Stay Tuned for Murder (15 page)

I bet my eyebrows shot up into my forehead at that one. “She is?” I swallowed hard. “I didn’t know Althea had any heirs. I just assumed there wasn’t any inheritance. I figured Althea was as poor as a church mouse. She lived so frugally, I thought she pumped the little money she had into the historical society.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. Althea made some shrewd real estate investments over the years, and she didn’t get hit by the recession. Let’s just say she had considerable assets.” He paused, watching me. “Althea was a very wealthy woman, Maggie.” The words hung in the air between us.

“And now Candace is going to be wealthy,” I said softly
.
I mulled that for a couple of seconds
. Interesting.
“Nice for her, isn’t it?”

“My point exactly.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “As I said, see if you can find out what she thought about Althea. Find out if anyone in town knows Candace or if she’s come back to visit very often. Maybe you’ll learn some other information as well. This town is full of surprises.”

I nodded, my thoughts swirling like scrambled eggs. Chantel, Althea, Mildred, and Candace. Two of them dead and perhaps the other two were suspects? It wasn’t much to go on, but what other leads did I have? And there was the time capsule, looming over everything. Just a few more days, and it would be unearthed.

Rafe crossed around the desk so we were standing very close to each other. My heart did a familiar little flip-flop when he put his finger under my chin, tipping my face toward him. His expression changed; a smile took over his mouth. “And there’s something I want you to keep in mind.” He gave me a level look, his voice low and husky.

“What’s that?” I asked a little breathlessly. I always feel a little buzz of attraction when I’m near him, like a shot of pure adrenaline going through me. His black eyes were piercing into mine; we were so close I could see the little golden flecks in them. “While you’re out there digging up clues—”

“Yes?” I took a breath. He leaned toward me, brought his face near me, his lips brushing my ear.

“Be careful, Sherlock,” he whispered. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

I wanted to shut my eyes and melt into him, but the next thing I knew, he’d opened the office door, and we were heading down the hall.

Classic Rafe behavior.

“That was so sweet of you to rescue Mr. Big,” Candace Somerset said to me half an hour later. I’d stopped by my place, grabbed Mr. Big, who’d been napping on my bed, and drove to the historical society with him.

“Althea adored this cat, and I know she’d be happy that you took such good care of him. I hate to think what might have happened when those police officers were going through the house.” She gave a little shudder. “Poor Mr. Big might have run out in the street and been lost forever.”

“I was happy to do it.” I smiled at her and accepted another cup of tea. We were settled in the front parlor of the historical society, and Mr. Big was stretched out on the Oriental rug, sound asleep. Whoever called a cat “a pillow that eats” must have known Mr. Big.

I think he was glad to be back home. I’d done my best to keep him comfortable in my town house, but Pugsley had turned out to be more territorial than I’d realized, and his constant barking had threatened to turn the placid Mr. Big into a head case.

“So you have your own talk show?” Candace asked. “That must be very exciting.” She was younger than Althea and smartly dressed in a tailored beige suit with an apricot shell and understated gold jewelry. She was tall and willowy, like Althea. Her blond hair was streaked with expensive highlights, and she was wearing designer peep-toe pumps.

“Some days it is.” I gave her an Idiot’s Guide explanation of how I had given up my Manhattan psychoanalytic practice and moved to Florida to become a radio shrink for WYME. I’d told the story so many times, I had it down to a science. A few people think I was crazy to give up my practice (“all that education and training!”), but most folks are fascinated by my new job and think that I struck a good bargain.

“I know there’s been a lot of media coverage about Althea’s passing,” she said in a low voice.

“Not as much as you might think,” I replied. I wondered whether it would be greedy to reach for another buttery jam tart and took one anyway. “The police really haven’t said much about the details of the”—I paused, searching for a word—“investigation, so there hasn’t been too much to say.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It seems awful to think of people gossiping about . . . you know, how she passed. As if her last few moments on earth were more newsworthy than all the years that went before.”

Candace’s eyes clouded for a moment, and I suddenly realized that she wanted to be assured that Althea’s life and achievements would be honored. That the details of her death wouldn’t be sensationalized and overshadow everything else about her. Of course, there really isn’t any way to guarantee this in a murder case. The public seems to have an insatiable appetite for violent crimes. That’s true whether you’re in Cypress Grove or Manhattan.

“Will you be in town long?” I wondered whether she minded staying in the large Victorian mansion where her sister was murdered. It seemed macabre to me, and I had to repress a little shudder.

“Just a couple of weeks. There are the funeral arrangements to attend to, and I need to decide what to do about her things.”

Hmm. No mention of the sizable estate she was going to inherit. “I wondered what you think of the place. A little town like Cypress Grove must seem like the boondocks to you. Althea mentioned to me that you lived in Boston.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know I’m from Boston? Word travels fast, doesn’t it?” There was a sharp edge to her voice, and I could tell she wasn’t pleased that I knew any details about her personal life. I wondered why. Did she have something to hide?

“It goes with living in a small town,” I said, spreading my hands in a “don’t shoot the messenger” gesture.

“Yes, well, I suppose I do like it here.” She smoothed her skirt and forced a slight smile. “I haven’t really spent much time in Cypress Grove over the years, if that’s what you’re really asking.” She waited a beat. “Althea and I had a complicated relationship. We were certainly fond of each other, but you know how it is with some relatives. You do better if you only see them occasionally.” She gave an uncertain little laugh. “But you’re a psychologist, so of course, you already know all about these things.”

I made a small, noncommittal sound. “I’ve seen that happen, yes. Family relationships can be complex.” I glanced at my watch. I couldn’t seem to get a handle on Candace Somerset, and I wondered where to steer the conversation next.

“Terrible about Mildred Smoot,” she said, surprising me.

“Did you know her?”

“No, but Althea mentioned her to me several times. Even though I didn’t visit much, Althea and I stayed in touch through e-mail. She had considered Mildred a dear friend. And they had a lot in common. They both loved Cypress Grove and were dedicated to its history. There’s probably nothing that went on in this town that they didn’t know about.” She paused. “Who would think that they would both fall victim to a serial killer,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “It’s shocking.”

“A serial killer?” I had to bite back a laugh. Was Candace serious? “Is that what you think happened to Althea and Mildred?”

“Well, yes, of course I do,” she said without missing a beat. “What else could it be? There certainly wouldn’t be any motive for someone to just randomly kill two women in the same week. Especially in such a tiny town,” she added.

She must have read my expression, because she said, “Isn’t that what you think happened? An attack by a serial killer? I heard that you used to be a forensic psychologist. So I’m sure you know much more about the criminal mind than I do.”

I took another sip of tea, wondering how much to say, what cards to lay on the table. There was no point in showing my hand to Candace. In the space of a few minutes, she’d somehow managed to turn the tables and was grilling me for information. But why? Was it morbid curiosity or was something else going on?

I had the feeling that Candace had a secret agenda and simply wanted the murder investigation to just go away. “No, I’m afraid I can’t agree with you on the serial killer theory,” I said finally. “Mildred and Althea simply don’t fit the victim profile of any serial killer cases I’ve studied.” I waited for a couple of seconds. “There were similarities, of course. The crimes were committed where the victims worked, and the weapon was left at the scene. And of course they were both elderly women.”

“A random act of violence, then?”

“In Cypress Grove?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

She gave an exasperated little sigh. “Well, what do you think happened to my sister? And to that poor librarian?”

Her voice crawled over my skin, and I felt myself recoiling a little. I had the feeling she was holding something back and was playing with me, trying to ferret out information.

“What do I think happened? I think someone wanted them dead.”

 

It was nearly ten thirty when I zipped down the corridor of WYME the next morning. I noticed that Vera Mae had a visitor in her office. I was planning to scoot right past to my cubicle, but she spotted me and stepped out into the hall. “Cyrus told me to give this guy the VIP tour,” she said under a breath. “He’s probably going to buy a lot of ad time on the station. So Cyrus figures big bucks. In other words, play nice.” She winked at me.

She pulled me into her office and introduced me to her guest. “Mark Sanderson, Maggie Walsh,” she said. There was no place to move in her cramped office. We smiled and shook hands awkwardly over the top of a file cabinet. There was absolutely no place to sit; every available surface was covered with piles of papers and unopened mail.

I felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia wash over me, and my heartbeat ratcheted up a notch, like I was trapped in a phone booth.

“Mark’s a real estate developer from Georgia, and he plans on spending a lot of time in our little town.” Vera Mae gave me a meaningful look. I got the message. “Mark, you’ve probably heard of Maggie Walsh. She’s our star. She’s the host of
On the Couch
.”

“Not a star by any means,” I said.

“I heard your show when I was driving into town yesterday. Very nice.” He was attractive, early forties, and looked buff, like he worked out every day.

He was wearing a snowy white knit shirt with a Lake-view Golf Club logo. A golfer; I should have known. Probably good for business. Cyrus always says he makes half his business deals on the links.

“I’ll get Kevin to rustle us up another chair,” Vera Mae said vaguely, reaching for her phone.

“That’s okay. I really can’t stay, but it’s nice to meet you, Maggie.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. “I know your schedule is probably jammed, but if you ever have time for coffee or lunch, I’d love to talk to you.”

I glanced at the card. “Sanderson Properties,” I said slowly. “Why does that ring a bell?”

“Mark was on the
Today
show last week. Remember that feature they did with Barbara Corcoran? Mark’s got a big development project planned for Cypress Grove.” Vera Mae was frowning, glancing around the office as if she could magically make a chair appear.

Of course. A visiting developer. No wonder Cyrus wanted us to treat him like a visiting celebrity.
Ka-ching, ka-ching.

Mark nodded. “We’re doing a condo project on the grounds of the old courthouse.”

“The old courthouse?” I was puzzled. As far as I knew, there was only one courthouse, the one right on the town square.

“Well, I mean the present courthouse,” Mark said hastily. “We’re going to raze it in the next couple of months and then start construction on the Royal Palm Towers. We’re planning on twelve stories, and we’ll have studios, as well as one-, two-, and three-bedroom units. And of course, a fully equipped state-of-the-art gym. We’re offering furnished and unfurnished units and low maintenance fees.”

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d whipped out the blueprints and shown them to me on the spot. Instead he reached down into his briefcase and handed me a full-color brochure.

“Looks impressive,” I said idly. I was being polite. Judging by the artist’s rendition, the building was bland and uninteresting, a tower of tan brick with small windows.

“The interior shots are from a place we did up in Jacksonville. The furnished units will be very similar. As you can see, the living room and kitchen area are quite large by industry standards.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” I tried not to wince; the interiors looked like they were straight out of a Holiday Inn. I thought how lucky I was to have snared my hacienda-style town house in its beautiful garden setting. If I had to live in a place like the Royal Palm Towers, I might as well have stayed in New York.

“Who are you hoping to attract?” I asked. “Cypress Grove is a small town.”

Mark nodded. “But it’s perfect for a bedroom community. We can beat the big-city condo prices, and commuters can just zip home from work on I-95. They’ll save a bundle.” When I didn’t say anything, he pressed on. “The units are going fast, so if you know anyone who happens to be in the market—”

“I’ll be sure to put them in touch with you.” I paused, frowning. Something was tickling the edges of my mind. Some memory about the courthouse. “There’s just one thing. Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought—”

“What’s that?” Mark shot me a keen glance, and I noticed his eyes were very blue, piercing into mine.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m probably getting the facts mixed up. I thought the courthouse was on the historic register, or something like that. You know, designated as a building that has to be preserved. But apparently, I was mistaken.”