Diva's Last Curtain Call (19 page)

“Hello.” I was so out of breath I could barely get the words out.

“Kendra, what’s wrong with you?” It was Mama. Crap!

“I just walked in. I’m expecting an important call, Mama. Can I call you back?”

“And I’m expecting you to help me with the cookout. Everybody’s here, including your sister, who really needs cheering up.”

Damn. I’d forgotten all about the cookout. If I told her I couldn’t come she’d want to know why. My only resort was to lie. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.” I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Whose call are you waiting for? And you better not say Morris Rollins. Mattie Lyons told me some mess about the two of you coming out of the Heritage Arms together. I told her she didn’t hear any such thing ’cause my granddaughter has better sense than that and—”

I listened to her rant, keeping a sharp eye on the digital clock on my microwave. It was 11:59 a.m. “Mama, we’ll talk about this when I get over there, okay? Love you. Gotta go. Bye.”

I pressed the off button just as clock flashed 12:00. The phone rang in my hand and I was so startled I almost dropped it.

“Hello?” All I heard was silence on the other end. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

I heard a muffled voice speak a single word, “Mailbox.”

“Mailbox? What are you talking about? Is Lynette okay? What do you want from me?” But I was talking to the dial tone. The person had hung up. I couldn’t even tell if it had been a man or a woman.

I was standing in the middle of the kitchen still holding the phone when I realized I was being instructed to
look
in my mailbox. I dropped the phone and raced out my front door. I had a brass mailbox just outside my door instead of a mail slot. I ripped open the lid so hard I almost torn it off its hinges. Inside was a manila envelope. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Was someone watching me? I looked around, but all I saw were some neighborhood kids on bikes and a teenage boy cutting grass across the street. I took the envelope back inside and opened it. It was a typed letter that read:

 

Be at cabin four at John Bryan Park at 8:00 p.m.

Bring Vivianne’s computer disk. Don’t be late. Come alone or your friend is dead. No tricks. I’ll be watching you.

 

Vivianne’s computer disk? I thought Vivianne didn’t know how to use a computer. I didn’t have Vivianne’s computer disk, and why would anyone think I did? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Vivianne’s manuscript must be on the disk Lynette’s kidnapper was so hot to get his—or hers—hands on. And there must be something incriminating in her book that someone was willing to kill to keep from being revealed. The disk must have been what the person who broke into my apartment had really been looking for. But why did they think I had the damned disk? I needed to find out what Vivianne’s book was about and the only other place I knew to look was Diamond Publishing Company in Columbus. I had a little less than eight hours to save Lynette.

Diamond Publishing Company was a small independent publisher that had been in business for about twenty years. They were mainly known for their non-fiction titles about Ohio historical figures, and for coffee-table books of photography. They’d recently started publishing fiction. At least that’s what I was told when I called the reference desk of the Willow Public Library to get some info on the company that was publishing Vivianne’s book.

I navigated my way through the streets of downtown Columbus in search of the eighteen-hundred block of East Broad Street. I always love coming to Columbus, as long as I don’t have to drive. The only significant time I’d spent in the capital city of Ohio was when I’d attended college at Ohio State and even then I rarely ventured away from campus. And even though Carl lives in Columbus, he does all the driving whenever I hang out with him in his hometown. I drove past the Columbus Museum of Art, regretting the fact that I couldn’t go inside, and kept an eye on the addresses of the buildings.

It wasn’t long before I came upon a nondescript one-story brick building with smoked-glass windows that kind of reminded me of a doctor’s office. I pulled into the parking lot and noticed a group of people wearing green pants and white short-sleeved shirts with the words Haley’s Industrial Cleaners emblazoned in black letters on the back. There was even a large black van with the same lettering on the side parked in front of the entrance to the building. I got out and was immediately hit with the acrid stench of smoke. As I got closer to the building, I could see that the windows were not smoked glass at all. The windows were actually black with soot. I felt my stomach knot up.

“What happened?” I asked one of the cleaners who was unloading supplies from the back of the van.

“They had a fire last night.” The man replied simply and turned back to what he was doing.

No shit, Sherlock, I wanted to say. “Anybody get hurt?”

“Not that I know of. It happened after everyone had gone home for the day.”

“How much damage is there?” I persisted.

“Most of the fire damage was to the reception area, but the rest of the offices got heavy smoke damage.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

The man finally turned to give me a curious look then shook his head slowly. “You’d have to ask one of the people who work here. But I could have sworn I heard one of them saying something about a lit cigarette in a trash can.”

A cigarette. The same person who’d killed Vivianne and caused the alarm to go off at Cartwright Auditorium had apparently been here, too. The killer must have decided to light the place on fire for good measure to destroy any other trace of Vivianne’s manuscript. Now I knew I was doing the right thing by not going to the police. I was dealing with a murderer and an arsonist who wouldn’t hesitate to kill Lynette. Lucky me.

I heard the click of high heels on concrete and turned to see a stylishly dressed white woman in her late forties hurrying across the parking lot. She was dressed in a soft green-and-white pinstriped pantsuit over a white silk shell. Her dark brown hair was shoulder-length and her eyes were red-rimmed. She rushed right past us into the building without speaking and I followed her inside.

I found her standing in what must have been the reception area. The smoke smell was ten times stronger here. The walls were blackened, the plastic frames of the pictures hanging on them were melted together with the prints they held, and the carpet was badly scorched. The receptionist’s metal desk had large burn marks on the top and sides. The glass that covered the top of the desk was cracked and black. What ever had been sitting on top of the desk that wasn’t burned beyond recognition was covered in a thick layer of greasy soot.

The woman in the pinstriped suit was staring at the damage as if she was in a trance. She didn’t notice me standing behind her and let out a loud gasp when she turned around and saw me.

“Who are you?” she asked, pulling herself together.

“I’m Kendra Clayton,” I said, holding out my hand. She didn’t take it and I pressed on. “I’m really sorry about the fire. Is it possible for me to talk to someone in charge?”

“I’m Margo Diamond,” she replied impatiently. “I’m the senior editor, as well as the owner of Diamond Publishing, such as it is,” she said drily, looking around at the ruins of her business. “So, I guess that makes me in charge. How can I help you?”

She must have been the Margo I’d spoken to when I’d called about Vivianne’s manuscript the other day. I had a feeling I was going to be wasting my time with her.

“I’m here about Vivianne DeArmond’s book. I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me anything at all about it.”

Margo Diamond threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “I’m so sick of being asked about that damned book!”

“How many people have been asking?”

“I haven’t exactly been keeping a running tally but someone has either been calling or coming by on a daily basis since the woman died asking about that book. I just don’t get it.” She absentmindedly leaned back against the desk, cursed as she realized she’d got soot on her pantsuit, and unsuccessfully wiped at it with her hand.

“Well, she
was
a famous actress who grew up about a half hour from here. I imagine a lot of her fans will be interested in her memoirs,” I said casually. I hoped Margo Diamond was too upset about her suit to realize I was fishing.

“That’s just it,” she said, looking around for something to wipe her hands on. I handed her a tissue from my purse. “The book wasn’t a memoir. It was a novel.”

“What was it about?” Memoir or not, something was in that book that someone had been killed over.

“It was about a small-town girl who runs away from home to try and make it big on Broadway and all the heartache she encounters along the way.”

“What kind of heartache?”

“She becomes a prostitute addicted to drugs, has a kid out of wedlock that dies as a result of her neglect, marries a talent agent who makes her a star but he’s got a big secret of his own.”

Hmm. So far it sure sounded sort of semiautobiographical, but my ears really perked up at that last part. “What kind of a secret?” The eagerness of my expression must have startled her because she took a small step backwards.

“He’s passing,” she said.

“Passing?”

“You know. He’s a very fair-skinned black man passing for white.”

I had to practically catch my jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. Cliff Preston was passing? That would certainly explain the title
The Onyx Man
. Harriet had told me that Cliff wasn’t the person everyone thought he was. Was this what she meant?

“Do you still have a copy of the manuscript?” I asked eagerly.

“It was sent out to be copyedited. There was another copy on my office computer but as you can see—” she said, making a sweeping gesture around the room “—my computer is out of commission.”

“Who else did you tell about Ms. DeArmond’s book?”

“Until today, I haven’t discussed that book with anyone and I’m beginning to regret that I’ve done so with you. Who did you say you were again?” I ignored the question.

“Did a young woman with red spiky hair named Noelle Delaney ever come here or call asking about the book?” She opened her mouth to say something that probably wasn’t going to be very nice when we were interrupted.

“Margo,” said a timid voice from the doorway that led back to the offices of Diamond Publishing.

We both turned to see a slightly overweight young woman with glasses, limp blond hair and a mild case of acne dotting her chubby cheeks. Wearing an ankle-length khaki skirt, denim blouse and flat sandals, she wasn’t exactly dressed for success.

“What is it Alison? I’m in the middle of something,” replied Margo Diamond as though it was taking everything in her not to scream at the poor girl.

“They told us not to touch anything. What do you want me to do?” She was staring at Margo like someone afraid of getting punched.

“Just go home, Alison. I’ll call you later and let you know what’s going on.” Alison hesitated, then hurried past us, giving me a curious look on her way out the door.

“I’ve done about all the talking I plan to do regarding Vivianne DeArmond’s book. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to salvage.” Margo Diamond headed off in the direction that Alison had emerged from and I left.

The cleaners were still in the lot taking a break, though I didn’t know what from since it appeared that they hadn’t even started working yet. I was unlocking my car when there was a light tap on my shoulder. It was Alison.

“Can I help you?” I asked the girl, who upon closer inspection looked to be about nineteen.

“Do you know Noelle?”

“Delaney?”

“Yeah, do you know her?” She kept glancing over her shoulder at the building as if she was afraid Margo would come out.

“I know Noelle, why?” Alison was clenching and unclenching her hands together nervously.

“I gave her something the other day and she promised she’d bring it back but she never did. I really need to get it back or I’ll get fired.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“What did you give her?” Allison looked over her shoulder again before answering.

“That actress’s manuscript. See, I was supposed to send it to our copy editor but Noelle came in that day to try and see Margo about the book. But Margo was in New York. She started telling me about how she was this big TV producer on
Hollywood Vibe
and she could get me a job on the show as a correspondent if I could just help her out. I gave her the manuscript and she swore she’d bring it back. But she never did.”

That answered my question about how Noelle had gotten hold of Vivianne’s manuscript. But where was Noelle now? I thought back to the dried blood on the carpet of her hotel room and the mental images that popped into my head were grim.

“Do you know how I can get in touch with her? She has the only copy of that manuscript and I really, really need it back.”

I told Alison to write down her number and promised her I’d try and track down Noelle for her, though in truth I knew that the manuscript had probably been destroyed by now.

“Do you know if the job at
Hollywood Vibe
is still open?” she asked hopefully. I looked at her lank hair, round face and drab clothing and wondered how Noelle had had the heart to lie to the poor girl.

“I’ll have to check with Noelle.” It was all the lie I could manage while staring into her eager face.

I drove past the cleaning crew who were finishing up their breaks and watched as one man put out a cigarette with his foot. One of his coworkers teased him.

“Man, you need to give up that filthy little habit of yours. I bet your lungs are as black as these windows we’re about to clean.” The smoking man grinned and flipped his coworker the finger.

A filthy habit. Something clicked in my memory. Hadn’t I overheard Stephanie scolding Cliff about criticizing Kurt’s addictions when he had a filthy habit of his own? Did she mean smoking? If so, then Cliff could easily have been the one to set off the alarm at Cartwright Auditorium just as he could have set Diamond Publishing on fire and left those cigarette butts outside Lynette’s teepee. Was he the person I’d seen on Mama’s back porch and who had chased me with the hammer at Cabot’s Cave?