Stay Tuned for Murder (32 page)

“I think so, too.” I wondered whether this was the right time to bring up Shalimar Hennessey and decided to go for it. I had the sneaking feeling Rafe would think that seeing her name on the microfiche list was more circumstantial evidence, but I believed it was important. I told him what I’d learned at the Cypress Grove Library, and he listened carefully, scribbling a few notes on a napkin.

“It was the day of Mildred’s murder?” He frowned. “I wonder why that log wasn’t taken into evidence.”

“Because they keep it at the circulation desk. If you only searched Mildred’s office, it wouldn’t turn up. It would be easy to overlook it.”

“And the check-out time was—”

“Just a few minutes before closing time.” I raised my eyebrows. “Why would she check out a microfiche when she knew the library was going to close in a few minutes?”

“Maybe she knew the kindly librarian would stay late and let her look at it?”

“Exactly. And that’s the sort of person Mildred was. She’d do anything for the patrons.”

“I need to get someone on that first thing tomorrow morning.” He smiled. “Good work, Maggie.”

“Rafe, another place to check is the microfiche area. There could be trace evidence linking Shalimar to the murder.”

“I’ve already got that covered. The only thing we’re missing here is motive. Just proving she was in the library isn’t enough.”

He was right. I was convinced that Shalimar was involved in Mildred’s murder. I knew it in my gut. I thought about something Lucille Whittier had said. “The eyes are the windows of the soul.” There was something odd and unsettling about Shalimar Hennessey’s hazel eyes. But what were they trying to tell me?

 

It was dusk when I pulled up in front of my town house. I saw Mom’s car parked outside and smiled. That could mean one of two things. If she had decided to drive back to Cypress Grove from Miami, that meant her movie audition had gone very well, or it had gone very badly. Mom has a dramatic flair and she tends to show up unexpectedly, especially in times of joy and times of crisis. And with Mom, you can be sure it’s either one or the other. She’s constantly jazzed or in despair about her career prospects, and Lark and I try to be supportive.

I’d just stepped out of my car when I spotted Trevor McNamara bounding down the steps of the Seabreeze Inn next door. He saw me at the same moment and gave me an uncertain smile. He was obviously heading for his car, but I decided to intercept him. I’d been dying for a chance to ask him what he’d been doing in the Cypress Grove Library. The timing couldn’t have been better.

“Nice evening,” he said politely when we both reached the sidewalk.

“It’s gorgeous. Are you headed back to the library to do some more research?”

The question nearly knocked him off his feet. He looked stunned, and I continued to smile at him, pretending I didn’t notice his discomfort.

“Well, I—” He blushed a few shades of red, and I could see the wheels turning as he tried to come up with a response.

“I saw you over at the library earlier today,” I said quickly. “You looked pretty absorbed in those old microfiche records.”

He managed an embarrassed smile. “I suppose you could say I’m something of a history buff.”

“Besides being a real estate developer,” I said lightly.

“Er, yes.” He immediately looked down and away. He certainly wasn’t what the shrinks call a practiced liar, because he was obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. And with lying.

“So I guess you’ll be at the time capsule celebration?”

“Oh, yes!” He spoke quickly, and his face lit up with genuine pleasure. Interesting. It was obvious he was really looking forward to the event; he could hardly contain his excitement. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He paused. “I suppose you’re covering it for the radio station?”

I was surprised he even remembered I worked for WYME. “Actually, one of our newsmen is covering it. I’m just going out of interest.” I gave him a steady look. “Like you.”

This time the flush was back and creeping up his neck. “Well, I hope to see you there,” he said. He gave an awkward little wave, reached for his car keys, and made a fast exit to his car.

I filed another puzzle piece away. Trevor McNamara was hiding something. But what?

 

“So you don’t think Chantel was involved with the murders? I always had my suspicions about her, you know.” Lola pulled her dressing gown around her and filled our cups with fresh-brewed chamomile tea. It was almost ten in the evening, and Lark and Lola and I were sharing a walnut-cinnamon torte fresh out of the oven. Sometimes I can hardly believe my good fortune: I have a roommate who loves to cook—from scratch!

“Chantel is a lot of things, but I don’t think she’s a murderer.”

“But she’s not what she seems, is she?” Mom said astutely. “I knew that the moment I met her. There was something a little off about her, a little je ne sais quoi.”

“Je ne sais quoi?” Lark repeated.

“It loses something in translation,” I said. Mom studied at the Sorbonne, and she’s fond of slipping into French on occasion. “Literally, it means ‘I don’t know.’ It means it’s hard to put your finger on something.”

“Well, that certainly fits. I love to analyze personality types,” Lark confided, “but I never felt like I had a handle on Chantel. There was always something a little off about her. I always felt she had adopted a whole different persona.” She gave a little sigh. “When I first met her, I really wanted to believe in her. But I always felt she was keeping parts of herself hidden.”

“Exactly!” Mom exclaimed. “I always felt like she was hiding her true self and playing a part. What do you call that in psychology, Maggie? When someone adopts a whole personality that really is not their true self. You call that a false self, don’t you?”

“Something like that. It’s often found in people who are narcissistic. They’re chameleons. They can be whatever you want them to be. It’s very easy to be fooled by them.”

I quickly described what I’d learned from Lucille Whittier about Chantel’s sad and tragic past. If anyone had a reason to feel bitter and betrayed by life, it was Chantel, but somehow it was hard to feel sympathetic toward her. Possibly because there was something twisted and deceitful at the core of her personality? Or was I just jealous that she’d managed to breeze into town and pull in good ratings at WYME?

“And you believe she might have broken into Vera Mae’s the other night?”

“Well, that’s a tough question. They can’t really prove it. She was there in Vera Mae’s backyard, but there’s no evidence she really entered the house. And she had no reason to be there.” The notion that she’d dropped in to discuss show ideas seemed pretty lame.

“She certainly came up with a pretty silly excuse,” Mom said archly. “That would make me very suspicious, right there. If someone lies about one thing, I immediately suspect everything else they say.”

Lark nodded. “I’m the same way. It does seem a little far-fetched that she just happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to talk business with Vera Mae. She could see her at the station anytime.”

“Exactly. The whole thing is ridiculous!” Lola’s tone was adamant. “I hope no one believes her.” She turned to me. “Please tell me no one does, Maggie.”

“I don’t think Rafe does. But without any evidence that she was inside the house, there’s nothing to charge her with. It’s just a shame that the video surveillance camera went on the blink. It shows her walking up to the back door, and then it goes blank. So we’re at an impasse,” I said, “at least as far as Chantel is concerned.”

“But if you’re patient, the truth becomes clear, as my granny used to say,” Lark offered. She cut us each another huge wedge of coffee cake; it was too delicious to refuse. Lola held up her hand like a traffic cop and then caved and took another piece.

“Yes, there are plenty of suspects.” I told her what I knew about Chris Hendricks, the picture framer, and how he could have been involved in Althea’s murder. “I certainly think he was involved with that painting, but beyond that, I can’t be definite.” I explained about the azurite chips the crime scene techs had discovered. I was glad that I had noticed that strange blue powder and even happier that it was related to the case. All my instincts about Chris Hendricks had been on target. He was a thief, at the very least, and maybe a lot more.

“It seems like the past comes back to haunt us,” Mom said slowly. “I was thinking of those boxes of papers.” She waved her hand. “It’s hard to believe that someone would kill over some musty old notes, but maybe they did.”

“It does seem amazing. If Mildred hadn’t kept a journal, we never would have known about her connection with Carla, or Chantel as she calls herself. And if Chantel knew that Vera Mae was going to have possession of those papers, she would have to do everything in her power to get them. Even if it meant breaking into Vera Mae’s house.”

“Or worse,” Mom said tightly. “What if she had harmed Vera Mae?”

I felt a little shiver go up my spine. I had thought exactly the same thing. I honestly didn’t know whether Chantel was capable of violence. She was loud, pushy, deceptive—but a killer? Who could say?

“Secrets always have a way of coming out, don’t they?” Lark mused. “All you need is one person with a heavy heart, maybe someone who wants to unburden herself, and it’s like opening the floodgates.”

“Exactly. And there might be a few more floodgates opening this week,” Mom said. “Who knows what will happen at the time capsule ceremony. We all might be in for a surprise.”

“Did you ever pick a winner for the WYME time capsule contest?” Lark asked. “They’ve been running those promos night and day.”

“I know. I think Cyrus overdid it a little.” I swallowed the last of my tea and stood up. “As a matter of fact, we did. We asked listeners to describe what they would put in a time capsule, and the winning entry was a quilt.”

“A quilt?” Lola looked up.

“Not just any quilt. But a quilt that had a family tree woven into it, with all the births and deaths and babies and major events in a family’s history. Cyrus thought that was the best entry of all.”

Lola smiled. “You know, for once I agree with him. Maybe I underestimated that man.”

“This is going to be big,” Cyrus said, looking up at the podium in front of the courthouse. It was a bright, sunny morning, a picture-postcard day for the time capsule ceremony. All the town’s leaders were there, and the mayor was standing on a small platform draped with a red, white, and blue bunting. Cyrus had finally decided to let Big Jim cover the time capsule ceremony, and I was fine with that. Cyrus always takes the line of least resistance, and he knew Chantel and I were angling for the spot, but Big Jim had seniority at the station.

“It’s certainly a good turnout,” I said. Mom had come with me to the ceremony. It was nine o’clock and she had to be in Miami later that day, but she said she didn’t want to miss the big unveiling.

There were hundreds of people milling around the square, and the town merchants had set up tables, selling handcrafted items and souvenirs. “Do you suppose they’ll find a buried treasure inside?” Mom asked.

“I think you’ve been watching too many pirate movies,” I told her.

“I bet they’ll find a bunch of moldy old papers in that thing,” Vera Mae said. “Let’s just hope there’s no water damage. It’s gonna be pretty darn disappointing for all the media folks if this is a dud.”

Nick was standing on the edge of the crowd with his notebook, getting quotes from the dignitaries, and I recognized a few reporters from the
Palm Beach Post
and the
Miami Herald
. Like Vera Mae, I hoped their trip hadn’t been in vain. Big Jim Wilcox was hovering at the edge of the platform, with a WYME microphone prominently displayed. I spotted Mark Sanderson, the real estate developer, a few yards away; he looked tense and preoccupied.

Mayor Riggs stepped to the podium, greeted the crowd, and gave the usual politico spiel. Nice weather, beautiful day, good to see you all here. Yada, yada, yada.

I glanced back at Nick. He wasn’t recording the mayor’s remarks for posterity, and he was shifting from one foot to the other. I smiled to myself. He probably hadn’t had his morning coffee and doughnuts. That’s why he seemed edgy and distracted. I walked over to him and handed him a flask from my tote bag. “You’re in luck,” I told him. “I brought an extra mug of coffee.”

“You are my hero!” He grinned, took the flask, opened it, and took a sniff. “Hazelnut?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“I think they’re starting,” he said, craning his neck to get a better view. A low buzz of excitement went through the crowd. I noticed Trevor McNamara just a few feet away from me. He was staring at me with an intent look on his face. I smiled, and he gave an uncertain nod.

Trevor McNamara, the mystery man. Somehow he was a part of the puzzle, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t quite figure out where he fit in. Not as a killer, as something else. A word drifted through my mind.
Catalyst.
Where had that come from? What did it mean?

I felt the back of my neck prickle. Chantel was standing right behind me, a smug smile on her face. She locked eyes with me and said very softly, “Catalyst.”

I nearly jumped. Had she read my mind? The notion was ridiculous, but the timing was uncanny. How could it be a coincidence?

I tried to gather my thoughts. Maybe she’d whispered the word and it hadn’t registered with me but my brain had picked it up anyway. So the word “catalyst” had just been floating around in my synapses, and I thought it was something original, something I’d dreamed up. That was the only rational explanation.

“This could change everything,” Nick said, his voice excited. His head was bent in concentration, and he was writing furiously in his notebook.