Staged to Death (A Caprice De Luca Mystery) (5 page)

The compassion in Dr. Randolph’s eyes was genuine as he pulled his stethoscope from his lab coat pocket and hung it around his neck. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” After a respectful silence, he said, “Let’s draw some blood, do a little exam, and make sure everything is working as it should be.”

As Caprice watched them, Dr. Randolph moved efficiently and quickly. He put data into the computer while the tech drew a blood sample. Then he took Roz’s blood pressure and pulse and listened to her heart. As he moved around the table, Caprice was aware of his lean, basketball player–like physique, his broad shoulders.

He spoke to Roz as he shone a penlight into her eyes. “How long were you married?”

“Almost five years,” Roz murmured. “We were going to fly to Cannes next month for our anniversary.”

The doctor must have had magic powers because that was the longest sentence she’d heard from Roz since they’d stepped into Ted’s sword room.

“Have you been there before?” the physician asked nonchalantly.

It was apparent he was trying to bring some kind of normalcy back into Roz’s world.

She nodded. “Ted always said I was—” She stopped as if maybe she shouldn’t mention Ted’s name.

“What did he say?” the doctor asked with interest, obviously trying to keep her talking.

“He said I was a celebrity hound.”

“Why did he say that?” Picking up the mallet in a stand on the counter, he moved to the foot of the table to check Roz’s reflexes.

“I read
Star Spotters
’ online blog. It listed where celebrities were staying, if they were on yachts, sailing.”

“You tried to spot them?”

“Sometimes.”

Obviously observant, he asked, “Are you a jogger?”

She nodded again.

“When did you last eat or drink?”

“Had a protein bar at lunch. Water before I left to run before—”

Going to the door, he opened it and called, “Jenny? Can of juice and crackers in here.”

The LPN was there almost instantly.

Caprice was thankful this was apparently a slow night for urgent care. “Quiet night?” she asked as Dr. Randolph popped the juice can tab and handed it to Roz.

“Drink that.”

Roz did as she was told without a murmur, which was telling in itself.

As the doctor’s gaze met Caprice’s, he gave her a half smile. “We’re not busy right now. Give it five minutes. Eat the crackers too,” he directed. “Do you always have low blood pressure?”

She shrugged as she pulled open the snack. “I haven’t been to the doctor for a while.”

“You’re sure you’re not on any medication?”

“None.”

“Are you allergic to anything?”

She shook her head, then nibbled on the crackers.

“I think you’re dehydrated. Your sugar plummeted because you hadn’t eaten. On top of that you had a terrible shock. You need to go home, drink lots of fluids, and eat. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I can’t go home,” Roz said. “The police are there.”

Caprice was quick to jump in. “You’re coming home with me. You can stay as long as necessary.”

“A new Chinese restaurant opened up down the block—the Peking Duck. The takeout is great,” he offered as a solution to the food problem. “That is, if you like Chinese.”

“I do,” Caprice said. “But I cook. I’ll make minestrone to ward off the chill.”

The look of assessment Dr. Randolph gave Caprice was a bit unnerving. He seemed to be trying to gauge exactly what kind of person she was.

Finally he said, “I’m glad Mrs. Winslow has someone to take care of her tonight. I’m going to give you a prescription for sleeping pills. Just a week’s supply.” To Roz he said, “If you need more than that, you should see your family doctor.”

A commotion suddenly erupted outside the door. A child was crying.

“Quiet spell over,” he said.

Roz had finished the snack and juice. Dr. Randolph took the wrapper and can and stowed it in the trash. “If anything sinister shows up on the blood work, someone will call you.”

He helped Roz down from the table, then his gaze met Caprice’s again. “It was good to meet you, Miss De Luca.”

He’d remembered her name. And maybe he was trying out the “Miss” to see if she’d correct him.

There was nothing to correct.

The next minute he was gone, moving on to another medical problem. They’d be the proverbial ships passing in the night.

Such was life.

“Let’s get your prescription filled and go home,” she said to Roz, dropping her arm around her friend’s shoulders again. Maybe they could help each other recover from what they’d seen. Maybe she could somehow comfort Roz and help her start the grieving process.

 

 

“Do you want to come in?” Caprice asked as Nikki pulled into her driveway.

“No, it’s probably better if I don’t. You and Roz can talk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

After a quick hug for her sister, Caprice led Roz to her front door.

As always, Dylan was ecstatic at anyone’s arrival. The main thing Caprice loved about dogs was their unconditional friendship and love. Cats expressed those same qualities in a quieter, more independent way.

Now as Dylan yipped, then took time to sniff at Roz’s sneakers, Caprice saw her friend was distracted by him, and that was a good thing. Roz bent down to him and ruffled his fur in such a way that Dylan looked up at her with adoring eyes.

“He’s cute,” she said. “I know you told me he was. I guess I just didn’t imagine what he actually looked like.”

“I’ll let him out. Why don’t you curl up on the couch while I start the minestrone.”

After a quick glance around, Roz sighed. “Your house invites anyone to come right in. I know you changed ours so it would have more of that . . .”

The word “ours” seemed to stand out. Roz and Ted. There was no couple anymore. Roz’s expression changed and became so sad. But she didn’t cry. As she took a few steps toward the sofa, Dylan started to follow her.

Caprice snapped her fingers—a signal he knew now—and he stopped, turned toward her and wagged his tail. “C’mon,” she said. “You can sit with her after you come back in.”

As Roz sagged onto the sofa, Dylan followed Caprice to the kitchen.

Nana’s recipe for minestrone soup was vegetable soup at its finest. Like her mom and grandmother, Caprice kept produce in her fridge. She tried to visit Kismet’s Grocery Fresh Market at least once a week.

Waiting patiently, she watched Dylan hurriedly do what he had to do. Afterward, he scampered inside as if he knew Roz needed him. Caprice suspected that Sophia was curled on the office chair, waiting for her owner’s nightly check of e-mail. She’d fed them both before she’d left.

Dylan ran to the living room, where Caprice saw him jump up on the sofa, yip once, then sit beside Roz.

Caprice couldn’t help thinking about everything that had happened as she washed up, then pulled out a pack of ground beef she’d bought, expecting to make burgers. Along with that, she picked up endive, a pack of grated carrots, and a bag of shredded cabbage. She found a zucchini in her produce drawer and yanked frozen green beans from the freezer. As she set everything on the counter, she ran over the murder scene in her mind.

The glass case where Ted had kept his most valuable collectibles had been standing open. Did that mean the murderer had robbery on his mind? From what she could recall, the case hadn’t been emptied. How many pieces had been taken? Any? Maybe the murderer had just surprised Ted in that room. But that meant he or she would have had to have broken in. Could a woman have done this?

Caprice moved to the pantry, where she grabbed an onion from a basket and wiggled a clove of garlic from a cheesecloth bag. There were so many questions about what had happened to Ted. Would they ever have the answers? Another trip to the pantry closet produced beef and chicken broth, and cans of beans, diced tomatoes, and tomato juice. Then she began washing and chopping.

A few minutes later, she poured two tablespoons of olive oil into the bottom of the soup pot and added the ground beef. With satisfaction, she noted its sizzle. When it was almost browned, she added the chopped onion, grated the garlic, pinched in the red pepper, and added the other spices, tomatoes, and all the liquid. The aroma wafted through the kitchen. A hearty soup was just what Roz needed to ward off the damp chill and brace her for whatever came next.

No, food couldn’t solve problems, but its preparation could show caring and love.

After the soup came to a boil, Caprice added the cut endive, plopped the lid on the pot and set the burner on simmer.

When she went to the living room, Roz was staring into space, petting Dylan, who had sprawled across her lap. Caprice sank into the dark-fuchsia upholstered chair nearest the multicolored, narrowly striped sofa.

“It’s okay to cry,” she said. “You can’t keep holding everything in.”

“I can’t cry,” Roz said as if she were confessing the worst sin. “I just feel numb.”

Curling her legs under her, Caprice asked, “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

For some reason, the face of Valerie Swanson flashed in her head. She couldn’t tell Roz about Ted and Valerie kissing. Definitely not tonight.

“Ted could be abrasive,” Roz admitted. “Sometimes even mean. But usually he was charming and considerate.”

“You mean with you?”

“Yes,” Roz answered quickly.

“Roz, he wasn’t charming and considerate when I was there before his business trip. Remember?” Imagining wives could have a selective memory, she was pointing out the truth.

Roz looked as if she was going to protest, but then she murmured, “We were going through a rough patch. All couples have rough patches. And in New York, everything was almost perfect again.”

Almost perfect
, Caprice thought. Could that even be possible?

Before she could delve deeper, her cell phone played “She Loves You.” Pulling it from her pocket, Caprice intended to let the call go to voice mail. But then she saw her assistant’s number on the screen. Juan Hidalgo handled her moving crews and painting contracts.

“Excuse me a minute,” she said to Roz. This late on Sunday night there must be a problem.

“Hi, Juan. What’s up?”

“I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that Denise did a walk-through of the Koontz’s house this morning and priced it twenty thousand higher than we expected.”

The Koontz’s house, which was located in York, was vacant. That had made staging it relatively easy. The fact that Caprice’s staging expertise had added that much value pleased her immensely.

“But . . .” Juan continued. “I was in an ATV accident this afternoon and broke my ankle.”

“Oh, Juan. Your ankle? How bad is it?”

“The doc mentioned putting in a pin or two. Surgery is Friday.”

“Do you have help so you don’t have to be on it?” She knew Juan. He’d still try to do everything himself.

“My sister is here. You of all people know how sisters like to help.”

She could hear the smile in his voice and wondered how much pain he was in. “Are you on painkillers?”

“Yep.” He paused. “Caprice, I’m sorry about this. I won’t be able to move furniture around for a while.”

“Of course, you won’t. You tell your sister if you don’t behave or if she needs help, she should call me.”

“She’s going to stay with me after surgery too, to make sure I can get around. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. The bigger question is—who’s going to take my place?”

Without her right-hand man, what
was
she going to do? “I’ll figure out something. You just take care of yourself. And ask your sister to call me to let me know the surgery went okay. Got it?”

“Got it.”

As Caprice ended the call, she hoped Juan would take care of himself. If she had to call a temp agency to hire help, that’s what she’d do.

“What’s wrong?” Roz asked.

“I lost my assistant who helps move furniture, lay rugs, hang paintings. He broke his ankle.”

“My gardener can probably help you. He’s sort of an all-around handyman. He’s done those things for me.” She fished her phone out of her pocket and stared down at it. “I should call Monty anyway and tell him what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re up to that?”

“Everybody is going to know soon. Ted’s parents are gone, and he was an only child. I should call our neighbors. Sheila and I run together sometimes. And I should probably call Chad Thompson at PA Pharm. I just can’t believe—” Roz’s voice caught.

“Come with me to the kitchen. We’ll see if the soup’s ready for the pasta. The calls can wait a little longer.”

“No,” Roz responded. “I have to make them. Monty probably won’t be too upset. He and Ted didn’t get along very well. In fact, they had an argument right before the open house.”

Caprice’s curious antennae seemed to zoom up. “Do you know what about?”

“Ted was going to cut Monty’s hours.”

Thinking about Ted’s supposed problems at work, his affair—or whatever it was—with Valerie, his decision to sell the house, Caprice asked, “Were you having financial problems?”

Roz sighed. “The truth is—I don’t know. Ted handled the bills and investments. But last month he did deposit less in my checking account than he usually does.”

“Without discussing it with you?”

“We hadn’t been discussing much. And when he returned from his business trip before the open house and seemed in a better mood, I didn’t want to rock an already unsteady boat. The same was true when we went to New York.”

To tell her about Valerie or not to tell her? Caprice just couldn’t make herself do it. Not tonight. Not when Roz was dealing with so much else.

“Do you want privacy to make your calls?”

As if the dog gave her comfort, Roz kept her hand on Dylan’s furry little body. “That probably would be best.”

“I’ll warm up some of Nana’s bread to go with the soup. Take your time. If you need me, yell.”

Caprice left Roz in the living room, wondering if Roz would hold up or collapse under the weight of all that had happened tonight.

 

 

Roz looked as if a stiff wind had blown her around and weakened her as she came into the kitchen.

“Eat,” Caprice encouraged, setting a bowl of steaming minestrone and a thick slice of homemade bread at her place.

“I’m really not hungry—”

Caprice just gave her a look.

Dylan squatted next to Roz’s chair as she sat and picked up her spoon.

Silence reigned until Caprice broke it. “How did Monty react?”

After a bite of bread Roz answered, “I’m not sure.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He didn’t seem shocked. He was very pragmatic. Just asked if I was going to keep him on. I told him I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ll need him to work on the grounds if I can’t sell the house. But for now, he said he’d be glad to help you. You can give him a call.”

“I will. When we’re finished. Then we’re going to my closet and find you some clothes—something to sleep in and something for tomorrow. You’re taller and thinner than I am, but that won’t matter with a nightshirt. And I have a couple of no-waist dresses that might work.”

“I wonder when I’ll be able to go home.”

Caprice wished she knew. But she guessed Roz’s nightmare was just beginning.

 

 

The following morning, a potential client said to Caprice, “Patty Colinstead told me to contract with you before I called a real estate agent.” Marge Gentry seemed to want Caprice’s reassurance that she’d done the right thing.

Patty had been one of Caprice’s first staging clients, and her house had sold within a month. Marge looked to be about the same age, in her late forties, though her husband Grover was more than a dozen years older. “I believe that’s the best strategy. Often an agent can see more potential after I’ve staged.”

“You’re known as a fluffer,” Marge said as if she was proud she knew the term.

“A
house
fluffer,” Caprice confirmed with a smile.

As she examined Marge’s house in York, taking notes, she had trouble concentrating. Roz had looked pale this morning. Although she’d slept after taking the medication Dr. Randolph had prescribed for her, she still seemed tired and drawn. Yet she’d told Caprice she needed some alone time and she should keep her appointment. Nevertheless, Caprice was worried about her. She herself couldn’t get the murder scene out of her head. The story on the news had been sensational but short—Ted Winslow had been stabbed in his home. There had been long camera shots of Roz’s house. Caprice’s car hadn’t been visible tucked beside the garage.

Marge interrupted her introspection. “Grover said we should redo the kitchen before we sell. But all that money and mess. Is it necessary?”

Bringing her focus back to the task at hand, Caprice considered her initial assessment of the Gentry house. She always targeted the main areas that needed the most change. After considering those, the client chose a theme. This home, which was five thousand square feet and about twenty years old, didn’t need to be brought up to date as much as it needed some polish.

“I’ll write up a proposal and plan, which will include the most time spent on the kitchen and family room and overall de-cluttering. Are you prepared to sell or put into storage everything that isn’t absolutely necessary?”

“I guess we are.”

“That means furniture as well as personal belongings. We want a prospective buyer to see his or her family living here as soon as he or she steps inside. We’ll do a virtual tour for the agent’s Web site as well as choosing ten or twelve more exceptional photos to use for the MLS.”

“Multiple Listing Service.”

“Right,” Caprice said approvingly. She glanced around the living room where they’d ended up. “You seem to like French country furniture. How about a theme like Country with Panache?”

“I think Grover would approve of that. He was afraid you’d want to do something more . . . unusual . . . like that Camelot house in Kismet. You know, the one where Ted Winslow was murdered. Can you imagine a killer in Kismet?”

“Every house has a distinctive character,” Caprice explained to Marge, hoping to put the conversation back on the home-staging track rather than on murder. “I try to emphasize that.”

“Grover and I went through the Winslow house on Sunday because we wanted to see what you could do. Mr. Winslow explained to Grover the history behind some of his . . . weapons. You know, all those swords and knives. I wasn’t interested, so I looked around. Grover knew Ted because he’s on the board of directors of PA Pharmaceuticals.”

Grover Gentry was CEO of one of the largest air-conditioning companies in the state. “I see.”

Marge didn’t need much incentive to keep going. “He was shocked when he learned Ted Winslow was killed. Though he did say there had been dissension on the board last month. Something about expansion. Apparently Ted didn’t want any part of it.”

Why wouldn’t Ted want to expand? The economic climate? Something more serious happening to the company?

“Did your husband say why?”

“I think Ted was concerned with pleasing shareholders and keeping their dividends stable.”

That made sense. But why wouldn’t the rest of the board want that too? Unless they thought even higher dividends were possible.

“Did you get the feeling Ted was respected and well liked?”

“I don’t know about that. Grover once mentioned that Ted Winslow had a ruthless side.”

“In business,” Caprice said just to clarify.

“Well, I think he was known to fudge his golf score too. Didn’t like landing in the rough.”

Kismet’s Country Squire Golf and Recreation Club had a course bigger communities would envy. They also had an elite clientele, and the members paid a hefty yearly fee to belong.

“Grover plays at Country Squire?”

“As a guest. I’ve passed Roz Winslow now and then when I’ve played tennis there. I can’t imagine being in her shoes right now, wondering who did this awful thing. What if it was someone she knew?”

“What makes you think it might be?” Caprice was curious, and since the subject had been well and truly opened . . .

“Well, I would imagine a house like that would have a security system. Not just anybody could get in easily.”

Yet Caprice remembered the unlocked front door and the back door standing wide open. A security system couldn’t be reliable if it wasn’t turned on.

“And to be stabbed . . . I bet it was with one of his own swords. How ironic.”

The best tack for Caprice to take was to remain silent, then return to the reason she was here. “I don’t want to tie you up any longer than necessary today. Do you think you’ll be able to remove yourself from the memories you have in this house so we can make the best changes to sell it? You’re going to have to think of your house as a product.”

“Grover has been telling me over and over that I need to do that. If we find the type of estate property he wants, where we can have horses, I think I’ll be able to leave this behind. We didn’t want to start looking until this sold.”

“You mentioned not wanting to tear apart your kitchen. You don’t have to. We can redesign it with paint, accessories, and an uncluttered look.”

“We were impressed with your portfolio and the results you’ve accomplished,” Marge assured her. “You seem to be able to do a lot with whatever budget your client gives you.”

“I don’t remodel, Marge. I redistribute, redesign, and give a buyer a chance to imagine herself in your home.”

“I really do like the idea of Country with Panache.”

Caprice could tell Marge was ready to sign on the dotted line. As she opened her briefcase to pull out a contract, her phone vibrated. She always turned off the ringtone when she was with a client.

Considering everything that had happened, she checked the number and said to Marge, “Excuse me for a minute.” Since it was Roz’s number, she had to take the call.

Extracting a contract from a manila folder, she set it before Marge. “This is my standard contract. If you’d like to look it over, I’ll answer any questions you might have.”

Then she stood, walked into the hall, and answered her phone. “Roz. Is everything all right?”

“No! It’s not. Detective Jones called my cell. The police want a list of everything in the curio cabinet in the sword room, as well as a list of Ted’s friends and colleagues. They also want to talk to me, and I don’t know what to do. Do you think I should call a lawyer?”

In everyday life, reason told Caprice that innocent people had nothing to hide so they should answer questions freely. But . . . Caprice had read enough suspense novels and watched enough TV—especially the program with the adorably sexy, intuitive investigative consultant—to know even truthful answers could get a person in trouble if they became the target of the investigation. Better to be safe than very sorry.

“Do you have a lawyer in mind?”

“No! And I don’t just want to finger someone in the yellow pages. Your brother’s a lawyer. Could he help?”

“He’s involved in family law, wills, and house settlements.”

“That means he’s all-purpose. At least I’d know he’d be honest.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know if he’s a De Luca, he’s honest.”

“When does Detective Jones want you there?”

“Now. He wants me now. I suggested tomorrow, but he just snapped at me and asked if I want to help them catch my husband’s killer. He made it sound as if I didn’t go in right away, that I’d have a reason for waiting.” Roz sounded desperate, and Caprice didn’t blame her.

“I’ll call Vince. Hold tight.” She didn’t check with Marge before she did.

First she called Vince’s cell. The call went straight to voice mail, which meant he had his phone turned off. Next she called his office. The firm’s office manager, Giselle Browning, answered. In her fifties, Giselle was efficient, no nonsense, and indispensable. She was on top of every case and client that passed through the De Luca and Weatherford law firm’s door.

“I need to speak to Vince, Giselle. Is he in?”

“Caprice! No, he’s in court. He said he’ll be tied up all day. Can I help?”

“No. I need his physical presence.”

“Grant’s in his office. Maybe he could help.”

Grant Weatherford.

Automatically, Caprice could see the rugged-looking attorney in her mind’s eye, with his thick black hair and intense gray eyes. He’d been her brother’s roommate in law school. Once in a while he’d come home with Vince for the weekend. He’d gotten married right out of law school and worked for a large firm in Pittsburgh. But then tragedy had struck. He and his wife had lost their child to a pool accident, and their marriage had broken apart. According to Vince, Grant had wanted a fresh start, and that’s why he’d moved to Kismet and teamed up with her brother.

When Caprice had first met Grant, she was attracted to him—he was a few years older, confident, irresolutely masculine—but she’d set aside pulse-racing fantasies when he’d gotten engaged and then married. Since his divorce and his move to Kismet, she’d kept her distance. Grant seemed to be a changed man . . . much more guarded, not as talkative, very introspective. A few times, Vince had brought him along to one of their family dinners. Now when she thought about asking him for help, something in her rebelled.

But Roz’s future was at stake.

“All right,” Caprice capitulated. “Patch me through.”

It was only a few seconds until Grant came on the line. “What do you need, Caprice?”

No small talk. Not even a “How are you?” Just straight to business.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t reach Vince.”