Authors: Leigh Selfman
Éclair Case of Murder: A Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Rosie Kale Culinary Cozy Mystery Book 2) (5 page)
As I drove away I couldn’t help but feel guilty about causing poor Sammy more grief. But I felt more certain than ever that Helen Wright didn’t kill herself. After all, she
did
know her son was coming home. She would never have let him find her body that way on purpose—I was almost sure of it.
Which could only mean one thing: Helen Wright was murdered.
But if so…why? And by whom?
I’d watched enough TV to know that the husband was usually the most likely suspect in situations like this. And in this particular case, it might actually make sense. After all, Helen told me on the phone that she suspected Chuck of cheating on her. Plus there was the fact that he had an insurance policy on her. That friend of Helen’s—the glamorous brunette who spoke at the memorial—said that the Wrights had taken out policies on each other as soon as they found out she was pregnant.
I decided that woman might be just the person to talk to, as not only was she Helen’s best friend but was also her former employer.
I pulled off the street and into the first to the parking lot I could find—that of a big grocery store. Then I took out my phone and
googled
Helen Wright’s memorial tribute page, trying to find the name of the woman who’d spoken.
As I scrolled down the page, I thought I recognized her name: Diane Verlaine. I
googled
it and found results for a financial planner of that name who worked in the area. It definitely sounded like her so I quickly called to make an appointment. But unfortunately their service informed me that they were closed for lunch. So I left a message saying that I needed some financial planning advice. Then I called my hairdresser to make an appointment – after all, I wanted to look like someone who had finances to plan.
Plus, I was seeing Casey later that evening and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to spruce up a bit.
In the two hours before my hair appointment I decided to stop at the police station and tell Sanders what I’d learned.
Inside the small San Coronado police station, my old baby-sitting client, Stevie Logan was sitting behind the front desk. Though these days, Stevie was no longer so little. He was now approximately six foot tall with curly blonde surfer hair and several tattoos.
“Hey, Rosie,” he said in that distinctive surfer tone of his. “What’s up?”
“Hey Stevie…er, Steve. I was wondering if Detective Sanders was free. I wanted to talk to him for a minute, about the Wright case.”
“Ooh. Don’t think there is any ‘case’ to speak of. I mean, I’m not a cop, I just answer phones here but as far as I know, that lady offed herself, right?”
“Yeah,” I shrugged, biting the inside of my lip. “But I’d really like to talk to him anyway.”
“Sorry,” he said. “But he’s in there on the phone.” He looked down at his paper-wrapped sandwich from the fast food place across the street. “Hey, so how’s your Nana’s coq au vin?”
“Good,” I said. “You should come to dinner sometime soon. In fact…” I squinted, sizing him up. “Are you dating anyone?”
“Whoa Rosie. You used to be my babysitter. Not that you’re not still hot, but... I don’t really go for that whole ‘cougar’ thing.”
“Cougar? How old do you think I am? I'm only a few years older than you!" I looked at him stunned. Then I reminded myself to stay on track. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s not for me anyway. I have a cousin in town. She’s really cute. Maybe you’d want to…like…give her surfing lessons or something?”
“Gotta picture?” he asked, leaning forward.
I shook my head no. “But I’m sure you could come to dinner at Nana’s to meet her. What if I set something up? I could ask Nana to make her famous coq au vin?”
“Yes!” he said, hitting the desk in triumph. “I will most definitely be there.”
I smiled. Well at least that could be helpful.
I was just about to ask him if he had any clue about when Detective Sanders would be free…when the door to the back offices opened up and the man himself came out. He nodded in my direction. “Miss Kale,” he said.
I wasn’t sure but I thought I saw a hint of defeat cross his already forlorn-looking face.
“Detective…hi. Could I talk to you for a minute?”
He looked at me as if he wanted to say ‘no’ but instead he gave me a curt nod and headed back towards his office. I followed behind.
Once inside the small, grey-walled room, I took a seat in the chair in front of his desk. “So, Detective Sanders, I wanted to talk to you because I was looking into the Helen Wright case and…”
“There is no case,” he interrupted. Then he frowned and opened the bottom drawer of his metal desk and scanned through some files. Without looking up he added, “It was a suicide.”
“I know.” I leaned forward. “I mean I know everyone thinks that but what if it wasn’t?”
At that, Sanders did look up at me and his normally emotionless face, showed a hint of scorn. He leaned back in his chair and stared at me, saying nothing. But I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me that easily.
“I spoke to the Wright’s housekeeper,” I said. “Helen knew her son was coming home that morning. She never would have killed herself, knowing that he would be there to find her body…”
“And just exactly why were you talking to their housekeeper? You’re not running your own investigation into this are you?” he asked.
I gave him my most innocent look. “Me? No. I just brought some cupcakes over for the family. And while I was there I spoke to the housekeeper who confirmed what I overheard at the party. That Helen was very excited to have her son, Sammy, come home.”
“So what are you saying?” Sanders leaned back in his chair and entwined his fingers behind his head. “Are you saying she overdosed accidentally? Or that she was murdered?”
“I think she was murdered,” I blurted out. “I mean, it’s possible that someone else knew she was depressed and they put the pills in the smoothie. The housekeeper told me that she prepared all the ingredients in the blender the day before and all Helen had to do was blend it up. Someone could easily have added the pills into the mix. Helen would never even have known the difference.”
“Look,” the detective said, leaning forward and looking me in the eyes. “I know you helped solve one case here not long ago. But that doesn’t make you a detective. Everyone around concurs that Helen Wright was depressed. She had antidepressants prescribed by her doctor and she killed herself in exactly the way she told you she would. I get that you feel guilty about not helping her, but you need to leave it alone. The family is upset enough as it is and the press is all over it. You don’t want to stir up a can of worms.”
“No I certainly don’t,” I muttered, momentarily taken aback by the grossness of the image. It seemed bad enough to open a can of worms but even if you did, you certainly wouldn’t want to stir them up. Was there even such a thing as a can of worms?
I pondered the question as Sanders got up and unceremoniously escorted me out of his office. True, I’d been unable to convince him of my doubts, but I wasn’t going to allow myself to be deterred that easily. After my hair appointment I was going to go Diane Verlaine’s office and get to the bottom of this.
As I walked down the steps of the police station and down the long concrete walkway, I noticed local newswoman, Patsy Blaire on the sidewalk in front of me. She was next to the blue ‘News Four’ van, holding a microphone, speaking somberly into the camera.
“And so the police have ruled the untimely death of socialite Helen Wright to be a suicide…”
In order to avoid walking into the shot, I stepped off the concrete walkway and into the grass, giving both Patsy and her cameraman a wide berth. But just when I thought I was safely away, I heard her voice calling behind me. “Hello! Wait hello!”
I turned to see her waving at me as her cameraman swung his camera around and aimed it in my direction.
I stared for a moment, stunned, then I turned and kept walking. But Patsy stalked up beside me, pointing her microphone at me like a weapon.
“Aren’t you the suicide hotline worker? The one that took Helen Wright’s call?” She was breathlessly hurrying to keep up.
The mic was now only inches away from the side my face—my makeup-free face which must have looked not only pale and blotchy, but horrified and guilty all at the same time.
I shook my head and tried to keep walking but Patsy jumped in front of me. I was boxed in by the cameraman on one side and by Patsy on the other.
“In a Channel Four news exclusive,” she said taking on a serious voice, “We are here talking exclusively to the crisis center worker who was unable to save the life of Helen Wright."
I had to get out of there.
I tried walking to the left but she stepped in front of me again, blocking my path.
“Why were you at the police station just now? Are the police blaming you for Helen Wright’s suicide?"
“What? No,” I muttered and tried to go to the right.
“Do you feel like it was your fault that Helen Wright is dead? Do you wish you could have done more?”
Yes.
“No,” I said, horrified. “I can’t talk about this.”
And with that I shoved the cameraman out of the way and hurried to my car which was parked on the street, several yards up.
I knew I probably looked like one of those car mechanics or moving company owners that our local news was always running sting operations on. At the end of the segment they’d always end up running to their cars with their jackets covering their heads as the newscrew followed behind, shouting incriminating questions.
I never had any sympathy for those guys before and just always assumed they were guilty. But now I realized it was the way the reporters asked the questions that made them look sleazy, whether they were or not.
Luckily Patsy and her crew didn’t try to follow me after that and I was able to sit in my car and catch my breath. I couldn’t believe what just happened.
How did they even know that I was the one who’d answered the crisis center call?
Of course this was a relatively small town so it was likely that word just got around. And of course, now, whoever didn’t know before, would certainly find out after seeing this newscast.
Oh well.
I told myself there was nothing I could do about it and that probably no one even watched the stupid
News Four at Noon
anyway. I certainly didn’t. Not much anyway. These days most people got their news from the internet or from the national broadcasts, not from the local newcasts that were always trying to hook you in with their ‘exciting’ weather forecasts. Granted this was California, but at the slightest drizzle, they’d go into “Storm Watch” mode. It was ridiculous.
I decided to forget the whole thing as I started the car to get to my hair appointment. If I left now I would just be on time. And even though I hadn’t been able to book a appointment with Diane Verlaine yet, I still wanted to look good on my date with Casey later. So to the Salon L’Atelier, I headed.
I arrived at the salon just in time. Which meant I had to wait 20 minutes before the shampoo guy even came out to get me. I was able to catch up on my magazine reading and even found a dramatic looking hairstyle that I considered trying. In the end, though, I decided against it, thinking that it probably looked better on Gwen Stefani than it ever would on me.
When I was finally seated in the swivel chair in front of the mirror, Carolyn, my hairdresser, came up behind me and started running her fingers through my hair.
“What do you want? The usual?”
I nodded and looked into the mirror. I might still have been a little shaken and paranoid from earier, but I couldn’t help but feel like the two ladies getting their hair done next to me were watching me in the mirror and whispering. And the receptionist seemed to be motioning in my direction as well, as she spoke quietly to another hairdresser.
I took a deep breath and told myself to remain calm. I had to be imagining it.
As Carolyn started working on my hair, I began to relax.
She snipped away at my ends, asking me how my Nana was. How Casey was. How the bakery was.
I filled her in as she continued to snip away at the left side of my hair.
“So…” she said, trying to sound casual, sneaking a glance at me and then quickly looking away. “It must be tough on you…I mean with your being the one who spoke to Helen Wright before she died. The police aren’t charging you with anything are they?"
“What? No.” I turned to face her—which caused the section of hair she was just about to trim, to slip out from between her fingers.
“Keep still,” she instructed.
“No, of course I’m not being charged,” I said. “Where’d you hear that?” I was trying to keep my voice calm but I wasn’t succeeding very well.
“Everyone’s heard it,” she shrugged. “It was live on the twelve o’clock news.”
“It was live?” I said, weakly. “But who watches that? No one watches that do they?”
“Oh everyone watches now. They’re doing a giveaway – a brand new car! Everyone in town has been watching it.”
She motioned to the upper right corner of the salon where a flat screen TV was mounted. I glanced up at my betrayer, the TV, and then my eyes moved slowly across the room…I noticed that every single one of the other ladies in the salon was now staring openly at me.
I could not believe this was happening.
I got out of the chair and stood up.
“I didn’t kill her, okay?” I said, raising my voice so everyone in the room could hear. “Yes. I spoke to her on the phone. Yes she went ahead and died anyway. But I did my best. It’s not my fault. In fact it's quite possible that she didn't even kill herself. She may have been murdered!"
And with that, I walked quickly back to the dressing room to gather my things and then headed out of the salon, still wearing the nylon cape. I figured I’d pay for it and for my half-haircut by phone; I just couldn’t stay in there one more minute.
Once in my car, I removed the cape from around my shoulders and calmed down. As I did, I began to wonder if maybe I’d overreacted. Perhaps I was overly sensitive to these accusations because I
did
feel so responsible for Helen Wright’s death.
I exhaled loudly and leaned my head back against the headrest.
This was getting ridiculous. I really needed to find out one way or the other, what happened to Helen Wright.
I checked my messages—there was still no word from Diane Verlaine’s office, so I decided to head over there anyway. My hope was that I could just catch her for a minute and ask her a few questions.
I twisted my still-wet, half-cut hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and secured it in a knot. Then I headed over to the four story, glass office building and parked.
As I walked through the parking lot, I noticed a sporty, silver Infiniti convertible outside with the license frame that read:
Protected by a Financial Planner
and somehow I just knew this was Diane’s car.
Inside I headed up to the fourth floor and into the reception area for Verlaine Financial.
“Hi, I’m here to see Diane Verlaine,” I said to the young red-headed woman who was sitting with excellent posture at the front desk.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked looking up.
“No. I was just hoping to talk to her for a few minutes," I said. I felt my hair starting to fall out of its bun and quickly reached up to twist it back into a knot. “Maybe you could just…slide me in for a moment…or maybe I could get a free consultation of sorts…?”
“No sorry,” she said, shaking her head firmly, her neat updo staying perfectly in place. “Diane’s very busy. She literally doesn’t have a minute free.”
“Oh, she must have one minute,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly smile. “Just one…”
But my smiled faded as I felt my hair fall out of its bun again and hang damply around my face. I moved over to the right side of the desk to ensure that I was facing her in profile. It was a little awkward but seemed to be the least humiliating option.
“Oh no. Absolutely not. She’s so busy now that she’s opening her new office in L.A. and running the charity theater event and……”
“Charity theater?” I said, sensing an opening.
She nodded and pointed at the flyer sitting under the ledge of her desk. “Yes, they’re holding auditions. It’s for the Women in Trouble organization. For survivors of domestic violence and homelessness, stuff like that. Oh and she’s also added a special tribute to a friend of hers that recently committed suicide. Tragic,” she said softly.
“Oh.” I looked at the flyer as she moved it towards me. “Yes it is—tragic, I mean. Can I take this? I’d love to audition.”
“Sure thing,” she said, brightening. “Diane’s looking for people who can sing really well, to play the leads. But you better hurry though. Auditions close this evening.”
“Great,” I said as I walked out. “Thanks.”
Of course I didn’t really plan to audition, since my singing voice tended to sound like duck in pain, but I did know someone who had an absolutely beautiful voice. Or so she always told me.
I reached for my phone and dialed. “Hey, Cuz, I have a fun idea for us to do something together this afternoon. Are you up for it?”
She practically squealed with delight as she told me that she was up for anything.
I told her to be ready in ten minutes.