Stay Tuned for Murder (29 page)

And they had never been checked back in.

I drove over to WYME, my thoughts in a whirl. Shalimar didn’t seem like the type of person who read books, much less historical material, and I couldn’t imagine her spending hours hunched over a microfiche machine. I hadn’t seen a single book in her house, just a copy of
InStyle
on a table in the foyer. And that wall of books-as-decor in the library. She’d told me she was fascinated by the upcoming time capsule celebration, but I was sure her interest was bogus.

I called Nick on my cell as soon as I pulled into the WYME parking lot and caught him at his desk. I filled him in on my visit to the Cypress Grove Public Library. I think it would be fair to say he was underwhelmed by the news.

“But don’t you see?” I wailed. “This could be a big break in the case. First I spot Trevor McNamara zipping through a pile of microfiche spools, and then I see Shalimar’s name on the same ledger. They both were looking for something. This has got to be significant. I’m positive of it!”

“I think you’re reading too much into it,” Nick said. I could tell he was multitasking, probably churning out a story while he kept the phone tucked against his shoulder. I could hear him tapping away on the keyboard, and every couple of minutes, I could hear him taking a big slurp of something. Probably his ever-present coffee.

“You don’t think it means anything?” My spirits sank like a deflated balloon.

“Nope.” More furious tapping and then, “Wait a sec. I just thought of something. Did Shalimar check out the microfiche materials herself? You said her name was on the ledger, but do you know if that was her handwriting?”

“Gosh, I don’t know.” I thought for a moment. I flashed on the page. All the patron names had been entered in the same delicate, precise handwriting. “Actually, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Shalimar who wrote her name in the ledger. Someone on the library staff must have made all those entries. Because the handwriting is the same in every one of them.”

“Mildred Smoot?”

“Probably. Someone was very neat, very methodical. There was the patron’s name listed, the time the material left the circulation desk, and the time it came back.”

“And you’re sure no one is allowed to remove the microfiche spools from the library?”

“I’m positive. They’re valuable. That information isn’t contained anywhere else. Or if it is, it would be hard to track down. You have to look them over while you’re in the library.”

A long pause.

“I think this could be important,” he said finally. “I’m just not sure how.”

I sighed. “Me, either.” I thought for a minute. “Nick, you don’t think Shalimar could be involved in Mildred’s murder, do you?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t imagine what her motive would be.”

I sighed. “Neither can I.”

 

Vera Mae was waiting for me in the lobby. She waved a sheaf of papers at me as soon I walked in the double glass doors and waved to Irina at the reception desk. “Time capsule promos,” she said by way of explanation. “Cyrus wants you to tape these today so we can run them every half hour during drive time.”

“Every half hour?” I said, following her into her office. “He’s really pushing the time capsule celebration, isn’t he?”

“Big-time. It seems like people are excited over it. And don’t forget the ceremony will be here in a couple of days, hon.” She lowered her voice. “I’ll give you a little heads-up. Chantel showed up. She came strolling down the corridor like nothing was wrong, about an hour ago.”

I glanced around as if I expected the medium to suddenly materialize next to me. “She’s got plenty of moxie. Did she say what happened down at the police station?”

“Not much. They released her. Apparently they can’t hold her on anything. Big Jim tried to get a statement out of her, but she blew him off. She went right in to see Cyrus, and the two of them have been huddled in his office for the past half hour.” Vera Mae gave a grim smile. “Thick as thieves. That’s what they are.”

“Interesting.”

“Maybe he’s gonna pull the plug on her. No more guesting on your show.” Vera Mae said. Her voice went up at the end in a hopeful little lilt.

“Or maybe it’s something else!”
Like maybe she’s angling to take over my show
,
and maybe Cyrus is going along with the idea.

“Here she comes,” Vera Mae whispered. “Play nice.”

“Hello, Maggie,” Chantel said. Her eyes darted to Vera Mae and back to me, as if she knew we’d been talking about her. I tried to keep my expression neutral. She spotted the sheaf of promos I was holding. “I bet those are for the time capsule. Looks like a busy day for both of us in the production room.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Her mouth twisted in a sneer. “I’ve been assigned a ton of promos.” She lowered her voice to a silky purr. “It’s going to take hours, but I have to do it. Cyrus says I’ve got the perfect voice for radio.”

“So we’re
both
doing the time capsule promos?” I asked. It came out shriller than I intended, but I was feeling pretty territorial at the moment. It was more than the promos; I hated the idea that she was intruding on my turf. Not that there was much turf to protect anymore.

As Irina would say in one of her favorite mixed metaphors, “The barn door is open and that ship has already sailed.”

“Cyrus asked me to do them as a personal favor,” she added snidely. “I told him I don’t usually do promos, but it’s for a good cause, so I’m willing to play along. After all, the time capsule celebration is important in the town’s history. If it brings some attention to Cypress Grove, I suppose that’s a good thing. Who knows? It might even put this place on the map.”

“But I thought you chose Cypress Grove because it’s
not
on the map,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You said you liked the rustic charm, the small-town feel of the place.” The words hung in the air, and she narrowed her eyes, shooting me a hard look. Then she gave a forced little laugh.

“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? Well, a girl’s allowed to change her mind, you know.” She drummed her fingers on the desktop for a moment. “Now that I’ve learned about the radio business, I think I’ve found my true calling.” She turned to Vera Mae. “I’ll be in the production room if you need me. I want to choose some music to go under the spots. Something classical with strings, but not elevator music.”

“Sure, hon, that’s fine. I’ll be there in a few.”

Chantel turned to leave and was about to step into the hall, when Vera Mae’s voice stopped her.

“Chantel, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Something personal.” Chantel turned, her expression guarded. “Is this your first time in Cypress Grove? Because you sure look familiar to me.” She stepped closer and peered at Chantel under the harsh fluorescent lights. “I just can’t place you, but I’m sure we’ve met before. You feel it too, don’t you?”

Chantel pinned Vera Mae with an icy glare, clutching her Gucci knockoff handbag to her chest, a defensive gesture. “I don’t think so.” She tried a light little laugh but couldn’t quite pull it off. “People tell me that all the time. Maybe I have a double.”

For a split second, I saw one of those microexpressions that psychologist Paul Ekman had discovered. I looked into her eyes, and my own eyes widened in surprise. What was I seeing? Fear? Apprehension? Maybe even panic?

“See you later,” Chantel said abruptly and sailed out the door.

“Well, she didn’t take the bait, did she?” Vera Mae said, fiddling with some tapes.

“Not at all. I think you caught her off guard, though. She’s got to be hiding something.”

Vera Mae nodded and closed her cubicle door. “Speaking of hiding something”—she bent down and retrieved a cardboard box from under her desk—“here are some of Mildred’s papers. I think you and I should have a look at them together. I put the interesting ones on top.”

“I didn’t know you had a chance to go through them. I was going to do that tonight.” I thought of my meeting with Gina Raeburn over at the library. She was hinting that I’d find something significant in Mildred’s papers; I was sure of it.

“I didn’t go through all of them, but I found some unusual things in there.” She shot me a meaningful glance. “Do you want to take a quick look now? We have about thirty minutes before we have to get things rolling for the show.”

“Sure. Let’s do it. Two heads are better than one.”

“But not three heads.” Vera Mae put her finger to her lips and pointed to the bottom of her office door. Was someone standing there? Or maybe it was just a shadow. She raced to the door, pulled it open, and stared up and down the corridor. “That woman’s making me paranoid,” she said, returning to her desk. “But you know what they say, Maggie: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”

I grinned at her. “Let’s get started. Show me what you found.”

We spent the next half hour going over a strange collection of Mildred’s personal papers. Some were printouts of e-mails she’d sent to other librarians in south Florida, and I copied down their names and addresses. I knew that Mildred was doing her own research on the time capsule and especially on Mr. Paley, the patriarch of the prominent south Florida family. All I found were Mildred’s requests for information; there was no hint of what the responses had been. Had she been successful in her quest? Is that what ultimately led to her death?

“This here looks like a journal entry.” Vera Mae passed me a handwritten sheet from a file. The heading on the page was October 18, but that didn’t mean anything. There was no year listed. “I never expected Miss Mildred to keep a diary, but that’s what this looks like.”

“It sure does. A page from a journal.” I scanned the lines. The text was a bit overwrought, and Miss Mildred seemed to be in emotional distress. “She’s talking about regret, about making mistakes”—I skipped down to the bottom of the page—“and here she says that some things can’t be undone.” I looked at Vera Mae. “Do you suppose she’s talking about herself? What could she have done that she regrets?”

“I can’t imagine. I’ve known her for thirty years.” She passed me another sheet. It had the header November 12. “Read this one.”

“Wow,” I said softly. “This is heavy stuff. It does sound like Miss Mildred did something she was ashamed of, maybe something innocent that backfired. I really don’t know what to make of it.”

“Neither do I. And I wonder who C.K. is,” Vera Mae said, chewing on the end of her pencil. “It can’t be Chantel. Her last name is Carrington.”

“It wasn’t always Carrington.” I put the paper back in the box, on top of the others.

“What do you mean?”

“Chantel Carrington is a made-up name, a stage name. A pen name. Her real name is Carla Krasinski. At least it used to be.” I paused, thinking. “Of course, that was a long time ago. She might have had several different names since then.”

“C.K. Carla Krasinski. That would be quite a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll say. I’ve got to talk to Rafe about this. And a few other things,” I added, remembering the blue paint chips. I wondered how long it would take to get them analyzed and whether they would tie Chris Hendricks to Althea’s murder. If anyone was taking bets on Althea’s killer, my money would be on him.

“Do you think Chantel was involved somehow in Miss Mildred’s murder? And maybe even Miss Althea’s?”

“I think Chantel isn’t telling us the whole story. I think she had a relationship with Miss Mildred, maybe one that went back a long time. And for some reason, she doesn’t want to come clean about it. But I don’t think she killed her.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t picture her as a killer. She’s not my favorite person in the world, but no, I don’t think she’s a murderer.”

“Then who killed Althea and Mildred?”

“I’m still working on that.” I chewed on my bottom lip.

“There could be two separate killers,” Vera Mae said slowly. “I know we’ve been thinking the crimes were linked, but is there anything that concretely ties the two crimes together?”

I shook my head. “Not really. They could be completely separate. Maybe we were putting too much stock in coincidence. Both were elderly women. Both had lived here all their lives.” I bit back a sigh. “But you’re right. The crimes might be completely unrelated.”

My mind flew back to the microfiche ledger with Shalimar Hennessey’s name written on it. The idea of Shalimar doing historical research was as unlikely as Pugsley taking up quantum physics.

I had a gut instinct that Shalimar was involved in Mildred’s murder, but I couldn’t prove it. I also believed that Chris Hendricks was involved in Althea’s death and couldn’t prove it.

What was my game plan? I was planning my next move when Vera Mae’s eyes bulged like Homer Simpson’s and she let out a gasp.

“Holy buckets, girl! Look at the clock!” She jumped to her feet, clutching her trusty clipboard to her chest. “We can’t worry about this anymore, sugar. We’ve got a show to do.”

The show went well. One of my guests, Jon Tidings, was a retired architect, an authority on south Florida homes, and a history buff. The other guest was Shirley Taub, a local historian and gardening expert who’d written a book about indigenous flowers and shrubs. They both painted an interesting picture of Cypress Grove at the turn of the century, and the switchboard stayed lit up throughout the show.