Stay Tuned for Murder (23 page)

He suddenly noticed that we weren’t clutching cocktails. “Shalimar, where’s your manners?” he barked. “No drinks for the guests?”

“Oh, sorry.” She looked flustered and leapt to her feet like a well-trained seal. “I made margaritas,” she said brightly. “Maggie, would you like one? And of course there’s wine and imported beer—whatever you like.”

“A margarita sounds wonderful. Thanks.” I was struggling to come up with a conversation topic when Bobby started talking to Nick about a zoning bill that someone had introduced in the last town council meeting. Boring stuff.

I stared at the ceiling (inlaid mahogany in an elaborate geometric pattern) for inspiration. Shalimar must have been groping around for something to say as well, because she started complimenting me on my show. Again. Flattery is always nice, but this was getting ridiculous.

We chatted for a few minutes, and then a maid in a black-and-white uniform announced that dinner was served in the dining room. I wondered whether the maid was of the live-in variety or Shalimar had hired her for the evening. We sat down and started with a soup course served by another maid.

“It’s cream of celery, Maggie,” Shalimar said. “Just for you. I know you’re a vegetarian.”

“How did you—”

“That was easy. I Googled you,” she said and then laughed and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t have said that.” Bobby frowned at her, and she made a swift save. “I came across a piece you wrote about a veganfest back in Manhattan. You talked about the dishes and the recipes.”

“So you made a special dinner tonight, just for Maggie?” Nick asked. He looked disappointed, probably figuring he was going to be stuck with mung beans on sprouts instead of his beloved beef.

Shalimar must have read his mind. “Don’t worry, Nick. I’ve got steak and shrimp for you.” She paused as the maid returned to serve green salads with cherry tomatoes and marinated artichokes. The salads were served on chilled plates, a nice touch. “So, Nick, what’s new with the murder investigation? I bet you’ve got the inside scoop for us.” She flashed a warm smile, but Nick was too busy buttering flaky biscuits to really appreciate it.

“No, afraid not.” He glanced at the soup and salad plates, and then his eyes strayed to the door leading to the kitchen. He picked at the greens, clearly biding his time, waiting for the main course.

Bobby and Shalimar exchanged a look. “I thought you had some good connections,” Shalimar said uncertainly. “They’ve had almost nothing in the paper about it. So I figured maybe you were saving everything for a big splashy story.”

“A big story? Nope, not me.”

“That’s a little hard to believe.” Shalimar played with her fork and stared at Nick. She swallowed half her wine in one gulp, and Bobby made no move to refill her glass. The tension in the air was so thick, you could have cut it with one of Shalimar’s antique silver butter knives.

“Well, I do have some friends with the Cypress Grove PD, but you know how cops are—they keep a tight lid on information. It’s like pulling nails out of a board to get them to say anything.”

Bobby put down his fork, his face a mask. “Is that a fact? I thought for sure there’d be some interesting leads by now. Maybe even some shockers.” He shot another look at Shalimar, but she kept her eyes down, staring at her plate. I noticed a faint flush creeping up her neck. Nerves? Anxiety? He poured red wine but still didn’t offer any to Shalimar. It must have been deliberate. Interesting. Vera Mae says I tend to overanalyze everything, but I can’t help it. It’s an occupational hazard, part of my training as a shrink. My mind scrambled to come up with an explanation for Bobby and Shalimar’s odd behavior. Why did he decide to cut off her wine? Did she have a problem with alcohol? Maybe he didn’t trust her after she’d admitted Googling me and he was worried that alcohol had loosened her tongue.

I decided to play along with Bobby and see where the conversation led. “Leads? What kind of leads?” I sipped my wine. It tasted cool, fruity, and expensive. Delicious.

“I don’t know,” Bobby said, his tone brusque. “I’m not a reporter.” He glared at me. “Or a radio talk show host. I’m just an ordinary citizen trying to get to the bottom of this.”

I was baffled at the sudden change in the temperature at the table. In the space of a few minutes, it had tumbled from genial to glacial. Our host seemed distinctly annoyed (or disappointed?) with us, but I couldn’t imagine why.

“Who’d want to kill two little old ladies?” he went on, his tone irate. “Everybody in town loved Mildred and Althea.”

“Not everybody,” I said mildly. I remembered I’d caught myself saying the same thing not so long ago.

“Oh, yes,” Shalimar said, looking up. “You mean that there’s
one
person out there who didn’t love them. Of course. The murtherer. I mean, the murderer.”

She was slurring her words a little, and I wondered whether she’d been drinking before we arrived. The cords in her neck were taut, a muscle was jumping in her cheek, and she was blinking rapidly. And that telltale red flush was creeping up her chest. Clear signs of stress.

For some reason she was distinctly uncomfortable. Was she hiding something? I remembered the strange conversation we’d had at Althea’s funeral reception. She’d asked a lot of questions about the time capsule. Her interest had seemed phony, staged, and I remembered being puzzled over it. Her behavior tonight was equally baffling, and my BS detector was screaming
red alert
.

“That’s it. And I’m not so sure that one person committed both crimes. As far as I know, the two murders aren’t even connected.” I paused, waiting for Nick to jump in, but he was sidetracked by the maid bringing in an enormous platter of grilled steaks. It looked like enough food for an army wintering in Siberia. Nick would certainly get his doggie bag, if he was brave enough to ask for it. “What do you think, Nick?” I nudged him.

“What do I—Oh, yes, I think it’s a possibility. Definitely a possibility.” He scratched his chin, and his eyes were glazing over. When Nick’s eyes glaze over, it means he’s thinking about food. Nick once confessed that he even dreams about food, a fact I’m sure he regrets telling me.

“So you agree?” I said, eyebrows raised. “With what?”

“With whatever you just said,” he answered neatly. The man should have been a diplomat. Or a politician. His nose was literally twitching like Pugsley’s does when he smells chicken from Pollo Loco.

I nearly laughed out loud. It was obvious Nick hadn’t been following the conversation and had no idea what I was asking him. He licked his lips, and I could see that he was practically salivating over the aroma of the grilled meat. A giant platter of steaks was placed in the center of the table along with side dishes of au gratin potatoes and buttered asparagus.

A perfectly cooked veggie burger was placed in front of me, garnished with grilled eggplant, zucchini, red onion, and mushroom caps and served over wild rice.

I didn’t worry any more about Bobby’s bad mood or the fact that he seemed less than thrilled with us.

I was in heaven.

“Was that weird or am I crazy?” Nick asked a couple of hours later. We had said our good nights to Bobby and Shalimar and were peeling down the long winding driveway toward the highway. Two doggie bags (one for Nick and one for Pugsley) were sitting on the seat between us. I wasn’t crazy about the heavy meat smell wafting out from the bags, but I knew one whiff would send Pugsley into pure nirvana.

“You’re not crazy,” I told him. “That was weird.” Nick was right. This had been one of the strangest evenings I could remember. “I felt really uncomfortable with those two, and I’m not even sure why.” I rolled down the window, trying to figure out what was bothering me. The night air was soft and warm, and cicadas were chirping in the trees.

“You’re the shrink. You should know all about these things,” Nick teased me. Nick was stating a common misconception—he thinks that since I’m a shrink I should be able to read people’s minds. Not true! No matter how many times I’ve tried to correct him, he clings to this bogus belief. I keep telling him that if I could really read people’s minds, I’d hit a poker party every Friday night or maybe the blackjack tables at Vegas.

I shook my head. “Well, I’m stumped. I can’t shake the feeling that we were dragged there under false pretenses.”

“It was pretty awkward, wasn’t it? Especially at the end. Once we finished dinner, I felt like they couldn’t wait to get rid of us. What did you make of that?”

“I think you’re right. Once they didn’t get whatever they were looking for, they wanted us out of there.”

Shalimar had rushed us through coffee and dessert, and I’d noticed that Bobby didn’t offer any after-dinner drinks even though there were half a dozen bottles of fancy liqueurs sitting on a sideboard. And I caught Bobby glancing at his watch a few times. Did he have another appointment, or was he just eager to see us on our way?

“So they didn’t invite us for our charming company?” Nick took his eyes off the road to shoot me a grin.

“Afraid not. Maybe we’re not that charming after all.”

Nick laughed. “Maybe
you’re
not,” he teased. “Well, it wasn’t a complete disaster. At least the food was good.” He let out a big sigh. “And I have enough leftovers for tomorrow.” I eyed the two doggie bags: an enormous one for Nick and a tiny one for Pugsley.
Tomorrow? Was Nick really serious? He had enough leftovers for a week
. “So, Maggie, what the hell was going on back there? What does your gut instinct tell you?”

I shook my head. “It beats me. Bobby and Shalimar were clearly uncomfortable about something, and I don’t believe for a minute that they want to be friends with us. The two of them have a hidden agenda, and it didn’t just pop up tonight. It’s been in place for a while, and that reminds me—what was Bobby telling you in the library? I know he was bending your ear about a town-council meeting, but I couldn’t quite pick up on it.”

“I knew you were listening,” Nick said. “You were leaning forward so far I thought you were going to topple over into the cheese dip.”

I reached over and punched him lightly on the arm. “So tell me.”

“Ow!” He briefly took his hand off the wheel to rub his arm. “There’s nothing to tell. He was rambling on about a zoning bill. It was a snooze.”

“A zoning bill? It does sound like a buzz kill.”

“Yeah, I don’t even know why he was interested in talking about it.” He paused. “What was Shalimar saying to you?”

“Same old, same old.” I rolled my eyes. “She’s fascinated by time capsules, if you can believe that.”

“I have trouble buying that. I figured her tastes ran more to Gucci handbags and Crystal Cruises.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” I snorted, just as my cell phone chirped. I pulled it out of my purse, and my heart did a little bounce when I saw the readout:
Rafe.

“Excuse me a sec.” I flipped the lid open. Rafe’s voice came racing over the line like a runaway train, and I felt my pulse jump.

“Maggie? I’m over at Vera Mae’s place. I’m afraid we’ve got a situation going on over here.” Uh-oh. Nothing romantic going on; he sounded dead serious. His tone was flat, cop-like, and my heart went into free fall.
Vera Mae’s?
I felt my stomach clench. There was no way this news was going to be good.

“A situation?” I took a deep breath, my mouth suddenly going dry. “What kind of situation? What’s going on over there?” Nick glanced over at me, his eyes clouded with worry. I realized I was clutching the phone in a death grip, and I deliberately unclenched my fingers.
Deep breath, Maggie. Deep breath.

“There’s been a break-in.”

“A break-in? At Vera Mae’s?” My mind stuttered to a stop, and I had trouble forcing the words out. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s okay. A little shaken up, that’s all. She was home when it happened. We didn’t get the guy. I’m not even sure she can identify him.” His voice had softened; the hard edge was gone. I let out a
whoosh
of relief and muttered a quick prayer under my breath. Vera Mae was okay; nothing else mattered. “But I think she’d like you to come over for moral support.”

“Tell her I’ll be right there. We’re on our way.” A bubble of fear had been moving up my chest, and it finally started to dissolve. I turned to Nick. “You know how to get to Vera Mae’s house, right? You go all the way down Pine, and then you hang a left on Cedar.”

I was surprised that my voice actually sounded normal. I felt like I was on autopilot, just going through the motions, trying to tamp down the little quiver that seemed to be racing from my heart to my fingertips.

“Yes, but—” Nick shot me a puzzled look, all set to ask me what was wrong. One look at my expression and he thought better of it. “Whatever you say. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

I flipped the lid shut on my cell phone and checked my seat belt. “Let’s make it in ten.”

Nick nodded and gunned the engine. “You got it.”

 

There was a black-and-white parked outside Vera Mae’s along with Rafe’s elderly Crown Vic, and Nick zoomed in right behind it, tires squealing. No EMT truck—that was a good sign. Rafe had said that Vera Mae was fine, I reminded myself. Just shaken up. Now that I’d pulled my heart from my throat, I could actually take a mental step back and try to analyze the situation.

Someone had tried to break into Vera Mae’s.
Why?
I shook my head in disbelief. It was odd.
Beyond odd
. I’ve been to her place a dozen times, and she has nothing to steal. She lives alone in a little stucco bungalow with Tweetie Bird, her parakeet, as her only companion.

The place dates from the late sixties, the kitchen and bathroom have never been remodeled, and the furnishings look like early Goodwill. Vera Mae saves all her money for a yearly cruise to the Caribbean, her one splurge in an otherwise frugal lifestyle. So money couldn’t have been the motive.