Authors: Leigh Selfman
Éclair Case of Murder: A Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Rosie Kale Culinary Cozy Mystery Book 2) (6 page)
We were parked outside a big warehouse on Maple Tree Drive. I was staring down at the flyer in my hand, trying to make sure I had the right address, doing my best to tune out cousin Laila who was squealing in my ear.
“Oh my goodness,” she said in her high-pitched, excited tone. “I’m so excited we’re going to do a play together. This was such a great idea and it will give us so much time to spend together and to bond with each other just like when we were kids! Remember how we used to put on plays all the time? And even beauty pageants! Remember we had those crowns? Oh, that was so much fun and I think it really prepared us for…”
“Oh. Um. Actually Laila, I’m such a terrible actress that I could never think to compete with you. So I won’t be auditioning. I’ll just be in the audience, cheering you on.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowed in thought. Then she gave my hand a heartfelt squeeze and I actually felt a little guilty for using her this way. Until she sighed and said, “It’s true. You are the worst actress ever. And your singing voice…ugh!” She shivered and scrunched up her nose as if to prove her point.
“Okay. Let’ go,” I said, biting my lip. I got out of the car.
Inside, the place was set up as a small community theater with a stage at the front and some folding chairs for the audience.
Auditions clearly hadn’t started yet and I saw several wanna-be actors milling about up near the stage, reading to themselves from the printed pages of a script. I spotted Diane pacing alone towards the back of the room, talking intently into her phone. She was tall and svelte, with shiny auburn hair that looked as expensively cut as her sleek, black skirt suit.
As I drew closer, I heard her speaking firmly to someone on the other end of the line.
“Yes,” she said. Then: “No! That’s not it! No I absolutely cannot leave now. I have my charity theater thing. Yes, it’s called dead peasants. Right. Coli. Look it up.”
As she hung up, she noticed me looking at her.
“That must be some play,” I said as I walked over to her.
“Excuse me?”
I smiled apologetically. “I just overheard what you said. About peasants dying of E. Coli. It sounds like an exciting play.”
“Oh, of course. And you are…”
“Rosie Kale,” I said, holding my hand out. She took it and we shook hands. “I tried to make an appointment but your office said you’d be busy with the play every evening this week.”
“Yes, it’s a very hectic time. You were interested in financial advice?”
I thought about lying, but she was looking at me so closely that I got the sense she could see right through me. So instead of even pretending to be interested in financial help, I decided to tell her the truth.
“Actually, I’m the person from the crisis center that Helen Wright spoke to on the phone that day,” I said.
“Oh dear.” Her hand went to her mouth in surprise. “You’re the one who…?”
I nodded, waiting for the shock to wear off.
She put her hand out against the wall and steadied herself, then she sadly shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just still can’t believe she’s gone. She was my best friend.”
“I know. I was at the memorial. I heard your speech. It was very moving.”
“I meant every word of it,” she said, with a sad smile. “Helen was such a beautiful person. I’ve never known anyone like her.” She looked off for a moment, blinking back tears, then looked back at me. “I’m sorry. What was it you said you wanted?”
I took a deep breath. “The thing is…I recently found out that Helen knew that her son Sammy was coming home on Saturday morning for a ‘surprise visit.’ And it just…it seemed unlikely to me that she’d kill herself, knowing that he would be the one to find her. Don’t you think?”
Diane looked surprised. “But did she know? I was under the impression that his visit was a surprise.”
“No I spoke to the housekeeper, Mrs. Pond. Helen definitely knew.”
“That is odd,” Diane frowned “But maybe her depression was just so deep that it didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged. “But she seemed so happy at the party, the night before.”
Diane again looked puzzled.
“Just coincidentally I was there to help cater it,” I explained.
“Ah,” she nodded. “Well, yes. She did seem happy. But…I suppose something must have snapped later that night. Maybe something to do with Chuck.” Diane pushed her sleeve back slightly to check the time on her slim, elegant watch.
“Her husband, Chuck,” I said, frowning. “She mentioned him on the phone.”
“Yes, I saw that on the news.” Diane looked at me unhappily. “It’s a shame they got hold of that. A shame for Sammy’s sake especially. Things like that… marriage troubles, they should all be kept private.”
“I totally agree,” I said. “And I promise I had nothing to do with that information getting out. I have no idea how it did. In fact I didn't even know if it was true. I know Helen suspected him but..."
“Oh it was true all right. At least in the past. Helen found evidence of an affair last year and Chuck promised to break it off last year but…who knows?” She looked at me suddenly suspicious.” Why are you asking about this anyway?”
“Honestly, I’m not convinced that what happened was a suicide. I think it’s possible that someone knew about her depression and used it as an excuse to kill her.”
At that, Diane was shocked speechless. Then finding her voice she said, “By
someone,
you’re talking about Chuck? No, he would never do that.”
“But you mentioned at the memorial that they each had insurance policies on each other…”
“No…I still don’t buy it. Chuck may have cheated on Helen, but murder? No. No way. I’m sorry but I really have to go.”
She looked at her watch, then over towards the stage.
“Do you know who Chuck was cheating with?” I asked before she walked away.
She shrugged sadly. “It was one of their nannies. A pretty young thing, probably about your age. Helen made him fire her. She was some kind of ‘‘artist’ I think. With tattoos and a brightly colored streak in her hair.”
“A streak?” I said. I remembered the woman at the Wright house when I brought over the cupcakes. The pretty girl who was watching me as I left. “Was it a purple streak?”
Diane nodded. “I think it was. Her name was Violet. Or maybe it was Lilac. Something purple anyway,” Diane looked at her watch again. “I’m sorry, but I really have to be getting on with these auditions.”
“Of course, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”
As she walked away, I thought about everything she’d just told me. If Chuck
was
still having an affair with Purple Streak, he might have wanted out of his marriage—which would definitely be a good motive for killing his wife. After all, why not collect on a big insurance policy rather than having to pay her alimony?
But as I thought about it, I realized there was a flaw in my theory.
“Diane,” I called out softly as I hurried up the aisle behind her. “Can I just ask one more thing?"
She stopped and nodded but I could see she was impatient. I quickly asked my question.
"Even though Chuck had insurance on Helen, he couldn’t have collected the money when she died, right?”
She looked at me puzzled. “Why on earth not?”
“Well…because it was a suicide?”
“Oh no,” she nodded, understanding my train of thought. “The suicide clause is only in effect for the first two years of the policy. Chuck actually made out quite well on Helen’s death.”
“So? How’d it go?” Laila asked me chirpily as we got into the car when the auditions were over.
“It was enlightening,” I said, starting the car and backing up.
“Enlightening? Wow, thanks. I never had anyone tell me that my singing was enlightening.” She had a big smile on her face.
Of course she thought I was talking about her.
“Yeah well, you were great,” I said, pulling out of the parking lot and turning onto the street. “You really were the best one.”
“Really?” She looked at me, moved. “Are you just saying that?”
I adjusted the rear view mirror which she’d moved earlier, in order to get a better look at her face.
“Never. Laila you were great. You totally deserve the lead role.”
“I know!” she squealed as she plopped happily against the back of her seat. “I nailed it! That was so much fun and such a great idea!”
I nodded, smiling vaguely, realizing I had no idea how she did on her audition. I’d been too busy doing research on my phone—trying to track down the identity of Purple Streak. And I was pretty sure that I succeeded.
If I was correct, the woman with the purple streak in her hair was named was Violet Vane. It turned out that she was not only a nanny, but a photographer as well— and her work was going to be displayed at a local art gallery called
AREA 12.
“Let’s go tell Nana about the audition!” Laila said readjusting the mirror in order to fix her hair.
“Great!” I said, thinking how happy I’d be if Laila actually did get some kind of role in the play. Even a small one. Anything that would occupy her and keep her out of my hair for awhile.
“What happened here?” Nana asked, running her fingers through my lopsided haircut as I walked into the bakery. Somehow I’d forgotten all about it.
“Oh, it’s a new look,” I said coolly.
Birdie walked by making a snorting sound.
“Fine go ahead and laugh,” I said. “I had an incident at the hairdresser’s. It’s a long story.”
“We heard,” Birdie said, rolling her eyes.
I reached into the display case for something sweet and sugary, then went over to pour myself a glass of cold milk.
“And we saw you on the news,” Nana added looking at me in concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I avoided her eyes and went over to one of the small tables in the window. I sat down and bit into a still warm chocolate chip, pecan and caramel cookie.
“This is heaven,” I moaned, dipping the next bite into the milk.
“You’re not fine, I can tell.” Nana pulled up a chair and sat down, looking closely at my face.
“No, I am,” I protested. “Except for the fact that everyone blames me for Helen Wright’s suicide.”
I took a sip of milk then turned to face Nana. “I found out that Chuck Wright really did cheat on Helen about a year ago. And that he got a lot of money from a life insurance policy he had on her when she died.”
Birdie came over and stood behind Nana’s chair, thinking it over. “Hmn, well money’s not a bad motive for murder. Especially if he was still cheating on her.”
“I know!” I nodded. “But the police won’t even look into the case at all. They think she was suicidal and depressed, so she must have killed herself.”
“Then you’ll just have to prove it yourself,” Nana said. “And of course we’ll do what we can to help you.”
“But not tonight,” Birdie reminded her. “Tonight we have a double date.”
I smiled as I took another bite of my cookie.
“We could make it a triple date if you want,” Nana said, attempting to sound casual. “Are you planning on seeing Casey any time soon?”
“Yes, Nana. Tonight. And thanks for the tempting offer but I think we might just have a quiet dinner at home.”
Just then Laila came out from the kitchen, still chattering and laughing away on the phone, going on and on about her fabulous audition. And suddenly I remembered that quiet nights at home were out of the question for now.
“Maybe we’ll go out instead,” I said with a shrug as I finished off my cookie. “I better tell Casey to make reservations.”
But as I picked up my phone to call him, the online advertisement I’d found for the
AREA 12
gallery, lit up. I stared at it and decided that maybe instead of dinner, Casey and I would go check out some art instead.
“These are all lovely,” Casey said, turning away from a tall bronze statue. “But I’m really starved. Can we please go now?”
“No, not just yet.” I looked around, biting the inside of my cheek.
We’d been wandering around the huge space near the town’s private airport for the last hour, looking at the various works of art. And so far, I hadn’t seen any sign of Violet Vane or her photographs.
The gallery we were in had been an airplane hangar in the past and was now divided up into a maze of smaller, oddly shaped rooms, all with stark white walls and distressed concrete floors. Each of them displayed art works in different mediums done by various local artists.
As I led Casey out of the room full of bronze sculptures, I turned left and went into the first room I came to. On the wall to my left I recognized a large nude painting and realized we’d been in that room before. We were totally lost—but I wasn’t about to admit that to Casey.
“Oh, isn’t that beautiful?” I said as though we were seeing the painting for the first time.
“Yes. It's just as beautiful as it was the first three times we were in this room," he responded dryly. Then he turned a suspicious glance my way. “Okay, what’s really going on here, Rosie?”
I frowned, trying to figure out which direction to go in next, since it seemed like we’d already tried every avenue and every room in this maze of a gallery.
“Nothing, I just really like this art,” I said innocently.
“Rosie, really. What?”
I exhaled loudly. “Okay, fine. If you must know, I saw an online flyer for Violet Vane’s photography. She’s the nanny that Chuck Wright had the affair with. Her photos were supposed to be on display here and I just wanted to see them.”
He stared at my face for a good minute. I expected him to chastise me for butting my nose in where it didn’t belong or for leading him astray when we could have been having a nice quiet dinner.
Instead he sighed, and turned to a young hipster who was just entering the room we were leaving. “Excuse me,” Casey said. “Violet Vane photography?”.
The hipster nodded back the way he’d come. “Down that hall to the left.”
“Thanks,” Casey said. Then he took my arm and led me down the long, busy hallway.
We walked into a large crowded room that had the words, “Violet Vane Photography” in clean black letters against the stark white wall.
“I guess this it,” I said, looking around. I was immediately by a huge black and white photo of Marilyn Monroe. She was looking into the camera, her face half in shadow, half in light. She looked sad. Or maybe it was thoughtful. She was holding the pearls around her neck with one hand as she stared off.
“Wow,” I said as I moved in closer and realized that it wasn’t Marilyn at all. It was Violet Vane dressed as Marilyn.
“Talk about vain,” Casey whispered—at which point I noticed that all the photos in the room were of Violet herself. Some were posed studio shots in which she was dressed as different famous people. Some were more candid shots of Violet reflected in store windows, or just sitting on a sofa or a building stoop, holding the camera out and aiming it towards herself—which made me wonder if she’d actually taken some of them with her cell phone.
I wandered around to get a closer look and saw that each of the photos had the word,
#selfie
written underneath it. I realized that must the name of the show. I also noticed that each photo cost at least 500 dollars and I decided I was in the wrong business.
As Casey stepped out into the hallway to take a call, I stayed inside, looking around the crowded room. Near the opposite wall I spotted Chuck Wright, talking to some people who were standing beneath a large photo of Violet on a horse. She wore a long blond wig and was posed as Lady Godiva.
I moved in closer and saw that the photo had a red dot underneath it, meaning it was sold. I couldn’t help but wonder who would pay 800 dollars for such a photo—though for all I knew, it had been Chuck himself.
I studied him as he stood there, looking handsome and dignified in a black sweater and dark pants. His dark hair made his pale skin and blue eyes stand out all the more. He certainly did have the air of a grieving husband—but then again, here he was at the art exhibition of his ex (or possibly current) mistress.
I was so busy studying him that I was startled when he looked back at me. He nodded in greeting but seemed to be studying my face as though trying to figure out where we’d met before.
“Are you a friend of my wife’s?” he said. “I’m sorry, I can’t place your name.”
“Oh, no.…I was at your party. I helped with the catering. I’m so sorry to hear about Mrs. Wright.”
“Thank you,” he said with a somber nod before taking a sip of his drink.
“So these photos are wonderful,” I motioned to the room in general. “Are you a friend of Violet’s?”
He looked at me for a moment without speaking. “Violet used to be our nanny,” he finally said. “And she’s been helping us out again lately…now that…with things the way they are.”
I nodded. I guess that explained why she was at his house the day I brought over the cupcakes. It was one possible reason anyway.
Another well-dressed couple came up to talk to Chuck so I wandered off towards the far end of the room, where the crowd was thinner.
There were more photos of Violet in back and as I studied them, I wondered why I’d even bothered to come to the show. Just what was it I expected to find? But as I turned to leave, a large color photo caught my eye.
It showed Violet standing at a large picture window, looking out at the rain coming down outside. Visible in the room behind her was a fireplace mantle with a ship captain’s clock sitting on it. Next to the clock was a tall, pretty vase and above it all hung a painting, the bottom of which was visible in the shot.
But the most interesting thing about the photo was who was standing just to the other side of the fireplace. It was Chuck Wright—I was almost sure of it. And even more interesting, the photo appeared to have been taken at the Wrights’ house.
I studied the photo closely, unable to ignore the feeling that there something else about it that I should be paying attention to. I just wasn’t exactly sure what it might be. As I stared, I felt someone come up next to me and turned, expecting to see Casey—when I realized it was Miss Purple Streak herself.
“Oh, hi,” I said, in surprise.
She didn’t return the greeting but instead took a sip of champagne from the flute in her hand. Her face was a burst of colors. Purple eye shadow, black mascara, red lipstick, pale blush and of course, the purple streak in her hair.
“Your photos are really good,” I said. “I especially love this one. It was taken in the Wright house, wasn’t it?” I asked, innocently.
She stared at me and hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said. “I took this one over a year ago. Back when I used to work as their nanny."
She was tapping her long, blue fingernails against her glass, staring at me as I looked at the photo. The intensity of her gaze made me uncomfortable and I decided it was probably time to go. I was just about to say goodbye when she took a step back and blocked my path.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said in a hard tone.
“Oh? It was probably at the memorial for…”
“No. That’s not it,” she interrupted. “It was on the news. You’re that girl from the crisis line, aren't you? The one who answered the phone when Helen called."
Her voice was growing loud and aggressive and she was drawing attention our way. I decided I really had to get out of there.
“I better go,” I said, and again tried to walk past her.
“And then you were at the house!” she said in the same loud voice as she followed me into the main room. “You were asking Mrs. Pond a bunch of nosy questions!”
“I just brought over some bakery items,” I explained in a near-whisper, hoping she’d take the hint. But of course, she didn’t.
“Just what are you up to? Why do you keep showing up asking all sorts of questions? What is it you want?”
I slipped in between the various clusters of people as I tried to make way out of the room. I went around one large group and wound up practically hugging the wall as I tried to get out of there. But unfortunately, a couple of art aficionados moved right into my path and I was blocked in on all sides.
“Just what is it you want?” Violet repeated loudly behind me.
“Actually,” Casey’s calm but authoritative British voice said from somewhere to my left. “What she wants is to go to dinner. So, if you’ll excuse us.”
He stepped in between Violet and me and put his arm out. I clasped it tightly and let him lead me out of the room.
When we’d made it almost to the doorway, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back. Violet was standing in the center of the room, glaring at me. I could feel her eyes following me we walked out.
“Are you alright?” Casey asked, as he led the way down the long winding hallway.
“Yes—thanks to you,” I said, clasping his arm even tighter. “Thanks for rescuing me in there.”
As we walked through the side door that led to the parking lot, I was finally able to breathe again.
Casey looked at me skeptically. “Why was she so angry? Please don’t tell me you accused her of murder or something dreadful like that.”
“What? No, of course not,” I rolled my eyes. “She was just very drunk, I think.”
“Rosie, please tell me you’re done with your investigation—which as you’ll recall, you promised you weren’t going to do in the first place.”
I looked into his concerned, green eyes and my heart melted. “I’m done,” I said, softly. “I’m really done. It’s over. Now let’s go have dinner.”
He exhaled in relief. “Yes, dinner. Absolutely.” He opened the car door for me.
But as I got inside and buckled myself in, I frowned, thinking again about the photograph of Purple Streak that I’d been staring at—about whatever it was that I was just on the verge of noticing, before she interrupted.
I frowned and glanced at the art show brochure I’d taken from the pile inside. At the bottom, in small writing it said that all the art work from the show was available to purchase online at the AREA 12 website.
Putting the brochure away, I decided that I’d have another look at Violet’s photo online when I got home to see if I could figure out what had bugged me about it. But in the meantime I’d go with Casey and have a nice dinner.
There was no need to tell him about my plans. Why worry him after all?