Drape Expectations (12 page)

“Aha!” Caprice said with satisfaction. “Hunger and tuna help every time.”

In no time at all, Mirabelle had lapped up all the food. She sat on the step, washing and licking her lips. Every once in a while, she glanced up at Sophia to see if she'd moved a whisker or a paw. But all was quiet.

Still, when Caprice lifted the dish, Mirabelle meowed. Caprice petted her, rubbed her under the chin and behind her ears. “Are you going to stay down?”

Mirabelle took another look at Sophia and then scampered back upstairs.

Progress. That's what mattered.

On her way back to the kitchen, Caprice heard her cell phone play. She snatched it from her pocket. “Hello?”

“Miss De Luca?”

She recognized the voice. “Yes.”

“This is Detective Carstead. I understand you wanted to talk to me.”

“I'd like to discuss the Alanna Goodwin investigation.”

“You know I can't do that,” he said firmly.

“I know you can't tell
me
anything, but I might have a few things to tell you.”

Was that a sigh she heard?

He responded, “I'm on my way out now. But how about if you meet me back at the station around noon?”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“I'll see you then.” He didn't say good-bye; he just hung up.

At least he hadn't dismissed her. At least he was willing to listen to her.

At least ... she hoped so.

 

 

Caprice had been at the Kismet police station many times before, under more stressful circumstances. She'd sat on that hard bench in the reception area for hours. But today she went right up to the desk and said, “Caprice De Luca to see Detective Carstead.”

The on-duty officer, whose name tag read,
OFFICER CARSON MENDEZ
, looked down at a printout on his desk and nodded. “He's back. I'll buzz him.” He did; and a minute later, Detective Carstead was in the doorway motioning to her.

Generally speaking, she knew how this meeting was going to progress. He'd be terse and gruff and he'd want her out of there fast. That was just fine. She'd say what she had to say and leave. He could either take the information and do something with it ... or not.

The detective didn't lead her to the interrogation room, but rather to his office. It was small and messy. Folders topped two file cabinets and also straggled across his desk. Binders filled a bookcase, but the top shelf held a photograph of an older couple. She imagined they were his parents. In another photograph, she recognized a younger Brett Carstead. His arm circled a boy about the same age as he was. His brother, maybe? She didn't know much about Detective Carstead, just that his attitude wasn't as arrogant and terse as Detective Jones's. She'd seen compassion in his eyes more than once, and she was glad of that.

He motioned to the wood-and-fabric chairs in front of his desk. She settled into one and watched him as he sat across the desk from her. His gaze seemed to see everything about her in a glance, from her Beatles T-shirt (she had several) to her russet flared slacks, from her tapestry vest with the copper-colored fringe to her pocketbook. When his gaze fell upon her macramé purse, she wondered just what he was thinking. Some guys thought the way she dressed was strange.

Seth didn't.

She didn't think Grant did, either. He'd come to accept it as part of who she'd come to be. But she'd seen the looks and stares about her clothes, not about her. She walked to the beat of a different drummer. What could she say?

“You've never come here before to share information,” he said.

“Before, I never felt I had information that I needed to share.”

He shook his head. “Are we going to go round and round?”

“Absolutely not. I have something to tell you about Alanna Goodwin and Len Lowery.”

Carstead shuffled over his desk and found a folder. He opened it. “Lowery is one of Ace Richland's band members. What does he have to do with Alanna Goodwin?”

“That's the whole point, Detective Carstead. When I went to Alanna's house for the staging, I found Alanna and Len huddled outside on the veranda, away from everyone else. I couldn't hear what they were talking about and I had prospective buyers with me, so I backed off, backed away, and forgot about it.”

“And why did you remember it again?” He picked up a pen and was playing with it now, switching it on, then off again.

Her moments were numbered if she couldn't get him interested. “I didn't leave the open house with as much professional aplomb as I would have liked.”

His eyes assessed her once more. “Do you mind if I ask you why?”

This was why she was here. “I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but Alanna was not taking care of Mirabelle, at least not in the right way. Her cat,” Caprice reminded him.

He nodded and waited for her to go on.

Caprice did. “Sure, Mirabelle had a roof over her head. She had shelter and food. But I'm not sure how much loving she got, or what else went on when Alanna was and wasn't there. I got the feeling that every time she had a meeting or women in for afternoon tea and she didn't want to bother with Mirabelle, she stuffed her in a closet. That's where I found her the day of the open house. This tiny cubicle of a closet, with no food or water and no place to nap, not even a towel crumpled on the floor. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

He looked impatient, not as if he was thinking about whether or not he had. “Caprice, I don't have animals. I don't deal with animals.”

“Learning curve in a nutshell. They need tenderness, love, and care as much as they need food, water, and a safe place to be with a human who will give them the attention they deserve. Stuffing a cat in a closet isn't giving him or her any of those things.”

“So, what happened after the closet?” he asked with an obvious attempt at patience.

“I left in a huff. I didn't stay until the end of the open house. I didn't wish Alanna a happy sale. I felt she was all wrong for Ace and he couldn't see it.”

“And what does that have to do with who murdered her?”

She cut to the chase, since that was what he wanted. “I went by the next day to apologize. After all, my relationship with real estate agents, as well as their clients, is important to my business. One client leads to the next. But I never apologized. I heard voices on the screened-in porch, so I went around the side. Then I recognized the voices—Alanna's and Len's.”

Caprice went on to tell Carstead how the two of them were planning to sabotage Ace's tour. However, as soon as she said it, she had the feeling she shouldn't have. Was this giving the detective even more reason to go after Ace? This was what she got for sharing information; she could tell from the look in Detective Carstead's eyes, he was thinking about all of it.

To encourage him to be motivated to think on a different track, she said, “I bet Alanna was paying Len to do the sabotaging. Have you made any headway on who stole Ace's guitars?”

As soon as Carstead was going to open his mouth, Caprice held up her hand. “I know what you're going to say. You can't share any information because you're still investigating. Well, maybe Len stole those guitars. Have you at least looked into his financial records?”

Detective Carstead's eyebrows rose. “We have a competent police department, Miss De Luca. You shouldn't worry yourself about any of this. We're investigating. We'll find out who killed Alanna Goodwin. Why don't you just concentrate on taking care of her cat.”

If that wasn't patronizing, Caprice didn't know what was.

Coming here had been a mistake. “Oh, I'll take care of Mirabelle, better than Alanna Goodwin ever did. I came here today because I thought my information could help you . . . because it was the right thing to do. But you obviously don't care what I think.”

She stood and turned to go, but suddenly the tall detective was blocking her path.

“Caprice, your information could help. I'll admit that. But even though you're
more
than competent at ferreting out clues, you shouldn't be involved.”

More than competent. At least
that
wasn't patronizing.

When she remained silent, he shook his head, then sighed. “We prefer our private citizens go about their business and not set foot in ours. That's safer for you and a lot less complicated for us. Understand?”

Oh, she understood. But she didn't like it. Staring directly into his dark brown eyes, she asked, “So if I find anything out, do you want to know, or should I just keep it to myself?”

He scowled. “You won't stay out of this?”

“Ace is my friend. How can I? I could learn something just from being around his band. I could learn more about Len.”

“If you hear something you think is relevant, leave me a message.”

“I'll do that,” she said, then maneuvered around him and left his office. But she could feel his eyes on her back as she walked down the hall. She could feel his disapproval.

His disapproval didn't matter. She wouldn't let Ace be railroaded for a crime he didn't commit.

Chapter Ten

Caprice showed her driver's license to the security staff at Peaceful Path Cemetery on Wednesday morning. A big, burly guy, with an electronic ear gadget, checked the list on his smartphone and gave her a nod.

“You can take a seat under the canopy in Mr. Richland's row,” he directed her.

Late last night, Ace had called her and asked her if she was coming to the funeral today. It had sounded as if he needed moral support. He told her his parents were driving down from Scranton, but he'd like her there, too. He also explained that Trista and Marsha wouldn't be coming.

No surprise there,
she thought. But then she wondered if the police had talked to Marsha. After all, wouldn't she be a viable suspect? An ex-wife who could be jealous?

Unless Marsha had an airtight alibi. Ace had also told her that he and Twyla had consulted on today's funeral arrangements. They'd decided on a graveside service and then a reception at Alanna's house.

After her second self-defense class last night, she'd picked up Lady at Grant's. They'd discussed her meeting with Detective Carstead. Grant had assured her Carstead would pursue every lead. Today, Caprice was going to do the same. Scanning the group under the canopy, including two patrol officers who appeared to study everyone, Caprice spotted Ace, Twyla, and Ace's parents in the front row. Len was seated in a row farther back, with Ace's band members. He looked subdued in a brown suit. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Ace's two brothers to the rear of the ten rows of chairs; they were deep in conversation. Caprice was glad Ace's family had shown up for him.

In contrast, Twyla sat next to Ace in a black jacket and skirt, looking pale and fragile. Alanna had been her only living relative. How lonely today must feel.

An older woman in a navy pants suit was openly crying. Who was she, and what had Alanna meant to her?

The seats were filling in fast now, and it was almost time for the service to begin. Caprice gave condolences to both Twyla and Ace, hugging them, giving them an extra-hard squeeze. Ace's dad motioned her to a seat next to his wife and moved down one.

He leaned close to say in a low voice, “Women do this so much better than men. She's going to get all teary-eyed because of how this death hurt Ace. You can most likely say a few words of comfort better than I can.”

Caprice had had a couple of conversations with Mrs. Rizzo. The truth was, Ace's mom reminded her a lot of her own mom. She was glad to sit next to her and be of help if she could. Some people were uncomfortable at viewings and funerals; apparently, Mr. Rizzo was one of them. When Ace's two brothers came to sit on the other side of their dad, Caprice felt honored to be able to sit in this row with them.

Alanna's casket was burnished copper and there were lilies and roses and mums everywhere, from the huge spray atop the casket to the baskets and arrangements of flowers circling it.

Mrs. Rizzo leaned toward Caprice. “I was so happy Ace found someone. We weren't too thrilled that Alanna was going to move in without the benefit of a wedding. But they were planning one at the end of the summer, so I was just going to look the other way until then.”

Caprice knew her own mom would probably think the same way. She remembered Ace and Alanna in the lip-lock at the house staging.

“He really cared for her,” Caprice said, sad for Ace, too.

“I only met her once,” his mom whispered. “She did have Southern charm.” Then Mrs. Rizzo said something interesting. “I think she and I would have clashed at some point, but if she made Ace happy, that was what was important.”

Caprice had a feeling Alanna would have clashed with anyone who didn't see things her way. Ace's mom had probably sensed that from the outset. After all, moms just knew those kinds of things.

The service was a combination of Bible verses, sermon, and personal tidbits both Twyla and Ace must have relayed to the minister. He talked about Alanna's Southern style, her charitable donations, the boards she sat on, as well as her bridge club friendships.

What friendships?
Caprice wondered. From what she'd learned, Alanna didn't have friends. She might have belonged to a bridge club and the garden club and the country club, but as far as personal friendships, Caprice hadn't heard about a single one.

At the end of the service, Reverend Springer said, “Miss Horton and Mr. Richland invite all of you to White Pillars to share more memories and break bread together.” After those words, he crossed to Twyla and Ace and murmured in somber tones, probably giving them more comfort and sympathy.

Caprice didn't know most of the crowd. However, she did spot Gail Schwartz, who was an acquaintance of her mom's. Gail was the head of a headhunter agency and might have had business associations with Alanna. Floating around the reception could give Caprice some clues as to who these people were. She might also unearth a tidbit that could lead to the killer's identity.

 

 

Alanna's house was everything Alanna had always wanted it to be. Twyla had ordered fresh-flower arrangements, and the spread on the dining-room table was nice, even though Nikki hadn't catered it. Everything looked deli-prepared. Kismet had an excellent deli, located near Vince's condo. He often went there for takeout.

Unlike Alanna, Twyla was hands-on, arranging food on the table, asking the housekeeper if she needed help in the kitchen. Ace looked a bit forlorn as he sat talking to his parents and his brothers in the huge living room.

Caprice wondered if Twyla still wanted to sell the house. They'd have to talk about that. Caprice had rented furniture for the staging. If for some reason Twyla was going to stay in Kismet, all of that would have to go back. For now, though, the house was in ready-to-sell condition.

After sitting with Ace and his family for a bite to eat, Caprice excused herself and wandered about a bit, merely to see who was there. Len Lowery and two other band members had straggled out on the veranda and were conversing. Maybe about their performance at the community theater this coming Saturday?

Wandering into the small parlor, where she'd seen Alanna study that photo in her desk, Caprice straightened a painting on the wall.

“Always on duty?” a woman's voice asked from the doorway.

Turning, she saw Gail Schwartz. “I suppose. If Twyla wants to sell the house, we have to keep it in tip-top shape.”

Entering the room, Gail looked around. “So very Alanna, isn't it? The whole place, I mean.”

“I didn't know Alanna very well.”

“Are you being discreet?” Gail asked with a wry smile.

“I try to be. But I do know Alanna certainly did have her own opinions about things.”

Gail rolled her eyes. “That's putting it mildly.”

It sounded as if Gail knew Alanna better than any of the other women Caprice had spoken with. “So
you
knew her?”

“We were on a committee at the Country Squire. We served many of the same charities. I couldn't help but run into her now and then.”

“It doesn't sound as if you enjoyed those times.”

Hesitating, Gail picked up a porcelain dish displayed in a rack on one of the marble-topped tables. “I don't know many people who
did
get along with Alanna. To tell you the truth, women just didn't like her.”

“And men?” Caprice prompted.

“There were rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?” Caprice hoped with all her heart that Alanna hadn't been cheating on Ace. She hoped even more fervently that if Alanna was, he wouldn't learn about it.

“Alanna's husband was much older than she was. She was an attractive, stylish woman, disliked by other women. There were bound to be catty remarks.”

“Twenty years older, I understand,” Caprice prompted.

“Yes. Under normal circumstances, she never would have met him. She was a no-name journalist from a town in Mississippi when she interviewed him. After that, they became an item. Once they married, she shared his fortune ... and his power.”

“Power?”

“Sure. They were always giving dinner parties with influential guests. Alanna made her own contacts among them.”

“I heard that Barton had an illegitimate son, Archer Ford,” Caprice said. “Do you know if he's here today? I haven't had a chance to ask Twyla.”

“Archer Ford.” Gail said the name with much disapproval. “Yes, he's here. He's in the reading room down the hall, looking over the shelves of books. My guess is, he's the most broken up about Alanna of anyone here.”

“I don't understand.”

Gail made sure no one was in the doorway or strolling down the hall. Then in a low voice, she revealed, “Well, among those rumors that flew about concerning Alanna . . . One day at the Country Squire, a bridge club member told me in the strictest confidence, of course, that she'd heard Alanna and Archer were having an affair while Barton was still alive. After Archer came to Kismet to tell Barton he was his son, he decided to stay in the area and got a job managing a York hotel. I think Alanna had something to do with him finding that job and staying near Kismet.”

“Really?” Caprice wanted to keep Gail talking. This was information she hadn't heard before.

Gail stepped even closer. “Supposedly, Alanna cut off the affair and went on a European tour for six months to get over Archer and save her marriage.”

Suddenly footsteps sounded in the hall. Gail moved away, obviously afraid she'd be overheard. Then she waved her hand as if none of it mattered anymore and shrugged. “Those were the rumors.”

Caprice thought about the funeral again and everyone there. She said, “There was an older woman in a navy pants suit at the funeral who was terrifically upset. Do you know who she was?”

Gail nodded. “That was Muriel Fink. She was Barton's private secretary for years. He brought her here from Mississippi. She retired after he died. Maybe she had a soft spot for Alanna because Barton loved her.”

As Caprice absorbed that, Gail moved away. “I've got to go. I have a meeting back at the office. It was good to see you again, Caprice.”

When Gail left the room, Caprice had questions—questions she hoped she could find the answers to. Why would Alanna go away for six months if she wanted to put her marriage back together? Had Barton joined her in Europe and they'd enjoyed a second honeymoon?

Did Twyla know all about Alanna's supposed affair with Archer Ford while Barton was alive? She hadn't mentioned that. Then again, Mississippi was a long way from Pennsylvania. Not all sisters were as close as Caprice was to Bella and Nikki. Maybe the rumors had only traveled in Kismet.

So Archer was studying the books in the library. What better opportunity would Caprice have to meet him?

Caprice hadn't worn black today. Black just wasn't her thing, not even for funerals. After all, a funeral was supposed to be a celebration of a life. She'd worn a dark blue suit, reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy's style, though without the pillbox hat. And because of navigating the lawn at graveside, she'd worn her Capezios, which were flat and soundless.

She hurried down the hall to the library. She'd rearranged bookcases and furniture in there herself. As with most of her suggestions about the house staging, she'd had a tug-of-war with Alanna about stowing away a lot of her knickknacks.

Archer Ford—tall and broad-shouldered, with light brown hair—didn't hear her come into the room.

He was standing at one of the bookcases, a leather-bound book in his hands. His shoulders shook.

Maybe she should just turn around and walk out again. Maybe she shouldn't intrude on this moment.

Whether she'd made a movement or whether he simply became aware he wasn't alone, he turned her way. Caprice got a firsthand glimpse at the tears in his eyes.

He cleared his throat and closed the book.

She said, “I'm sorry. I can leave.”

“No, don't leave,” he responded quickly. “I just came in here for a few moments of ... I don't know, solitude. I wanted to remember without the crowd around me.”

She extended her hand to him. “I'm Caprice De Luca. I staged the house for Alanna.”

When he shook her hand, his grip was firm, though a little stiff. She sensed he was embarrassed. He shouldn't be, if he was expressing emotion. Was it honest? Was it guilt?

“I'm Archer Ford,” he said. “Alanna's husband was my father.”

At her raised brow, he shrugged. “It's a long story. If you live in Kismet, I'm surprised you haven't heard it.”

“Gossip is ten percent truth, ninety percent possibilities. I wait until I know the facts to really put any store in it.”

“I can see why Alanna chose you to stage her house. No nonsense and get rid of the frills. I noticed changes since the last time I was here. House stagers de-clutter, right?”

“That's one of the things we do.”

So he admitted to being here. As a guest? As a lover? She nodded to the book in his hand. “Alanna told me she'd read most of the books in here.”

“Hemingway,” he said, raising the book. “He was one of her favorites, especially his novel
The Sun Also Rises
.”

“Maybe Twyla will let you have the book,” she posed, watching his expression.

His brow furrowed. “I've never met Twyla before today.”

“Really?”

“With Alanna living here and Twyla in Mississippi, it just never happened. I suppose she was shocked when she learned I'd inherited a third of Alanna's estate.”

“She might have been,” Caprice agreed noncommittally. “Were
you
surprised?”