Murder Takes a Dare: The First Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 1) (14 page)

The armed woman watched Russell pass her in a wide arc and disappear into the kitchen. She motioned with the gun. “Follow him.”

As Marisa passed near the woman and her gaze fell full on the smooth face, something clicked in her brain. “You look like an older Zoe Walker without her extreme Goth make-up!”

As she brought the gun down to her side, the woman smiled without humor. “I wondered how long it would take you. I am Zoe’s grandmother, Esther.”

“I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Walker.” Carefully, Marisa touched the older woman’s arm.

Although her eyes were shiny with tears, Esther gave an abrupt nod. “Thank you. It’s not Walker, it’s Pendleton. Please call me Esther.” She motioned to the kitchen. “Before your boyfriend decides to do something heroic—” She raised her voice. “—I know you’ve grabbed a knife from the counter, young man, and I still have my gun—I suggest we call a truce and pool our resources.”

When Marisa entered the kitchen in front of Esther, she stopped short. “Russell! Put that knife back where you found it! Mrs…Esther is our ally, not our enemy!”

As Esther placed the gun in her bone purse and snapped the gold clasp, Russell grudgingly placed the knife on the counter.

Marisa popped open the computer. “How are we going to access his files?” Marisa remembered Brandon’s manipulation of Brad Jacob’s online profile. “I do know someone who is very good at getting into…restricted…areas.”

Esther smiled and seated herself in front of it. Her fingers flew across the keys. “No need to call your friend. One of my many skills is getting around computer security. I am setting up a code breaking program and putting an automated routine in place to try combinations of passwords. Ah, there we go. It appears his password was bootycall, no spaces. No wonder we broke it in no time.” Her fingers clicked on the keys.

Marisa peered over her shoulder. “What about his web browser history? Maybe knowing websites he visited would help us.”

Esther clicked on it. “Not much here. He may have taken the precaution of deleting the history periodically. Looks like Jonah was a tad paranoid, in spite of his simple password. What is here is definitely an eclectic hodgepodge. He checked out the release date of the latest version of a particularly bloody video game.”

Russell laughed. “And look, some pornography involving older women and garter belts. And how shocking, they all have long brown hair.” His eyes rested meaningfully on Marisa’s head.

“Bite me, Ledger Boy!”

Esther gave an exasperated sigh. “Children! Let me see. Ah, here is an interesting file. It’s password protected. Just a moment and I’ll break it.” Esther’s slim, pink-tipped fingers flew over the keys. “I’m in!”

“What was the password?” Russell asked innocently.

Esther’s cool blue eyes slid to Marisa’s flushed face. “Never you mind, young man. Now, be quiet and let me read this.” She leaned back and swiveled the computer so the others could see the screen. “Wow, old newspaper articles related to the embezzlement of church funds. Here’s one on an absconding preacher from thirty years ago. They stopped hunting for him when a crashed car and a burned body were found.”

Marisa stood up. “That stuff happened before Jonah was born.”

Russell joined her at the counter. “He must have had some reason for researching it and putting a password on the file.” He touched the clutter of papers on the counter. “What’s this?” He opened a glossy flyer. “The Church of the Eternal Devotion?” He looked up. “Is that what Jonah was getting at?”

Esther stood up. “I’m not sure. I do know a bit about the leader of the Spectacle of Eternal Devotion Church.”

“The what?” interrupted Marisa.

“Have you ever been in the church? It seats more people than Rupp Arena. Anyway, Zoe had mentioned to me that the megalomaniac, I mean head of the church, was trying to convert her. I think he thought if he could save the hard drinking, hard living, stripping Zoe, it would be the perfect advertisement for his church.”

“The church is pretty conservative. I have a friend who was going to the singles group. She was told not to come back until her divorce was final.”

Russell quirked a brow. “Friend???”

That man was really getting under her skin. Marisa turned to the older woman.

“Esther. You are not just a bereaved grandmother.” She used her fingers to tick off her points. “You carry a gun in your purse. You obviously have access to police reports. You search condos. You seem to be an information technology expert. I think you would have shot us both if you’d been convinced we were your granddaughter’s killers. Who are you really? A renegade police officer?”

Esther smiled. “You’re a smart woman. My mother was a Dickless Tracy.”

“What’s a Dickless Tracy?” Russell and Marisa asked.

“Dick Tracy was a comic book character who solved mysteries. Decades ago, J. Edgar Hoover established an experimental program. He used women as agents. He called them Dickless Tracys. My mom was one of them. Instead of fairy tales as bedtime stories, she shared her exploits as a female government agent.” She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “That’s it. I just wondered if I could use some of the information she passed on to me as a child, along with my other talents, to try and figure out who would hurt Zoe.”

“Considering the times, using women as agents was a radical concept. After growing up on tales of your mother’s exploits, you’re looking into your granddaughter’s death.” Marisa was positive there was more to Esther’s story, especially since she couldn’t have learned hacking skills from her mother. Regardless… “Maybe we should continue to pool our resources. The next thing I want to do is talk to Zoe’s mother. Can you give me her phone number and address?”

Esther snorted. “If you insist. But my daughter Renee never saw what was under her very nose. I doubt she can help you with any investigations.”

Marisa was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Esther’s smooth face closed. “It was over and done with years ago. I took care of it.”

Staring into the icy depths of Esther’s eyes, Marisa shivered.

As Flora May walked nervously across the hospital parking lot, she pulled distractedly at her flowered silk dress. As she wound her way past parked cars, she stared down critically at her bouncing, generous curves. She was wearing her Sunday best. And her shoes were only five years old, and her pantyhose were brand new. She blushed, thinking of Henry noticing her pantyhose.

Stop being ridiculous,
Flora May ordered herself as she strode into the airy, sunlit hospital lobby. She marched up to the reception desk.

Ahead of her, a beautifully dressed woman of indeterminate years hovered at the desk. Her perfectly tailored sage skirt hung ruler straight, and her matching sage jacket followed the line of her squared shoulders and flared with her hips. “Henry Worthington, please.”

The receptionist smiled at her, then checked the computer screen in front of him. “Mr. Worthington is in room 312.”

Oops. She didn’t know Henry’s last name. The woman ahead of her had said, “Henry Worthington.” How many Henrys could there be in one hospital? The woman moved away, and Flora May moseyed up to the desk.

The nice-looking young man with the gold nametag emblazoned “Brandon” smiled at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m with her.” She twitched her head in the direction of Green Suit.

The other woman turned inquiringly.

Damn
. Flora May gave herself a mental forehead smack. She’d intended to pitch her voice in a discreet murmur. Either she’d miscalculated, or the other woman had highly sensitive ears.

Green Suit graciously smiled as she pressed the button for the elevator. “You’re a friend of Henry’s? I am Millicent Rockingham Crayton.” Her eyes swept Flora May’s flowered dress from the Sears sale rack, then widened in well-bred amazement. Her face cleared. “Oh, you must be one of Henry’s projects.”

Flora May gritted her teeth. “What do you mean, ‘projects’?”

The woman’s high-pitched laughter skittered down Flora May’s spine. “Henry at times takes on the most pathetic of his flock to mentor and encourage. By giving him—or her—his full personal attention, determination, and charisma, he helps the person reach his or her highest level of spiritual functioning.” Her eyes drifted to Flora May’s beehive hairdo, her full-sized figure, and settled on her red, work roughened hands. “He especially likes a challenge.”

The receptionist lunged into the elevator with them as the doors slid shut. “Excuse me, ladies, while I hitch a ride with you. I have an errand to run.”

Flora May’s hands clenched her Wal-Mart purse as the doors noiselessly shut. “I am a friend of Henry’s. I am not a project or a challenge. Now we have that straight, Ms. Cretin, what do you mean by ‘flock’ and ‘spiritual functioning’?”

As they walked down the tiled hallway, the woman’s smooth face was marred by pain. “It’s not Cretin. It’s Cray-ton.”

“Whatever.” Flora May’s mind flitted to Herbert, her dead husband. He used to compare her to a cow: large-boned, steady, predictable. And to his border collie:  driven, loyal, and beautiful brown eyes. And, Herbert had continued, Flora May had neither ringworm nor fleas. Flora May was fairly certain the woman walking beside her would have been offended by such talk. Flora May had taken Herbert’s words as an indication of his deep and abiding love.

“If you were a friend of Henry’s—” Millicent’s tone dismissed it as even a remote possibility “—then you would know he’s the leader of the Church of the Eternal Devotion, the largest church in the state. He’s cultured, sophisticated, and charming.” Her eyes added: the exact opposite of you.

Flora May sucked in a shocked breath. It appeared Henry was much more than a retired chauffeur or fisherman.

They’d reached the room. In a fair imitation of Ms. Crayton, Flora May inclined her head graciously. “You can see Henry first if you like.”

The other woman sniffed and sailed into the room.

Flora May sighed. Maybe seeing Henry was a bad idea.
If he’s accustomed to being around people like Mrs. Cretin
—Flora May snickered to herself—
then surely I would just embarrass him.
As she spun on her heel to head back to the elevator, she slammed into a firm body.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Masters.” The young receptionist who had followed them into the elevator steadied Flora May.

Flora May frowned. “How did you know my name?”

“You signed the logbook. You’re not leaving without seeing Mr. Worthington, are you?” Brandon’s eyebrows rose and he smiled.

“I—I—I changed my mind.” Flora May pivoted away.

The youngster grabbed her arm. “Mrs. Masters. You don’t strike me as the type of person to run away from any situation.” He winked at her. “Mrs. Crayton starred in several hardcore porn movies before she married the wealthy Mr. Crayton. Now, she points her nose at the air and pretends she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.” He laughed and gently dug an elbow into Flora May’s ribs. “She may have been born with something in her mouth, but it wasn’t silver and it wasn’t a spoon!”

Flora May laughed with him. Then she straightened her spine and threw her shoulders back. “I don’t run from anything or anyone, young man. I’m seeing Henry right now, Cretin or no Cretin.” She frowned. “What are you, psychic?”

“Just a student of human nature, ma’am. I have to get back downstairs to the reception desk. My boss doesn’t like it when I leave it unattended.”

Flora May started through the doorway of the hospital room. As a thought occurred to her, she turned back and frowned. “When you jumped into the elevator with us, I thought you said you had an errand to run…?”

“I completed my errand.” With a salute, he dashed toward the elevator. 

Flora May turned away. She stopped short. She didn’t remember signing a logbook.

“There you are, you elusive man! I’ve been looking everywhere for you to ask you to have lunch with me!”

“Good day, Mrs. Craft.” The midday sunlight slanted through the window and turned Clay’s thick white hair to glistening silver as he nodded politely. His face remained solemn and his gray eyes were blank and impersonal.

Oblivious to her quarry’s coolness, Mrs. Craft provocatively trailed her red-tipped, claw-like fingers down Clay’s neatly jacketed arm as she stared into his eyes.

“Mrs. Craft, I’m having lunch with Mrs. Flaxton. But thank you for your kind invitation.” Taking Althea’s unresponsive arm, Clay nodded his head to Mrs. Craft in polite dismissal.

Althea’s eyes widened in amazement as she observed Mrs. Craft’s full-figured body stiffen in anger, and her heavily made up eyes flash in fury.

Mrs. Craft twisted, pulling the bright yellow silk even tighter over her bosom, so she could pin Althea in the hard glare of her brown eyes. Mrs. Craft’s eyes narrowed to slits and she smiled sweetly. “Clay, it’s so sweet you’ve taken pity on our poor Mrs. Flaxton. We’ve all noticed she’s quiet and introspective and doesn’t make friends as easily as you and I. It’s so assertive and manly of you to take the lead, and set a good example for the rest of us by showing her a small measure of friendship.” Her smile widened with satisfaction; she’d drawn a neat parallel between her rival and a stray, mangy dog with body odor and flea problems.

Well aware of the covert meaning of Mrs. Craft’s remark, Althea smiled even more sweetly at her adversary. “Mrs. Craft, I am sure someone as indiscriminately, extensively, and freely friendly as you may have some difficulty in understanding another person who is selective, particular, and prefers quality to quantity, such as myself.” The slight smile on Althea’s well-shaped lips widened when she saw the realization in Mrs. Craft’s furious eyes that she’d just been neatly and delicately called a slut.

His hand gentle on her arm, Clay tugged Althea along the hallway with him. “Mrs. Craft, thank you for your kind invitation. However, I’m sure you haven’t heard the happy news.”

As she trotted to keep up, Mrs. Craft’s thick, patently false eyelashes narrowed in suspicion. “What news?”

Althea, her eyes on Clay’s angular face, nearly echoed the other woman’s words.

Clay slid an arm around Althea. “We are, for want of a better phrase, going steady.” He smiled fondly at Althea, at the same time squeezing her in warning.

Mrs. Craft’s eyebrows, painstakingly penciled in burgundy, crept up her lined forehead. “Going steady? This is a surprising turn of events, considering you certainly haven’t been acting like a man who is anything other than free and available.” As the trio entered the dining room, Mrs. Craft’s magnificent chest swelled in fury.

* * * * *

By no stretch of the imagination a stupid man, Clay knew Mrs. Craft was working herself up to a full-blown temper tantrum. His silver brows drew together in furious thought, and then his face lit up with a brilliant smile. “Mrs. Craft, there’s Mr. O’Brien. He’s waving quite madly, trying to get your attention. I think he wants you to join him at his table.”

As Mrs. Craft turned to scan the crowded tables, Clay gave a desperately energetic wave behind her back. Consequently, when Mrs. Craft’s sharp eyes found the other man, Mr. O’Brien was indeed waving in her direction.

Mrs. Craft’s scarlet mouth pursed in consideration as she regarded the grizzled Mr. O’Brien, who had innocently turned back to the glass of iced tea in front of him. Her decision made, she veered toward him so abruptly she nearly knocked over the nurse who was determinedly advancing on an elderly lady with a glass of water and a small paper pill cup.

A strangled sound from his companion drew Clay’s satisfied attention from Mrs. Craft’s hasty retreat. In alarm, he noted Althea’s hands over her face and her shoulders shaking under her rose silk blouse.

“Althea, please don’t cry!” Panic stricken, Clay waved his hands.  

Althea shook her head behind her splayed fingers.

“I will escort you back to your room so you may compose yourself.”

Another muffled noise escaped her throat.

Clay froze. “Althea Flaxton, are you laughing?”

Althea removed her hands to reveal her contorted face. She threw back her head and laughed aloud, filling the dining room with her mirth.

Clay was entranced by the open, laughing face. He felt a constriction in his chest.
How could I have thought her merely beautiful? Why, she’s lovely beyond compare.
Infected by her mirth, he found himself joining in. He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Althea reached into her sleeve and withdrew a clean handkerchief. She wiped her streaming eyes with the square of delicate linen, and ran her thin hands over her black hair streaked with gray, ensuring it was still in its neat bun at the back of her head. “I haven’t laughed like that in ages!” she gasped.

Clay smiled at her, enjoying the color in her thin cheeks and the mischievous sparkle in her emerald eyes. After suggesting they eat on the patio, he carried their trays to a secluded table at the far corner of the patio. It was surrounded on two sides by trees and shrubs, and was out of earshot of the scattered tables and chairs.

As Althea arranged her plate and glass on the wrought iron table, a frown deepened the lines around her mouth. “There’s only one problem. What’s going to happen when Mrs. Craft realizes you’ve tricked her by making her think Mr. O’Brien is interested in her?”

Clay leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly. “It just so happens Sonny O’Brien and I were enjoying a friendly game of cards in my room late one night. The subject of Mrs. Craft came up. Sonny glumly admitted he admires her from afar. However, in his words, a beautiful, flamboyant woman like Mrs. Craft would never be interested in a short, skinny, little mouse like himself. Then, Uncle Clay waves his magic wand, or in this case, arm, and presto! Sonny O’Brien gets his wish.”

“What about Mrs. Craft?”

“Have you seen the pictures Mrs. Craft has on display in her room?”

Althea’s face stiffened in disapproval. “No. I, for one, have never been in Mrs. Craft’s room.” Aghast, Althea pressed her fingers to her lips. “I apologize. What you do is none of my business.”

Not in the least offended, Clay smiled reassuringly. “I assure you, it was broad daylight, and one of the nursing assistants was in her room at the time. Mrs. Craft was, as evidenced by those pictures, a very beautiful and vivacious woman. I think when Mrs. Craft looks in her mirror, she doesn’t see a frumpy, overweight, elderly woman. She sees herself as young and beautiful, and therefore she wears the outrageous red wig and daring clothes better suited to a much younger woman.” He turned his attention to his food.

Althea chewed and swallowed, then nodded slowly, her fingers unconsciously touching the cameo pinned at her throat. “So Mrs. Craft obviously wants to recapture the attention and admiration she enjoyed as a young woman.”

“Exactly. And since Sonny obviously admires Mrs. Craft, he can give her the attention and compliments she craves. It may not be a match made in heaven, but they can both benefit from it.”

Althea wiped her lips with her napkin and gazed at Clay with undisguised approval. “What an insightful and sensitive thing to do.” She frowned. “But what about that ridiculous comment about us going steady?”

“We’re a team, remember? We have to discuss the murders and plan our strategy. Now, we have a perfect excuse for spending a great deal of time alone together.” He rose. “And speaking of which, if you’re finished with your lunch, I’d like to suggest a tête-à-tête in my room, so that we may do our discussing and planning in private.”

Althea’s face became speculative as she gathered up her lunch remains and stowed them on the tray. “By announcing we are going steady, you know you’ve effectively taken yourself out of circulation.”

Clay sighed as he stacked her tray with his, and lifted them both. “It’s not such a sacrifice. I can use the rest.”

At Althea’s appalled gasp, Clay shook his head vehemently. “I don’t mean it like that! I just meant it’s exhausting to be perpetually charming, debonair, and cuttingly witty. Not that I intend to be rude to you...”

Althea waved both hands. “Forget it! If you say anything more, you’ll get yourself in deeper and deeper trouble!”

Once they were safely in his room, with Althea settled in the chair near the window and Clay in an extra chair he’d dragged in from a vacant room, he flecked away an imaginary speck of dust from his summer weight gray jacket. “I am sorry about putting you in an embarrassing position in the laundry room.”

A flush, nearly matching the deep rose of her high-necked silk blouse, spread across Althea’s fine, delicate cheekbones. “I am sorry about stabbing your foot with my cane, Clay. I suppose I gave in to a moment of temper.”

Clay smiled, accepting the apology. “And thinking of using Mrs. Kenton’s needs as an excuse to get the nursing assistants out of the room was a stroke of genius.”

Althea frowned. “That poor old lady has endured more than her share of tragedy. And now, unfortunately, poor Mrs. Kenton constantly has a puddle under her chair.” Althea shrugged her delicate, silk-covered shoulders. “Perhaps the nursing home is trying to cut corners by using inferior quality products. Whatever the reason, I felt safe using her as an excuse.”

Clay blushed slightly as he thought of the parts of the overheard conversation he’d kept from Althea. “We have gathered a lot of good information. For instance, we know the ghost only appears when those two slackers, Anita and Rose, are scheduled to work.”

“It makes sense whoever is behind the ghost’s appearances would want to decrease his chances of discovery.”

Clay wondered if he dared place his arm on the chair behind Althea’s shoulders. “What if Mrs. Carter is the ghost?”

“The nurse, Mrs. Carter? It’s impossible!”

Clay raised a silvery brow. “Is it? Does anyone actually stand over Mrs. Carter and observe her snoozing in the nurse’s lounge? Isn’t it possible while everyone thinks the nurse is sleeping the night away, she’s actually lurking and slinking through the halls in her costume?”

“But why would she do such a juvenile thing?”

Clay frowned, his sharp features stern with concentration. “What if she is stealing the patients’ medications? As you probably know, the large, wheeled medication cart contains a drawer for each patient, which holds his or her ordered medications. The pharmacy technician places the medications ordered by the doctor into the individual drawers of the medication cart. When it’s time to administer them to the patients, the nurse then has to get the drugs from the medication cart.”

“Of course, I know all of that! What does that have to do with anything?”

“Let’s assume that, instead of giving them to the patient, she places the medications in her pocket. Now, taking our theory a step further, what would happen, Althea, if anyone suspected what she was doing?”

Althea replied, “I’m not saying I agree with this idea of yours. However, if it was true and anyone suspected, then I would think someone would call the police.”

Clay leaned closer. “Surely she must know all of that. Now, what if she wanted to eliminate the risk? She could immediately hand the drugs off to an accomplice. If the residents saw her going outside to pass her booty to a confederate, wouldn’t they be suspicious and perhaps report the incidents to Mrs. Hill?”

* * * * *

“I think I see where you’re going with this.” Clay’s arm had somehow found its way along the back of her chair. Althea gathered the thoughts scattered by the intimacy of his arm. “Mrs. Carter dresses up as the ghost. Anita and Rose are safely ensconced on the patio, smoking. There is little or no chance they will come inside and see her. Disguised as the ghost, she goes to the medication cart, and helps herself to the residents’ drugs. Then, she turns off the door alarms meant to alert the staff of an absconding patient. She glides through the dark hall and, using the key on the nursing key ring, slips out the back door.”

When she paused, Clay took up the tale. “Lighting her way with the penlight flashlight I found, the nurse meets her partner on the grounds. She hands over the medicines and sneaks back inside through the door, relocking it securely behind her. She traverses the hall in her ghostly attire and reactivates the door alarm. Carefully checking that the common area and dining room are empty, she steals back into the nurse’s lounge. She removes her costume, hides it, and slips back into her role as the incompetent, sleeping-on-duty night nurse.”

“And,” Althea ended, “any patient who mentions seeing the ghostly presence will be summarily dismissed as disoriented or confused.” At Clay’s crooked smile, Althea added fairly, “Just as I myself dismissed the sightings.”

“Exactly. And taking our theory to its logical conclusion, Zoe Walker was the accomplice. She was using what the online news reports called her Goth Girl in the Cemetery persona to cover her real motive for being here. Althea, we know Jonah saw something he and his grandmother argued about. Is it such a stretch to imagine Jonah saw Mrs. Carter kill Zoe, the nurse knew he saw them, and she eliminated him before he could tell anyone what he saw?”

“But why would Mrs. Carter kill Zoe? If they were partners….” Althea shivered. “Mrs. Carter is a nursing professional, whose job is to care for the sick and incapacitated.” She shook her neat head from side to side, her green eyes frankly disbelieving. “I can’t see her shooting Zoe, leaving her body in the cemetery, and then following Jonah to Marisa’s office and killing him in cold blood.”