Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (12 page)

    
“Oh, God.”

    
“It was Mr. Kramer all over again.”

    
“Chloe, I get it. This is worse than I thought. Detective McGowan might read more into that than there really is.”

     “What if he’s right?”

     My mother’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t possibly believe Angela would hurt someone, especially someone she cared about.”

    
“But if she cared too much? Or if he rejected her? Or if she thought he was using her?”

    
“Whose side are you on Chloe? We’ve known Angela since she was a child.”  Mom was well into irritated. “Even if a crime of passion were a possibility, which it isn’t, she wouldn’t have cold-bloodedly poisoned Saul or killed Oscar, and how does that hand fit into your little theory?”

    
“Ok, chill.” I was startled by her mama lion vehemence. A major change of subject was definitely in order, and I grabbed the printouts. “I also found a bunch of stuff about Bunny and Garrison.”

    
Garrison Moseley, a lawyer at one of the big downtown firms, had been Bunny’s first husband. Mom didn’t need to look at the articles to remember the scandal. Her friend Shelley Henderson had been right in the thick of it.

    
“I didn’t read all the articles, but they’re juicy,” I finished.

    
“That’s one word for it.” Mom leaned forward. “Remember my friend Shelley who handled media relations for Garrison’s firm and for Garrison himself, when he made a bid for mayor?”

    
I nodded. “A dream come true for Bunny.”

    
“The campaign was going well until his barely legal lover threatened to expose their affair if he didn’t buy her a car for her birthday. She needed more reliable transportation on the nights when she closed at the fast food restaurant where she worked. Call it sticker shock, but the Moseleys felt the girl, who had once been content with gifts of stuffed animals and Victoria’s Secret sleepwear, was getting too big for her britches.”

    
“Bunny knew about the affair?” I couldn’t believe she had tolerated not being the center of any man’s attention.

    
“Not till the blackmail started. Garrison was such a dolt that he turned to his wife for help with his girlfriend.”

    
“Idiot.”

    
“Once Bunny was on board, her life’s mission became damage control, and if that meant squashing the girl like a bug under her four-inch Ferragamo heels, so much the better. To hear Shelley tell it, there were twice-daily come-to-Jesus meetings and almost hourly phone calls with the Moseleys. Talk about Lady Macbeth.”

    
“I shudder to think what Bunny would have trouble washing off her hands.”

    
Mom gave me a disapproving look tinged with a smile. I was easing back into her good graces.

    
“Shelley advised Garrison to ‘fess up to the affair before the girl dropped her bombshell,” she continued. “Do the whole ‘I have sinned’ routine and throw himself on the mercy of public opinion, but he and Bunny refused. Garrison insisted the girl had no proof, and it was her word against his.”

    
“But there’s always something.”

    
“Shelley tried to tell them that. Hotel receipts? Love letters? Eyewitnesses? Garrison denied they existed.”

    
“Video tape, audio tape, naughty text messages?” I asked.

    
“Garrison claimed he had been careful. Maybe he had been, I don’t know, but Shelley wasn’t about to help them advance a lie. So, when the girl went public, the Moseleys set up their own interviews in their living room of that big house in Mountain Brook, the one with the fountain.”

    
I nodded that I remembered.

    
“They expressed their dismay that this girl could tell such a terrible lie, posed on their gazebo and begged the press to respect their privacy. They even walked down the front steps of their church and told reporters they had prayed for the poor misguided child. I have to hand it to them, it made a credible story. The girl had no proof.”

    
“Like I said, there’s always something.”

    
“In this case, it wasn’t what the girl had, it was what Garrison didn’t as in self-control. He never actually broke off the affair.

    
“No.”

    
“Yes. So, when a Jefferson County deputy ran he and Missy in for committing lewd acts in her car near the old cannon on Altamont road, it pretty much ended that run for mayor. He’ll have to wait six or seven years to get elected now, this being Birmingham and all. We never forgive, but we always forget.”

    
“But Bunny wasn’t that magnanimous.”

    
“To say the least. She divorced Garrison faster than you can say ‘extreme emotional distress’ and took him for a bundle. Before the papers were even filed, she met Gavin Beaumont at a fundraiser and was lounging naked on his examining table three days later.”

    
“Love in the stirrups. That’s our Bunny.”

    
We shook our heads, good moods restored.

    
“Oscar was all over the Net,” I said. “Mostly articles about cases he prosecuted and now clients he’s defending. Lots of overlap with Saul, especially about black widow stuff. When Saul did his book tour for that one, he gave Oscar a lot of press. And then, when he started dating Robin, the two guys appeared on all the major talk shows.”

    
“Instant publicity.”

    
“For Saul’s book and for Oscar’s new private practice - not that he needed it, really.”

    
I chewed my pencil thoughtfully, in what Mom would see as a complete disregard for all the money she and Dad had spent on my orthodontia. “You think Saul could’ve been a blackmailer? Knowing all that he did about people gave him a lot of power. Angela said as much.”

    
“But why? He had plenty of money.”

    
“Maybe he lived beyond his means. Maybe he gambled.”

    
“His checks cashed,” Mom pointed out.

    
Good thing too. Nothing would have incurred her wrath faster than getting stiffed on four French hens and five golden rings.

    
“Maybe he wasn’t in it for the money,” I suggested. “Maybe he held things over people’s head as an ego thing. He had one.” I held up the Maserati picture. “Exhibit A.”

    
“It’s definitely a line of inquiry, and whoever killed him might’ve thought he had told Oscar what he knew.”

    
“Exit Oscar.”

    
“So, who among our suspects has something to hide?” I kept chewing my pencil knowing Mom was restraining the urge to yank it out of my hand.  “My money is on Nancy. She’s big on appearances, and she was way too interested in Saul’s locked study door.”

    
“Ok,” Mom agreed. “Write her down. The funeral is tomorrow, but I could probably talk to her Wednesday. I was planning to check on her anyway.”

    
“Tomorrow? That’s fast isn’t it? What’s going on with Saul?”

    
“I haven’t heard anything about Saul’s arrangements, but Nancy wanted Oscar’s service over with as soon as possible. She’s nothing if not efficient.”

    
“I can talk to Robin. She works out at my gym. Maybe her trainer would let me take their next session.”

    
“Stairmaster confessions? I like it.”

    
“Yeah, nothing like a little oxygen deprivation to coax the truth out of a person.”

    
Mom grimaced. “I guess we have to talk to the Beaumonts?”

    
“Not that anyone would blackmail Bunny. Her life’s an open blouse anyway.”

    
Mom suppressed a smile, “No stone unturned.”

    
“We could talk to Jack Lassiter. Get the inside scoop on the investigation.”

    
“I see you’ve already googled him.”

    
“Just trying to be thorough. There’s a lot of overlap with Oscar, and he’s on the design review committee for his neighborhood. I can question him since he and Dana work together.” I said it casually, but I could feel Mom’s eyes on me.

    
“That leaves Angela, and the Beaumonts,” she said. “I’ve been calling Angela all morning. She’s not answering.”

    
“Let’s see how it goes with Nancy and Robin and Jack.” Again, I used the breezy tone.

    
“And Jack.” Mom stood and stretched. “There were other people at Saul’s party, and your father is right, they didn’t have to be at Oscar’s party to have killed him. But somehow, I think we should start with the people that were most connected with our victims.”

    
“Agreed. I feel good about this. We have an in the police don’t have, which gives us the edge.”

    
“It’s not a game, Chloe.”

    
Maybe not, but I still like to win.

CHAPTER
12

     My printouts had given us a lot of background on our first round of suspects. Facts, dates and places. The on-the-record stuff.  All necessary, but Mom never underestimates the value of rumor, hearsay and innuendo, so she treated us to manicures and a little gossip at Nails and Tales, her friend Charlotte’s salon being famous for both.

    
Charlotte Marshall’s husband was a successful plastic surgeon, so she didn’t need to work. In fact, she claimed she earned two dollars less per hour than her housekeeper and one dollar less than her pool man. Still, she wasn’t the sit-at-home kind, so after her fifth child headed off to college, she had opened up shop.

    
“I love doing nails and feet, love visiting with the girls, so why the hell not?” she often said to anyone who would listen.

    
And we all listened and talked, which is why you always headed for Charlotte’s for the best scoop. Rub somebody’s feet the way Charlotte does, and they’ll tell you anything. Plus, Charlotte was always willing to share what she had learned.

    
“Robin Woodall?” Charlotte blew blond bangs off her forehead, naming the color when Mom complimented her new ‘do’ – a woman with no secrets.

    
“She used to be in here twice a week - Sushi Surprise on the nails, Mango Coulis on her feet - a combination that looked better than it would’ve tasted, I assure you. Then she started going someplace else. Not sure why. She had hands to die for. Long, slim. Perfect for the piano.”

    
Her eyes widened, “Speaking of hands. What was the deal with that one you found at Saul’s house? Way I hear it, you girls walked right up on it.”

    
“Not quite, but close enough,” I said, as Shana, Charlotte’s assistant, worked on my feet with disconcerting vigor. In the winter, I’m a little lax with foot care.

    
“So what happened?”

    
Mom gave Charlotte the abbreviated version.

    
“A rat, huh? Sounds like someone who knew Saul, alright.”

    
“You didn’t like him?” I asked.

    
“Did anybody? If it wasn’t for those awful books of his, you think anyone would’ve put up with him?”

    
“I don’t guess so,” Mom agreed.

    
Charlotte worked on Mom’s cuticles, while Shana razored my heels. I tried not to look at the dead skin piling up, thinking if I’d gone another week without a pedi, I might’ve grown a hoof.

    
“Why do you want to know about Robin?” Charlotte asked.

    
“We’re looking for new blood on the Arts Council,” Mom gave her the line we’d thought up in the car. “Not too late for you to sign up, you know.”

    
Charlotte snorted, something only she could make look cute, and massaged cream into Mom’s hands, tugging on each finger in turn.  “Me? What do I know about art? My kids’ drawings on the refrigerator was the only art I’ve ever appreciated.”

    
This, of course, wasn’t entirely true. The woman had an antique collection Mom would have traded her own kids for.

    
“The only thing about Robin,” I interjected, keeping us on course, “is that with Saul’s death, she’s developed a certain reputation.”

    
“Developed? Honey, that woman’s a black widow if ever I saw one. It’s just a matter of time before the police catch up to her and then, you watch, men will still be sending her marriage proposals in the big house.”

    
“The big house?” Mom laughed. “Why would they want a want a woman in the big house?”

    
“Her kind of charm prison only enhances. Chained heat,” Charlotte said knowingly, although from where she had gotten that knowledge I didn’t ask.

    
“I’m still thinking about asking her,” Mom said. “Unless there might be a conflict of interest with Nancy Browley.”

    
“Why? Because Oscar thought Robin was sin in a sundress? Mmmhmm. Could be touchy, but Oscar should have been guarding his own henhouse, way I hear it.”

    
“Really? Do tell.”

    
Charlotte shrugged and buffed, glancing my way, as if to ask, “In front of the children?”

    
Mom gave an almost imperceptible nod.

    
“I don’t know the whole story, but I heard Nancy has a wandering eye.”

    
“No.”

    
“Yes. You know she’s real big on playing Lady of the Manor. Well, apparently she keeps a firm hand on the hired help.”

    
“Sweet little Nancy Browley?” I was aghast.

    
“One and the same.”

    
“And this is common knowledge?” Mom asked.

    
“Well, I wouldn’t say common. My clientele’s exclusive with one or two notable exceptions.”

    
We followed her gaze to the front door where Bunny Beaumont was making one of her signature breathless entrances.

    
“Amanda, honey! I thought that was your car,” the newcomer trilled, probably having done a U-turn on two wheels once she had spotted it.

    
Ms. B plopped down in the chair beside me, “So what ya girls up to today?”

    
“Amanda’s recruiting me for the Arts Council.” Charlotte began painting Mom’s nails with base coat like a true artist. “Me and Robin Woodall.”

    
An open book, our Charlotte.

    
“Robin?” Bunny’s eyes gleamed, not missing a trick. “Interesting.”

    
“Why?” Mom blew on her nails, now painted a soft mauve. You could mark the seasons by the subtle lightening and darkening of my mother’s manicures.

    
Bunny got up and chose a blue-red shade from the counter that was named Lust…of course. “She’s not the typical menopause maven you usually recruit for the Council, not that I mind. I’d like having someone closer to my age on board.”

    
Charlotte’s eyes met Mom’s. Uh-huh.

    
“Amanda needs to know if there would be a conflict of interest to have Nancy on the Council with Robin, what with Oscar trying to convince everyone she’s a murderer and all,” Charlotte supplied.

    
So much for working under the radar.

    
“Your small town roots are showing, girl - among others.” Bunny peered at mom’s hair, still a good two weeks away from needing a touch up, I assure you. “Conflict is good for the Council. Stirs the pot.”

    
“We count on you to do that for us,” Mom countered.

    
“And I never let you down, do I?”

    
Mom had to laugh. “Not so far.”

CHAPTER 13

    
Getting Robin’s trainer to switch sessions with me was a cinch. Randy Falcone was a total gym junkie and leapt at the opportunity to squeeze in a few extra sets on the squat rack. I wondered what kind of girls he attracted with all those bulging muscles, crisscrossed veins and a neck the size of a pony keg. But watching him flirt with an equally buff girl on the treadmill, I figured he did okay.

    
All trainers keep a notebook on their clients - recording their measurements, their workouts, sometimes even before-and-after pictures. Randy had kept meticulous notes about Robin, and I was impressed.

    
She was a cardio queen, with spin classes and tennis being her favorite aerobic workouts. But she was no slouch on the weights either, lifting pretty impressive amounts for a girl with her slim build. Randy had her weight at 120, which had remained pretty consistent in the two years he’d worked with her. I found her height (5’8”) and her body fat (18%). Bitch.

    
I tried scanning Randy’s handwritten notes, but couldn’t make out his less-than-literate scrawl, so I headed to the back weight room where the serious hard bodies worked out. Sure enough, Randy was doing squats, pumping close to four hundred pounds and grunting as if in great pain - not attractive.

    
“Quick question,” I said apologetically, knowing he was in the zone and wouldn’t want to be disturbed.

    
“Shoot.”

    
“I couldn’t quite make out your notes and wanted…”

    
“Smoke her,” he wheezed.

    
“Smoke her?” I ran through my gym vernacular and came up empty.

    
“Smoke.” I didn’t think he had another rep in him, but he was going for it. “Her,” he said on the exhale.

    
“Got it.” I backed away, not wanting to be there when he expelled a kidney or something.

    
Really, what was the point of working out that hard when there was so much good TV to watch? As for his advice that I “smoke” Robin, I could only assume he meant to work her out really hard.

    
I’m not usually the no-pain-no-gain type of trainer, working my gals just hard enough to keep the dimples on the back of their legs from reading like a blind man’s diary. But, as with decorating, you give clients what they want.

    
I looked over Robin’s last workouts and saw she was due to move up on the weights. A challenging interval workout seemed to be in order - weights with cardio mixed in. That should do it.

    
Robin appeared on time and ready to work. I had expected a cute little spandex outfit and lots of lip-gloss, but she had kept it low key - ponytail, no makeup, shorts and a pretty tank. Dynamite figure, not a tablespoon of cellulite. Hard not to hate the girl.

    
I fibbed that Randy had asked me to take his session.

    
“Trying to get in a few extra workouts before the competition, is he?” She sounded amused.

    
“You know Randy.” I dimly recalled that he competed in body building competitions from time to time, as good an excuse as any.

    
“So he told you how I like it?”

    
“His exact words were ‘smoke her.’”

    
“Show me what you got.”

    
This was a new side of Robin, who I’d always seen as a girly girl - kind of fragile, kind of glamorous. But here she was challenging me to challenge her. Gladly.

    
We started on the treadmill. Just a warm-up, nothing too strenuous. I decided to get some questions in while she still had her breath.

    
“So how you doing?” I asked. Again, just a warm-up.

    
“Same.”

    
“My mom said to tell you she was thinking about you. We’re all here if you need anything.”

    
“Right now, I just need a killer workout.”

    
A subtle hint to forestall further questions? I ignored her remark.

    
“Mom asked me to find out about the funeral.” I put on a suitably sober look.

    
“Not going to be one. Saul donated his body to the University of Tennessee’s Forensic Anthropology Facility.”

    
“The Body Farm?”

    
“A true-crime god right to the end.”

    
Had her tone been a little derisive? I couldn’t tell.

    
Warm up complete, we moved over to do some legwork. Walking lunges with…

    
I checked the book and saw that Randy had her using two twenty-pound dumbbells. I handed her the twenty-fives. She didn’t bat an eyelash.

    
I trailed after Robin as she went down and up, down and up, along the back hall, making my tone confiding. “You know, until Oscar died, I was with you. I mean, Saul’s death looked like some kind of weird accident, but now I don’t know. There’s got to be a connection.”

    
I noticed with satisfaction that her breath had become a bit jagged. Lunges are hell.

    
“I know what you mean,” she admitted to my surprise. “At first, I was stunned that anyone would even suggest Saul was murdered. I mean, I know how it looks.”

    
She reached the end of the hall and dropped the weights, sinking into a stretch to catch her breath. “But if I were some kind of black widow, someone who had gotten away with two murders, I’d be crazy to kill again, right?”

    
“Maybe killing your husbands means that you’re crazy.” I chuckled, keeping it light.

    
She laughed and picked up the weights. “There’s the problem. Saul wasn’t my husband, and I’m not entitled to any of his money. What’s the point?”

    
I let her lunge back down the hall in silence. Again she stretched, and then we headed over for some squats.