Bad Reputation, A
Authors: Jane Tesh
A Bad Reputation
A Madeline Maclin Mystery
Jane Tesh
www.JaneTesh.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2014 by Jane Tesh
First E-book Edition 2014
ISBN: 9781615954766 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
Ballad of Baby Doe
Words and music by Douglas Moore and John Latouche
Copyright © 1958 (renewed) Chappell & Co., Inc.
All rights reserved
Used by permission of Alfred Music
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
Contents
To my dearest friend, Mark Gillespie,
who has quite a reputation, but not a bad one.
Willow, where we met together.
Willow, when our love was new.
Willow, if he once should be returning,
Pray tell him I am weeping too.
From
The Ballad of Baby Doe
by Douglas Moore and John Latouche
You could say that winning a beauty pageant and solving a murder have some similarities. In a pageant, you're competing to beat the other contestants. In a murder investigation, you're competing against a killer to bring him or her to justice. You work hard to achieve a goal, and in the end, you've got a crown or a criminal.
Emotionally, however, when someone is killed, you have to deal with something far more serious than a rival queen or a broken zipper. Seeing a dead body, even if it's someone you don't know, is disturbing no matter how many times it happens. And this has happened more times than it should. Like right now. A body stretched out at my feet in the evening lightâ¦
***
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
When my husband, Jerry Fairweather, inherited his eccentric Uncle Val's old house in the small town of Celosia, North Carolina, and we moved from the much larger city of Parkland, I'd taken a big leap of faith, followed my dream, and opened a private investigation service. I thought I'd be finding lost objects, or at worst, trailing unfaithful spouses. And I did have cases like that, looking for lost umbrellas, tracking down overdue library books, and hunting through attics to solve elaborate riddles. But Celosia, like most small towns, was full of secrets and family feuds and long-held grudges. Really long.
Now, most police departments don't want amateur sleuths getting in the way, but I was fortunate to make friends with Chief Gus Brenner. He appreciates the fact that I'm able to see things from an outsider's perspective, and as long as I share my findings, he's willing to let me poke around. I don't have access to his crime lab or his network of contacts, but I have my own resources. I tend to find little things that are overlookedâthings that, at first, don't appear to be clues.
But Jerry was still figuring out what to do with his life and needed plenty of things to keep him occupied. Gus' daughter, Nell Brenner, our resident handywoman, didn't want him helping her with home repairs because he was always tripping over ladders and tracking paint everywhere. He'd worked for a while as a salesclerk at Georgia's Books, but Georgia didn't need him except on the occasional weekend. I was concerned that all this inactivity would lead to a rebound into his shadier world of fake séances and cons. In fact, I knew it would.
Jerry and I met in college and had been best friends for years before he realized that he was in love with me. We had worked through most of our emotional baggageâmine from being hauled around to Little Miss pageants from the time I could sit up, and his from a mistaken belief that he'd been responsible for the fire that killed his parents. I'd solved that mystery, so he had closure, and my success as a private investigator had proven to me that I was more than a pretty face in an overly sequined gown. Thanks to Jerry's insistence, I'd taken up painting again, something I'd always loved and needed to rediscover.
Howeverâ¦Jerry comes from a very wealthy family and never had to work. Add that to his past feelings of unworthiness, a mischievous nature, and an open, trustworthy face, and you have the perfect con man. For about three years after we graduated, I lost track of him, hearing from him only occasionally. What he did during that time has kept coming back to haunt us.
He also had a great deal of musical talent. I kept trying to steer him toward jobs that took advantage of that. I may have given up all the pageant nonsense, but I was still competitive. I was going to reform him if it killed us both.
Jerry and I have problems and differences to sort out, but our little troubles can't compare with the labyrinth of tangled relationships and emotions I uncovered in my new hometown. That web soon led me here, into another betrayal and murder.
“Camp Lakenwood! Camp Lakenwood!
Each day is bright and new!
Camp Lakenwood! Camp Lakenwood!
There's fun for me and you!”
I groaned and buried my head under my pillow. “Jerry, for heaven's sake.”
As was his custom, my husband had gotten up bright and early this Monday morning and decided to serenade me, not with his usual attempt at an aria, but with Camp Lakenwood's theme song. He'd already showered and dressed and was toweling his light brown hair.
“You have to sing it at the top of your voice to really make it work,” he said.
“Not every morning.”
Last month, I'd helped Nathan Fenton solve his uncle's riddle and win enough money to buy and renovate Camp Lakenwood. Nathan had asked Jerry to help out, and since Jerry has always been in touch with his inner child, this was an ideal job for him. I couldn't wait to see him in his camp t-shirt and shorts. However, the camp wouldn't be open until next June. This was October.
Jerry tossed the towel in the general direction of the bathroom. “Waffles for breakfast?”
I had hoped for a few more minutes of sleep, but this was not going to happen. “Okay.”
Jerry bounded down the stairs, still singing.
“Camp Lakenwood, Camp Lakenwood,
Where waffles grow on trees!
Camp Lakenwood, Camp Lakenwood,
There's syrup in the breeze!”
By the time I staggered down to breakfast, he had orange juice, melted butter, and warm syrup on the table and was mixing his trademark batter. The kitchen stretched wide across the back of the house and hadn't needed a lot of repair. Jerry's Uncle Val had surprisingly modern appliances, all in good working order. We decided not to replace the old-fashioned square white wooden table with four matching hand-carved chairs to add a little retro charm. The chairs with curved backs were solid and sturdy, so I bought blue-and-white striped cushions to soften the look. Nell had pulled up the ancient curling linoleum and put down a shiny white floor decorated with blue willow leaves. I'd replaced the faded white curtains with new ruffly ones that reminded me of the freshly starched lace in my grandmother's windows. The view outside the kitchen windows showed a field bursting with a colorful mix of wildflowers, and trees bright with red and yellow autumn leaves. The field, like the meadow in front of the house, stretched to a wooded area that belonged to the farm next door, and occasionally we'd see deer at the edge of the wood or rabbits bounding in the tall grass. The whole space was calm and peacefulâa changing scene I'd grown to love.
When we'd first moved to the old house, I hadn't been impressed. It was a huge, two-story rambling structure, basically an old gray farmhouse, with a flat front and a wraparound porch. Quite frankly, it looked seriously haunted. It needed a lot of work, but Nell was up to the challenge, saying she'd always wanted to get her hands on the Eberlin House. The kitchen, living room, and two of the five bedrooms were now done, plus two of the three bathrooms. I'd created my art studio, and Jerry had designed and filled his music room. I was especially pleased with the living room, once a gray stuffy room crowded with heavy-footed dark furniture. The space had been transformed into a relaxing refuge in light blue, with a curved white sectional sofa sprinkled with cushions in shades of aqua and midnight, glass end tables, a glass square for a coffee table, an entertainment center along one wall, and a rebuilt carved mantel. My best painting,
Blue Moon Garden
, commanded center stage above the fireplace.
Thanks to all the renovations, the house was now our home. Celosiaâthe town name came from a little feathery flowerâwas becoming home, too, with a surprising number of cases for me to investigate.
Celosia-proper had about eight thousand residents, but if you counted the outlying areas, the few suburbs and farms, the number was closer to ten thousand. Not a huge population, really, when compared to the two hundred and fifty thousand who lived in the nearby city of Parkland, but I was amazed by the things that went on in our small town. It didn't take much to set people off. I'd even solved a murder involving Miss Celosia Pageant contestants.
“How many waffles do you want, Mac?”
“Just one, thanks.” My stomach felt a little queasy. I wondered if I was coming down with something.
Jerry poured the batter into the waffle iron. “Anything happening at Madeline Maclin Investigations today?”
“Things are pretty slow.”
“No lost dogs or cheatin' husbands?”
“Nope. Not yet. Did you check on our tires?” Our Mazda needed two new tires, and Jerry had promised to call around for the best deal.
“Fred's Garage has some we can afford.”
“Okay, we can get that done this week.”
He brought me a cup of coffee and said, “I thought I might call some friends today and see what's going on.”
“What kind of friends and what kind of goings-on?” Jerry likes to wear flashy ties, and today's choice was a tie decorated with green dollar bills. I wasn't sure I liked the significance of that.
“Oh, I don't knowâ¦the usual.”
At one time, “the usual” meant scamming people out of their hard-earned cash. I sincerely hoped Jerry wasn't backsliding. He'd promised he was through with the illegal part of his life, but his so-called friends had a way of pulling him under.
“Please tell me you are not involved in something shady.”
“Nothing shady. I just like to keep up with what's new.”
“New, as in the latest tricks?” I sipped the coffee, wondering why it didn't taste as good as it usually did. “See, here is where we are radically different. I have absolutely no interest in what's going on in the pageant world. Can the allure of Con World be that strong?”
“It's a nice place to visit, but I no longer live there.”
“Yes, but you keep getting postcards saying âWish you were here.'”
He checked the waffle. “I haven't heard from anyone in a while.”
“Sometimes they just show up, like Rick.” Rick, one of Jerry's ex-partners in crime, had invaded Celosia not long ago to take full advantage of the Mantis Man mania, even dressing up as the legendary creature and causing all kinds of havocâthat is, until he became a murder suspect.
“Ah, but once you cleared him, he became a model citizen.”
“Until he moved on to the next unsuspecting town.”
“My friends know better than to mess with you.” Jerry opened the waffle iron to check again just as his cell phone rang. He answered. “Hello? Oh, hello, Evan.”
Evan James was the director of the Celosia Community Theater. Please let there be a job for Jerry, I prayed. A music job. He'd played for the theater's production of
The
Music Man
and really enjoyed it. Plus those long rehearsals took up a lot of his time.
“Sure,” Jerry said, “but I thought Larissa was doing that.” He listened awhile and then said, “Yeah, I'll have a look at it. No problem. Okay, see you.” He hung up. “Evan says Larissa Norton is sick and can't play for
Oklahoma
. He wants to know if I'd do it.”
Thank you, Lord. “Sounds like fun.”
“And it's a paying gig.”
“Even better.”
“So I won't have time to con anyone today.”
He said this lightly, but I didn't want him to think I didn't trust him. “You know I love you, even when you are in the middle of some idiotic scheme.”
“And I know that my track record isn't the best, so you have every right to be suspicious. Can you drop me off at the theater on your way to work?”
“You bet.”
He lifted the lid of the waffle iron. The waffle met with his approval because he pried it free and plopped it on a plate. “Here you go.”
All of a sudden, waffles did not sound appealing. “I don't think I want one, after all.”
“You sure?”
“I'm not very hungry this morning. I hope I'm not getting the flu.”
“Would you rather have scrambled eggs?”
Ugh. I must have made a convincing face.
“Okay, just coffee,” Jerry said. “I can always eat another waffle.”
My stomach rumbled, so I knew I was hungry. I loved waffles, but what I really wanted was some ice cream. “Do we have any ice cream?”
“I don't think so.”
“Some Chunky Monkey would taste good.”
“For breakfast? I mean, I'm all for it, but you usually want the standards. Hold on.” He turned from his cooking, his gray eyes wide. “Do you want a pickle with that?”
“A pickle? No. Why would I want aâ” I suddenly knew where he was going with this. “Oh, no. I am not pregnant.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm more than sure. It's probably just a stomach virus.”
“Virus Fairweather. It's an odd name, but then again, this is the South.”
I had to grin. “Stop it. We've discussed this. We are not having a baby.”
“Okay.”
He wanted children. Bill, my first husband, had wanted children, too, and now thanks to his second wife, had a whole pack of them, but with Bill it had been a matter of proving his manhood. Jerry had far better reasons for wanting to be a father: He wanted to make up for his interrupted childhood. I simply wasn't ready, and didn't know if I ever would be, although lately I'd found myself leaning a little more toward the idea. It was not something I spent a lot of time thinking about. Actually, I spent a lot of time trying
not
to think about it. I wasn't sure what was holding me back. It certainly wasn't Jerry, who looked at me with a mixture of humor and concern.
“How about a banana?” he asked. “That's as close to Chunky Monkey as I can get.”
Actually, a banana sounded good. “Thanks.” What I really meant was thanks for dropping the subject, and he knew it.
***
As promised, and with a great sense of relief, I took Jerry by the theater. Celosia's community theater is in the Samuel Baker Auditorium, a substantial brick building a wealthy man had donated to the city years ago. Crouched in the midst of ancient oak trees, the building resembles an old high school, but inside, the auditorium is a modern, spacious room with walls in muted shades of gray and four hundred comfortable seats with red cushions. Jerry went in through the double glass doors at the front, pausing to give me a good-bye wave.
Then I drove the short distance to my office on Main Street. Most of Celosia's main street looks the same as it did in the late 1930s: the banks and churches made of granite blocks, the storefronts mostly brick. Trees surrounded by small gardens stand on each corner. The street lamps date back to the 1880s, and the ornate brass clock by the post office always chimes the wrong time. My office is in one of the brick buildings at the end of the street next to a parking lot. Pamela Finch was waiting outside my door. I hoped she had a case for me, but she was excited about something else.
“Madeline, I knew you'd want to hear about this. Wendall Clarke is coming back to town, and he wants to open an art gallery! Isn't that exciting? I told him you'd be glad to help.”
“Hold on, hold on,” I said. “Help with what?”
Pamela Finch was tall and thin with light wispy hair. Her hair was just as excited as she was. “Well, with setting it up and running it and all that. Since you're an artist, I figured you'd want to.”
“I'm sure Mr. Clarke can handle things on his own.” I unlocked my door and invited Pamela to come into my office and sit down. My office is small, but it's all mine and has a pleasant view of the swing set in the yard next door. The walls are paneled in golden pine, and the carpet is new, an odd beige color I wouldn't have chosen, but it was neutral enough not to clash with anything. The dark-brown desk and olive swivel chair had belonged to the former occupantâagain, not very stylish, but new and serviceable. I'd brightened up a tall bookcase by the window with books, photographs of Jerry and me in colorful frames, some topaz and emerald glass fish I'd bought in Bermuda when we were there for our wedding, a paperweight filled with pink and blue flowers, a frog my grandmother had made of multicolor patchwork fabric, and two of my smaller paintings. One was of the Queen Anne's lace in our meadow. The other was an abstract in swirls of brown, yellow, and turquoise that Jerry had titled
Fudge Ripple Gone Horribly Wrong
.
I sat down behind the desk, wondering why Pamela thought I'd like to run a gallery. When I rediscovered my love of painting, I enjoyed spending whatever time I could in my studio, a remodeled upstairs parlor at our house, but I wasn't interested in the business side of the art world and certainly didn't feel qualified.
Pamela took a seat in the green and beige client armchair, another legacy, and chatted on about Wendall Clarke, Celosia High School's former star football player and editor of the yearbook. He'd gone to Parkland to pursue an art degree, majored in art and business, and made a fortune when one of his designs was chosen for a perfume bottle that sold well on a shopping network. “But he's always wanted to have a gallery.”
“Why not have one in Parkland?”
“I don't know, but I'm absolutely thrilled. I so hope he'll put some of my work in his gallery.”
This was news. “I didn't know you were an artist. What do you do?”
“I paint wildflowers, mostly. I'd love for you to see! Come over any time. I live on Beech Street.”
“Well, I'm very happy for Wendall and hope his gallery succeeds,” I said. “Was there something else I could do for you?”
“Oh, yes. I almost forgot! I've lost a very important letter. I think I know where it is, but it's going to take forever to sort through all the papers in my shop to find it. Do you do things like that?”
