinned. “Especially since I can’t draw a straight line.”
“That’s actually difficult, at least freehand,” Lora said. “And I’m not the only artist here, you know. Linnea is quite talented in her own right.”
Happy that we seemed to have piloted the conversation into less turgid waters, I rose to my feet. “Please continue with your discussion. I just want to check with Alicia and see if there’s anything I can help her with in the kitchen.”
As I left the room, I heard Vonnie mention something about jewelry designs and reminded myself to check back with Linnea about the earrings I wanted her to create for Ellen.
When I headed back into the library, carrying the tray of hors d’oeuvres Alicia and I had made earlier, I noticed that Arnie was no longer in the room. “Did something happen to Mr. Dean?” I asked, setting the tray on the desk.
“Claimed he had a headache and was going to go up to his room to lie down,” Linnea said. “I think he was just tired. He’s rather elderly, you know.”
“Ouch.” Zach shot her a raised-eyebrow glance. “Getting a jab in at us older folks?”
Linnea made a face at him as Vonnie said, “Don’t be disingenuous, Zach. Arnie’s quite a bit older than you or me, even if we both have a few years on Linnea. Me more than you, of course.”
“I’m sorry he’s missing out on the food,” I said, motioning toward the desk. “Speaking of that—I thought maybe this would be a good time to take a break from your discussion and grab some snacks and drinks. If that’s okay with you, Lora.”
“Of course,” she replied.
As the guests stood and mingled near the linen-draped desk, I realized the pitcher of water that I’d placed in the refrigerator to cool was missing. “Oops, looks like we forgot the water. I know some people prefer that. Please, go ahead and dig in. I’ll be right back.”
I hurried into the kitchen. As I pulled the glass pitcher from the fridge, a noise from overhead caught my attention. “What’s that?”
“Dunno,” Alicia said, following my gaze up to the ceiling. “But I heard a few other thumps and bumps right before you came in. Is one of the guests upstairs?”
“Arnie Dean went up to his room. But he said he had a headache and was going to lie down.”
Alicia frowned. “Doesn’t sound like someone having a quiet rest. Do you want me to check on him? He is at the age where he might take a tumble and have trouble getting back on his feet, especially if he’s not feeling well.”
“No, I’ll go. If there’s a medical emergency, I should be the one to deal with it. Chapters is my property, after all.”
“That it is.” There was a sharp edge to Alicia’s words that I decided to ignore.
After asking Alicia to carry the water pitcher into the library, I jogged down the hall, curling my fingers around the cell phone in my pocket. If Arnie had fallen, I wanted to be ready to call for help.
But when I reached the front hall, I noticed Lora descending the stairs.
“Charlotte,” she said. “I thought you were in the kitchen.”
“I was, but when Alicia and I heard some noises overhead, I was afraid Arnie might have fallen …”
“He’s fine. I just checked,” she said, cutting me off.
“That’s good.” I loosened my grip on my phone. “Thanks for looking out for him, but I imagine you want to get back to your event. I’ll head that way too, if you’re sure Arnie is okay.”
Lora met me at the bottom of the stairs, her face calm as still water. “He said he was rummaging through his suitcase and it fell to the floor. I’m sure that’s what you heard.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I decided not to contradict her. She was my guest, as was Arnie. If he had fallen but didn’t want anyone except his goddaughter to know, it was none of my business. I motioned toward the hall. “After you.”
We returned to the library, where the other guests were engaged in a lively discussion about the symbolism in Andersen’s tales. Lora took a seat near her easel and immediately joined the conversation.
Crossing to the desk holding the drinks and snacks, I glanced upward as another thump reverberated from the beadboard ceiling.
“Everything okay?” Ellen asked, sotto voce, as she poured herself a glass of wine.
Glancing around to make sure no one was paying any attention, I said, “It’s just … I don’t think Arnie is quite so incapacitated as he made out. It sounds like he’s rattling around upstairs rather than lying down.”
Ellen filled another wineglass and handed it to me. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I raised my glass in a little toast. “We’ll have to theorize why later.”
“And down the rabbit hole we’ll go,” Ellen said, returning my salute.
Chapter Eleven
After cleaning up following the book club discussion, which stretched rather later into the evening than I’d expected, I overslept on Tuesday. Fortunately, Alicia said she didn’t really need my help with breakfast, so after grabbing a cinnamon roll and some coffee from the kitchen, I retreated to my room to do a little online research on Stacy Wilkin.
There wasn’t much to find—a few references to her on sites that forced one to pay to access court records and the like. I ignored those and kept searching, finally turning up a newspaper article that talked about Stacy opening her jewelry store in New Bern. There was a photograph of her, plus a few of the shop. One particular picture caught my eye—a display of jewelry from the store. The caption said the pieces had been fabricated based on Stacy’s original designs, which intrigued me. I knew she’d sold estate jewelry as well as pieces designed by Lora and, I assumed, other artists, but I hadn’t realized she’d designed anything herself.
Closer inspection of the photograph made me catch my breath. One of the pieces Stacy had claimed as her own design was a perfect match for the drawing I’d seen in Linnea Ruskin’s sketchbook.
The one she seemed upset over, I thought, pondering this new clue. Perhaps Stacy stole the design from Linnea somehow. And if she ripped off one concept, what’s to say she didn’t take others? She could even have commissioned Linnea to design some jewelry for the shop, then refused to acknowledge her artistic contributions.
I had to admit it might be a possible motive for murder. Even though I’d have chosen another route, like a civil lawsuit, that didn’t mean everyone would react in the same fashion to their original artwork being stolen. I knew from past experience that murderers weren’t always thinking clearly when they committed their crimes. Anger and passion often overwhelmed common sense.
Examining the digitized newspaper again, I noticed a few comments listed under the original article. As I read through them, a couple sparked special interest, as they were from anonymous commenters who claimed Stacy was selling stolen goods at her store. I wondered if there was any truth to these accusations, which would certainly shine a new light on Stacy’s business practices. Perhaps she ran afoul of the wrong people, I thought. Cheated a criminal who then orchestrated her death.
Shutting down my computer, I made a quick call to Detective Johnson to alert her to these new wrinkles in the case. Of course, it was up to her to decide if she wanted to question Linnea further or pursue the hot-merchandise angle. That wasn’t my call, although I did file away the information to share with Ellen as part of our suspect file.
Finally taking my morning walk around eleven, I decided to stop by the Sandburg sisters’ house on my way home. As longtime area residents, I figured they might know something about Samuel Joiner or one or another of my guests.
Their home, just around the corner from Chapters, was a charming bungalow with white clapboard siding and a covered porch. Tall windows with aqua shutters flanked the cobalt-blue front door. As I strolled up to the front porch, where white wicker furniture created an inviting seating area, I admired the flowers lining the concrete path. Since Ophelia Sandburg’s gardening expertise was renowned in Beaufort, it was no surprise that her front yard consisted primarily of flower beds rather than grass. Her small backyard was also filled with shrubs and flowers as well as a few ornamental trees. She actually grew so many blooming plants that she made a little extra money supplying fresh flowers for local businesses, including Julie’s bookstore and Pete and Sandy’s café.
Bernadette greeted me at the front door. “Hello, Charlotte. So nice of you to stop by,” she said as she ushered me inside. “Can I get you anything to eat? Ophelia made sticky buns this morning.”
Although I loved Ophelia’s baking, I refused the offer, having already eaten a pastry earlier. “But I’d love a glass of water,” I said, taking a seat on a sofa covered in rose-patterned chintz.
Ophelia appeared in the open kitchen door. “We also have lemonade, and I’m happy to make coffee.”
“Just water is fine,” I said, allowing my gaze to wander for a moment. The bungalow’s pale-jade walls and white cotton curtains edged with lace lent an airy quality to the living room, which was also filled with wicker plant stands and simple, whitewashed wooden furniture. An eclectic collection of vases overflowing with Ophelia’s flowers and a few watercolor seascapes provided splashes of bright color.
“So sorry we couldn’t be at the book club discussion last night,” Bernadette said, as she sat down in one of the periwinkle armchairs facing the sofa. “Did anything interesting happen?”
“Yes, tell us all the gossip.” Ophelia bustled into the room and handed me a tumbler filled with ice-cold water before settling into a matching armchair. “If there is any, I mean.”
I took a sip from the glass before answering. “You mean, which of my guests do I think is a murderer?”
Ophelia shared a look with her sister. “It is another fascinating mystery, isn’t it? Who’d want to kill a middle-aged lady who owned a jewelry store? I mean, I could see it happening at her store—during a robbery or something. But I doubt she’d carry her valuable inventory with her on vacation.” Ophelia tugged the hem of her sunflower-print skirt over her bony knees. “The thing is, if you came looking for our input, I’m afraid we won’t be able to offer much help.”
“We don’t know any of your current guests, you see,” Bernadette added, stretching out her stocky legs. Unlike Ophelia, who was dressed for a garden party, Bernadette wore khaki shorts and a navy-blue polo shirt.
“I’m not sure about that,” I said, before sharing Arnie Dean’s story about visiting Chapters in the past. “Of course, Isabella gave so many parties, he may have attended ones you skipped.”
“Let me think.” Ophelia fiddled with the lace trimming the collar of her white cotton blouse before turning to her sister. “There was someone named Dean at a few parties we attended, wasn’t there, Bernie? I vaguely remember a man with that last name. Couldn’t be this guy, though, as this person was already late middle-aged at the time.”
“Dean is the last name?” Bernadette kicked off her sandals and put her feet up on the tufted hassock in front of her chair. “There was a Claude Dean who was a big-time lawyer and politician in this area back in the sixties and seventies. I believe he was a regular at Isabella’s parties.” She rolled her eyes. “A real schmoozer, if you know what I mean. Good-looking guy, in a florid sort of way. Thick white hair, sparkling green eyes, and an exuberant personality. I remember he was far too hail-fellow-well-met for my taste, although others seemed to like him well enough.”
“Oh, right.” Ophelia widened her pale eyes. “I remember that fellow. He always reminded me of a sleazy Santa Claus.”
I scooted to the front edge of the sofa. “That has to have been Arnie Dean’s father. I wouldn’t consider Arnie sleazy, exactly, but he does resemble a slightly slimmed down Santa.”
“Come to think of it, Fee”—Bernadette tapped her chin with one finger—“wasn’t there a young man who accompanied Claude Dean to one of the parties you attended when I was off nursing in ’Nam? I seem to recall you mentioning that in a letter.”
“Oh heavens, that was so long ago.” Ophelia patted down a flyaway strand of her fire-engine-red-dyed hair. “I can’t remember all the details that far in the past.” She scrunched up her rather beaky nose. “I may have mentioned something like that, but I’m not sure. The main reason I remember Claude Dean is because of his involvement in trying to solve that rash of jewelry heists in the seventies.”
“Right.” Bernadette snapped her fingers. “He was running for office on a law-and-order ticket.”
“Jewelry heists?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “What was that all about?”
Bernadette shrugged. “I wasn’t here at the time, but I recall Fee telling me about some sort of cat burglar activity in the area.”
“Someone, or maybe a group of thieves, robbed a lot of the wealthier homes, stealing mostly high-end jewelry.” Ophelia’s eyes sparkled at the memory. “Thefts also happened at some society parties, so of course Isabella told all her guests to be on their guard. Some people were frightened enough to avoid large events, but of course your great-aunt wasn’t about to cancel a party because of some common thief.”
“Did she ever lose anything to this burglar?” I asked, recalling photos of my great-aunt wearing some pretty spectacular jewelry. She’d stopped doing that in later years, when I knew her, choosing to wear inexpensive costume pieces instead. For good reason, although few people knew why, since she’d wanted that information kept under wraps.
Bernadette cleared her throat, drawing me out of my musings. “I never heard Isabella claim she’d been robbed, of jewelry or anything else.”
“Wait, now I remember. It wasn’t Isabella, but someone at one of her parties did lose a valuable emerald-and-diamond ring,” Ophelia said, bouncing out of her chair. “You weren’t here at the time, Bernie, but there was quite a flap about it. Isabella was pretty dismissive of the whole affair. Apparently the woman who lost the ring left it lying in one of the bathrooms. Isabella said that was careless, although I guess the guest took it off to wash her hands or something.”
“You think it could’ve been stolen by the thief working the area at the time?” I asked, with a lift of my eyebrows. “I suppose it’s possible, but it’s more likely that it just fell down the drain or into a trash can.”
“That was Isabella’s theory as well. She actually refused to bring the police in on it. Which is a little strange, if you think about it.” Ophelia wrinkled her brow. “In fact, I believe Isabella just paid the guest what the ring was worth, which wasn’t an inconsiderable amount.”
I bit back a comment, bobbing my head and muttering something about my great-aunt’s generosity. I thought I knew why Isabella hadn’t wanted to involve the police—she wouldn’t have done anything that could’ve jeopardized her covert career as a spy for U.S. intelligence. It was even possible she’d been running some sort of information-gathering or surveillance operation during the party where the ring was lost and hadn’t wanted the authorities to look too closely into the backgrounds of her guests.
“At any rate, the way Claude Dean comes into all this is that he made a lot of proclamations about the need to solve the thefts and arrest the culprit.” Bernadette shrugged. “Even I heard about that, from the newspapers Fee sent me in ’Nam. Typical political pontificating. He swore that if he was elected, he’d bring people like the cat burglar to justice.”
“And was he elected?” I asked.
“Oh yes, by a landslide,” Bernadette said. “But did he ever fulfill that particular promise? No, I’m afraid not. That string of thefts was never solved.”
“They just stopped,” said Ophelia, who had remained standing. “Everyone assumed the thief or thieves simply moved on to another hunting ground.” She pointed toward my tumbler. “Can I get you some more water?”
“Yes, thanks,” I replied, handing her the glass.
When Ophelia left the room, Bernadette met my gaze with a wry smile. “I think Fee found the thief rather glamorous. She certainly went on and on about them in her letters. I suppose it may have had something to do with that movie that starred Cary Grant. She was a bit obsessed with that film when she was a girl.”
“To Catch a Thief, with Grant and Grace Kelly?”
“That’s the one. I tried to tell her that real thieves were never that handsome or charming, but I’m not sure she ever listened to me.” Bernadette flashed me a grin. “She didn’t, often.”
“I think younger sisters are like that. I know I didn’t always pay attention to my older sister, and as for Melinda”—I grinned—“she considered both Sophie and me to be hopelessly uncool.”
Bernadette leaned forward and gripped her knees with both hands. “But still, we’d jump in front of a bullet for them, wouldn’t we?”
“Take a bullet?” Ophelia asked, returning to the living room with my tumbler of water. “That would have to be for someone special,” she added, as she handed me the glass. “I’d like to think I’d be the kind of person to do that for anyone, even a stranger, but I must confess I probably wouldn’t.”
“I was talking about family. Difficult as they may sometimes be, I expect we’d do anything for them,” Bernadette said.
Ophelia cast her sister a smile before sitting back down. “I’d certainly take a bullet for you, Bernie. Even if you do get on my nerves sometimes, with all your logic and practical thinking.”
“One of us has to stay tethered to the earth,” Bernie said dryly.
Her sister settled back in her chair, the blue upholstery creating the perfect background for her vivid red hair. “Glad that’s you.”
“Me too,” Bernadette said with a grin. “It means I get to enjoy your flights of fancy without actually having to live with the consequences.”
Ophelia fluttered her pale lashes. “What consequences? I don’t recall any terrible consequences stemming from my more creative lifestyle.”
