Stay Tuned for Murder (19 page)

“So many sad things have happened since Chantel arrived in town,” Lark said slowly. “Two people have been murdered. I can hardly believe it.” She must have caught my look, because she added, “Not that she’s responsible. I just meant it’s a strange coincidence.” I was about to remind her about Freud’s comment that “there are no coincidences,” when she let out a little sigh. “Maybe it’s bad karma. In any case, it’s very sad.”

“Oh, yes, quite sad,” Simon agreed. His tone was perfunctory, and I found it hard to believe he actually cared one way or the other about Althea and Mildred. After all, he was new in town himself, and the women were just strangers to him.

We spent another few minutes talking about the murders and the fact that the Cypress Grove PD seemed to have no leads. Irina reminded me that Althea’s funeral was tomorrow morning, and I felt my spirits sink even further. There wouldn’t be a funeral service for Mildred; her relatives were planning to hold a wake and burial out of state. I made a mental note to make a donation to the town library in Mildred’s name.

To my surprise, Simon mentioned that he planned on attending Althea’s funeral. Odd, right? Why would you go to the funeral of someone you’ve never met? I remember Rafe telling me that sometimes killers like to show up at the funerals of their victims, but I found it hard to imagine Simon Brent as a murderer. On that note, Simon and Irina left, and after taking Pugsley for a quick walk, I turned in.

I tossed and turned for at least an hour, my brain whirring with possibilities. My thoughts were muddled; everything was unresolved. I felt “stuck,” as the shrinks would say, my mind running in an endless loop, like a gerbil on a treadmill.

I finally switched on the light, grabbed a legal pad and a ballpoint pen, and decided to go over everything in detail. Writing always helps me focus my thoughts, separating what I know as cold, hard fact from my hunches or intuitions. Pugsley gave an annoyed little yip when the light hit his face, but I patted him and he went right back to his doggie dreams.

What I knew for certain was very little. Two elderly women had been murdered within the same week, both longtime residents of Cypress Grove. What did they have in common? Althea was murdered where she lived and worked; Mildred was murdered where she worked. In both cases, the murder weapon was left at the scene.

After that, everything gets murky, and I found myself drifting into the realm of pure conjecture. Was it significant that the weapons were left with the victims? Possibly. It might have meant that both murders were crimes of opportunity and not planned. If they were impulsive acts, did that mean that anger or revenge was the motive? Or was it a home invasion gone wrong? That might have been a possibility in Althea’s case, but I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to steal anything from the Cypress Grove Library, where Mildred was murdered.

Both the library and the historical society were registered as historic buildings in Cypress Grove, but I didn’t see how that was relevant.

On to another question. How were the victims related? Two points of similarity jumped out at me. The victims knew each other, and they both knew a lot about Cypress Grove. Interesting, but what did it mean? What could I do with that information? Did that suggest that one killer had committed both crimes? Did the physical evidence collected by the CSIs point to one killer or two? I wrote the names “Althea” and “Mildred” and drew lines between them, noting all the connections.

When I worked as a forensic psychologist for the DA’s office back in New York, my boss always told me that a single fact didn’t mean much. You had to see the big picture and figure out where that fact fits in. He always taught me to think of a case as a jigsaw puzzle and to look at a fact as a puzzle piece. Maybe the piece fit right in the center of the puzzle, or maybe it was a bit of the background, something at the edges of the puzzle. You never knew how important a single piece might be, until you had the whole puzzle assembled.

A nice analogy, but I knew I didn’t have all the pieces for this one. From the looks of things, neither did the Cypress Grove PD. Radio silence from Rafe, and even Nick couldn’t get them to cough up any new leads.

I kept going back to the notion of one murderer or two. Either Rafe was keeping quiet about any trace evidence, or the Cypress Grove PD hadn’t come up with anything. I knew Nick was desperately trying to get some information for his
Gazette
articles and coming up dry. He’d left a message on my machine earlier that day, asking whether I’d heard anything new about the case. He promised he wouldn’t quote me and would use me as “deep background.”

I left a message saying I was as much in the dark as he was and that I hoped we could touch base at Althea’s funeral the next day.

Look for means, motive, and opportunity.
Rafe always tells me that’s the hallmark of any successful murder investigation. I wondered whether he was drawing as much of a blank as I was. Who would want to murder Althea and Mildred? The motive in Althea’s case might have been robbery, but Rafe had told me that she’d been wearing an expensive antique watch when her body was found. If robbery was the motive, why had the killer left it? How could I explain that?

And he said that a ring had been pulled off her finger, but it was a cheap costume piece, with no monetary value. Of course, it was possible the murderer didn’t realize the vintage watch was valuable, and maybe he figured the ring was a real gemstone. So was he a thief who didn’t have a good eye for jewelry? That was certainly a possibility.

My gut feeling told me that Althea or Mildred (or both) had some information that someone wanted suppressed. Something that would be devastating if it came to light. But what? Mildred had hinted on my show that there would be some big surprises when the time capsule was unearthed. She seemed to be suggesting that she had special knowledge no one else had.

During her séance, Chantel had hinted that there was evil afoot in Cypress Grove. So, there was innuendo, but nothing firm to grab on to. That reminded me of another point of similarity. Both Althea and Mildred had been present at the séance. I drew a third line between the two names. So far this was all circumstantial, tenuous connections that might not be significant.

I ran down the list of suspects, feeling more frustrated by the moment. Chantel Carrington was the first name that leapt into my mind. Why did I think of her as a suspect? I wrote down everything I knew about her. She was here in town under an alias, her background was murky, and somehow she’d made a name for herself in the motivational field.

If Nick had uncovered her real name and her origins, then surely it was just a matter of time before TMZ, Gawker, and all the big entertainment sites blared out the truth. This was the kind of thing you couldn’t keep a secret for long. Could Mildred or Althea have suspected who she really was, or maybe they uncovered some dark secret from her past? Did they threaten to reveal it? I thought of Althea and Mildred. I couldn’t picture either one of them as a blackmailer.

Irina said that Vera Mae told her Chantel reminded her of someone. Did she mean a celebrity? Or someone close to home? Could Chantel have relatives living in the area? Maybe there was a family resemblance that Vera Mae picked up on? It was a possibility, but I had no idea how to investigate it further. My best hope was to find someone else who’d lived here a long time and ask them whether they thought Chantel looked familiar.

Why had Chantel come to Cypress Grove? Yes, I knew the standard answer, but I didn’t buy it. My gut instinct told me she would never choose Cypress Grove as a place to kick back and pound out her memoirs. She’d lived all over the country, and I found it very hard to believe that she’d chosen our little town as a retreat.

Unless she had some big business deal planned in Miami? Maybe some media opportunity that Cyrus never suspected? What if she wanted to put together a kick-ass demo tape at WYME and then head for one of the big stations in Miami? That was certainly a possibility, but I didn’t see how could it be connected with the two murders.

I put a star and a question mark next to her name. Chantel was still in the running, even though I was drawing a blank as to her motive.

I was more convinced than ever than Simon Brent, Irina’s English teacher, had something up his sleeve. And why was he so interested in Chantel? It seemed odd that he turned up in town at the same time Chantel did, and that he was so determined to meet her and talk with her.
Note to self: ask Nick to find out more about Simon Brent.

Trevor McNamara, the guest at the Seabreeze Inn, certainly aroused my suspicions with his bogus story about scouting out vacation properties in Cypress Grove. At least, I think it was bogus. A few calls to the chamber of commerce would probably tell me what I needed to know. I’d have to ask Ted Rollins, the innkeeper, if Trevor was still in town.

And Mark Sanderson. Was he reconsidering his choice of Cypress Grove for his towering condo project? The town seemed like an odd match for his real estate venture. Could he bail out? But it was too late—the deal was already in the works, right?

Surely they’d done some feasibility studies. A high-rise condo building just didn’t fit in with the small-town feel of the place. I wasn’t at all sure people would be willing to live in his condos and commute to metropolitan areas, as he’d suggested.

I could probably find out more about Mark Sanderson from Cyrus. Offhand, I couldn’t imagine any reason Mark Sanderson would have for killing either Althea or Mildred. He’d turned up in town around the same time they were murdered, and that hardly was enough to make him a viable suspect.

Candace Somerset stood to inherit a small fortune from her dead sister’s estate. She didn’t seem like a killer to me, but money can make people do strange things. Following the money is always a good idea when you’re looking into murder. I’d learned that back in my days doing forensic psychology in Manhattan. I added her to the list as well.

 

There was a good turnout for Althea Somerset’s funeral the next morning. It was cool and drizzly as Vera Mae and I drove west on Porter Street to the edge of town. Althea had left instructions with her attorney, opting for a short religious service graveside followed by burial at the old Cypress Grove Cemetery.

The minister, Reverend Appleton, kept his remarks brief, and the service took less than half an hour. The minister mentioned that Althea was “taken from us suddenly” and mouthed a few platitudes about the brevity of life, but apart from that, he made no mention of the murder.

Not that I’d expected him to, but it must have been in everyone’s thoughts. I didn’t do a head count, but it looked like about seventy-five people were huddled under umbrellas, a few sniffling into handkerchiefs. It was a somber scene, and I was eager to pay my respects and get away from the cemetery.

Nick stood next to me, taking notes. I glanced over and saw him listing all the town dignitaries who were in attendance: the mayor, the leaders of the town council, and of course, the board of directors of the historical society. Candace Somerset, Althea’s sister, thanked everyone for coming and invited the entire group back to the historical society for a light repast.

I turned questioningly to Nick.
A light repast?
Those words must have been music to his ears. Like every reporter I’ve ever known, Nick is not one to pass up free food. Ever. And he seems to be perpetually hungry. “Are you heading over to the society for the reception?”

“You bet. I’m on it,” he said, snapping his notebook closed. “I might get a couple of quick quotes, you know, something to fill out the article,” he added. “Catch you later.”

Rafe caught up with me as I was walking back to my car. He came up silently behind me, pantherlike, and touched my shoulder. “Maggie,” he said. Only Rafe could manage to make one word sound as sexy as hell.

His lips twitched when I gave a little startled noise and whirled around to face him.

“I didn’t know you were here,” I said breathlessly. My heart tripped into a familiar double-time beat, and I told it to calm down.

“I just came in a couple of minutes ago with Brown.” He nodded toward a black-and-white parked on the shoulder of the winding road. Officer Duane Brown was standing next to it, his arms crossed in front of him like he was posing as a rookie state trooper for a Don’t Drink and Drive billboard. He looked serious, but very young, and the freckles didn’t help.

“So,” Rafe said, his eyes roaming over my face, “what have you been up to? Anything you want to tell me?” We paused for a moment, standing at the edge of the cemetery, and he ducked under my umbrella. He closed his hand over mine for a moment to steady it, and my heartbeat kicked up another notch at his touch.

Anything I want to tell him?
This was a loaded question. Rafe and I have a sort of unspoken agreement on my detective work. He pretends to believe that what I do is sheer nonsense, absolute psychobabble with no scientific basis and no evidence-based research to back it up.
Ooo-kay.
I let him think that way, because it’s silly to argue. I know how valuable good police work is, but I think psychology has something to offer as well.

I also know that this is an argument I’m never going to win.

“I’m still in the dark,” I admitted. I suddenly remembered what he’d said about the crime scene at Althea’s looking staged. “Anything new on your end of things?”

“Nothing.”

“What about the crime scene? You said you thought maybe it was staged to look like a home invasion. Do you still feel that way?”

He smiled. “That was just a hunch, a gut feeling. I don’t have any hard evidence that it was staged to look that way, except that no valuables were taken. That could be significant, or maybe he was interrupted and had to flee the scene.” He rubbed his chin with his hand, and I noticed he had dark circles under his eyes. Apparently the double murder investigation was taking a toll on him. I caught myself wanting to touch my hand to his cheek, which was so unprofessional, I gave myself a mental head slap.