Dolled Up to Die (22 page)

“Travis came to you awhile back because he was trying to locate Kim. Could you tell me exactly when he contacted you?”

“Well, let’s see. Aaron broke his tooth about three weeks ago, and it was quite a while before that. Maybe when he put the mustache on Tiffany with a marking pen, and I had
to—no, I remember now. It was the day Tiffany tried to flush my
Cosmo
magazine down the toilet. Which would make it right about six weeks. I paid the plumber’s bill just yesterday.”

Motherhood made for a different time line for keeping track of events, Cate realized, but it sounded like an accurate system. Six weeks. That would definitely put Travis’s contact with Melissa back before Celeste got that phone call at the Mystic Mirage. Before Ed Kieferson was killed too.

“I was thinking at the time maybe I should call Kim and tell her Travis had been snooping around, looking for her, but I couldn’t find a phone listing for her or her mother. I didn’t know then that she’d remarried.”

“Did you see what kind of vehicle he was driving?”

“Motorcycle.”

“With high handlebars?”

“High handlebars? Hey, come to think of it, that’s exactly what they were. The kind where your hands are up higher than your shoulders. They look about as comfortable as trying to chin yourself while riding a bike. Tiffany Jean, stop that!” she yelled. A clunk and then a few moments of silence on the phone before Melissa returned. “Sorry about that. Tiff was trying to put our new puppy in the crib with the baby. Where were we? Oh yeah—I knew both Kim and her mother were down there in Eugene, but you can bet your diapers I didn’t tell Travis that. He was bad news back when they lived in the apartment next door to us, and I figure he’s still bad news.”

“Someone else could have told him?”

“Oh, sure. Some of his sleazy buddies are still around, and they probably knew. Is he down there making trouble for Kim? I hope not. When she called me, which was after Travis had been here trying to find out where she was, she said she’d gotten married again.”

Even though both Ed’s and Celeste’s deaths had been big
news in Eugene, that importance hadn’t carried statewide. At least the information hadn’t blipped on Melissa’s radar.

“Both Kim’s husband and her mother have recently met their deaths under suspicious circumstances, so Kim is going through a very bad time now.”

“Oh no! Poor Kim.” With no pause for introspection, Melissa immediately added, “And Travis was involved?”

As if, if there were trouble, and Travis was in the vicinity, it was a foregone conclusion that he was involved.

“No one has been arrested yet.”

“You know,” Melissa said, “now that I think about it, Travis asked about Celeste first. Then, when I wouldn’t tell him anything about her, he gave me that song-and-dance about Kim’s name being on the title of some old pickup, and he had to find her. But now that you say something happened to Celeste, his asking about her first strikes me as odd.”

Yes. Odd. Of course, Travis may have figured if he found out where Celeste was, that would also lead him to Kim. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to admit an interest in his ex-wife. And then, maybe it was Celeste he really wanted to find.

Why?

“Do you know what Travis has been doing since he got back to Tigard?”

“Actually, I don’t think he was here very long. I never saw him again. I figured he’d just slunk back into his dark hole under a rock, or wherever he came from, but maybe he’s been down there in Eugene.”

Maybe that’s exactly where Travis had been. And still was. Pulling Kim into another trap.

Back home, Cate looked in her notebook for the names and phone numbers she’d copied off Celeste’s calendar. Uncle
Joe and Rebecca weren’t home. With Cate handling much of Belmont Investigations’s work, they’d taken to helping with renovations on the church or going to yard sales, even an afternoon movie now and then.

An answering machine picked up on the call to the first number, listed on Celeste’s calendar as D. Dustinhoff, and a woman’s perky voice said, “I can’t come to the phone right now. Maybe that means I’m off on a honeymoon in the Caribbean! Maybe I’m hiding in the next room, paranoid about this strange machine that keeps ringing! Maybe I’m having a romantic interlude and don’t want to be interrupted! Leave a number, and if you’re one of today’s lucky chosen few, I’ll get back to you. Have a nice day!”

When the machine beeped, Cate, feeling as if she’d inadvertently stepped into the world of the strange and loony, hung up without leaving a message. Although this did sound like someone who’d gleefully romp around in previous lives.

On the second call, Cate was relieved to hear a nice, everyday, “Hello.”

 19 

Cate identified herself as a private investigator and said she needed to talk to a woman named Susan Linderman.

“About what?”

Now the woman didn’t sound quite so nice. The question bristled with hostility, as if Cate had instantly hit a hotline to her nerves.

“Is this Susan Linderman?”

Silence, as if the woman was undecided about admitting anything, although the silence itself told Cate this was the woman she was looking for. She went on as if the woman had agreed that yes, she was Susan Linderman.

“You may have heard about the recent death of a local woman, Dr. Celeste Chandler?”

“Yes, I saw it in the newspaper.” She sounded wary, but reluctantly interested.

“I’m involved in a private investigation of her death, and I understand you had an appointment with her within the last couple of months?”

“Who told you that?”

“In the course of my investigation, I found your name and number in her records.”

“How do I know who you are? You could be her killer. I
don’t have to talk to you!” Mrs. Linderman’s blustery voice held an undercurrent of panic.

“Of course you don’t have to talk to me,” Cate soothed. “But I’d be so grateful if you would. I’d be glad to show you my identification and talk to you in person.” Cate half-expected an instant hang-up, but to her surprise Susan Linderman wilted almost instantly.

At the end of a sigh, she said, “I probably should talk to someone.” She sounded resigned now, as if it was actually not a surprise someone had surfaced to interrogate her. “I thought about calling the authorities, but then . . .” Her voice drifted off, apparently lost in lack of any good reason she hadn’t contacted them.

So what was the reason she should have contacted them? Cate felt a shiver of excitement. Susan Linderman knew something!

“May I come over now?”

“Yes, I guess so.” Mrs. Linderman gave an address, again with that aura of resignation.

Cate Googled the address, and the map took her to an area of modest older homes on the west side of town. She momentarily wondered if Susan Linderman’s name had been on Celeste’s calendar for some reason other than a regression-into-past-lives session. Somehow she expected a person interested in past lives would occupy a house more esoteric than this ordinary gray, ranch style with a neat chain-link fence surrounding a children’s slide and swing set and a flock of pink plastic flamingos.

Past-middle-aged Susan Linderman opened the door before Cate even rang the bell. “I’d, uh, like to see some identification,” she said. Her demand tried for belligerence but didn’t make it past uncertainty, and Cate suspected a library card would get a nervous nod of okay.

She wore blue slacks with an elastic waistband, pink blouse, old tennies, and an apron. Cate couldn’t remember when she’d last seen an apron. The woman apparently noticed Cate’s glance at it because she added, “I’ve been making peanut butter cookies for my grandson. He comes here after school every day.”

“I’m sure he appreciates that.” Cate offered a Belmont Investigations card and also opened her wallet to a driver’s license as identification.

Both could have said Cate Kinkaid, Hired Killer, Discount for Senior Citizens, for all the care Mrs. Linderman took in examining them. She’d obviously just been going through the motions trying to make Cate think she wasn’t as nervous about this interview as she was.

“Okay, come on in. We can have some cookies. And tea. Would you like orange-cinnamon delight? Or apple spice?”

Cate had the feeling making tea would help put the woman at ease. “Orange cinnamon would be great.”

“Come on in the kitchen then.”

Cate followed the woman into a cozy room that reminded her of Jo-Jo Kieferson’s country-house kitchen. White cabinets, family photos plastered on the refrigerator, old-fashioned iron skillet on the stove, plastic-topped table. A scent of freshly baked cookies fluttered angel wings over the mundane room and furnishings.

When the tea was ready, Mrs. Linderman started to load a tray to take to the living room, but Cate stopped her. “Let’s stay right here in the kitchen. It’s so nice and cozy.”

Mrs. Linderman took off her apron, and they sat at the kitchen table. Her tennies shuffled the floor, and she studied her tea as if it held secrets of the universe. Cate nibbled a cookie and remained silent, hoping the woman would feel a necessity to fill the silence with something. It worked.

“This is about my taking that stuff when I went into my past lives, isn’t it? Dr. Chandler said it was okay, just a mild relaxant. But . . .” Mrs. Linderman started to pick up her cup, but her shaky hand sloshed tea into the saucer. She jumped up to rip a paper towel off the holder and sop up the spill.

“I’m looking into all aspects of Dr. Chandler’s life.” Cate carefully kept both her comment and tone neutral, although what she wanted to do was yell, “What stuff?”

“I didn’t murder her!”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Cate agreed.

Mrs. Linderman sank back into the chair. “I didn’t want to take anything. I told her that. But I just couldn’t seem to relax enough to get hypnotized, so she said that was the way she’d have to do it. She wanted me to take it with some red wine, but I never drink, not even wine. Duane’s father was an alcoholic, so he was dead set against anything alcoholic. So then she said we could use whatever I had on hand, and what I had was root beer, so I went to the fridge and got a can of that. But I still felt uneasy about it.”

“This was supposed to relax you to where you could be hypnotized? Or was whatever she was giving you supposed to take the place of hypnosis and put you in the same sort of state?”

“I’m not sure.” Mrs. Linderman gave a nervous titter. “Actually, it felt kind of, oh, frivolous, delving into the—I don’t know, secrets of the universe?—with a glass of root beer in my hand.”

“She didn’t say what she was giving you?” Cate asked.

“No. She just said, didn’t I ever take a sleeping pill? And I said, well, yes, sometimes I did. I’ve had trouble sleeping ever since Duane passed away four years ago. She said this was no different than about half a sleeping pill.”

“I see,” Cate said. She didn’t want to let on that she still
had no idea what the woman was talking about. She did remember now that Robyn’s aunt had said Celeste wanted to give her something, but she’d refused to take it. “Dr. Chandler gave you a pill?”

“No, she mixed something in the root beer.”

“Was what she used a powder or liquid?”

“I didn’t see. She had this big tote bag. It’s funny, I can’t remember much, but I remember that bag so clearly. It was a beautiful tapestry material, with golden threads woven in, and leather handles.”

“You say you can’t remember much. Do you mean you can’t remember much about Dr. Chandler, or the past-lives session, or . . . ?”

“It all just seems so . . . far away. Except I remember her lighting this candle that smelled so heavenly. And she drank a glass of red wine herself. The prettiest wine, like a red jewel.”

“Where did she get the wine?” Cate asked.

“She must have brought it in that bag. Anyway, I started feeling happy and kind of oh, maybe a little tipsy. Or what I think tipsy is like, because I’ve never
been
tipsy. Then everything just kind of fades away, and I don’t remember anything more until I woke up.”

“It put you to sleep?”

“Well, I guess. Kind of. I mean, I woke up. I couldn’t remember anything. But I didn’t really feel as if I’d been
asleep
. It was more like I’d just lost a stretch of time. Maybe she hypnotized me after I got relaxed, and that’s how you feel after you’ve been hypnotized.”

“So you didn’t go into any past lives?”

“Oh, I went into past lives all right!” Mrs. Linderman’s face lit up as if an interior bulb had turned on. “I’ve lived some interesting lives.”

“But if you don’t remember anything—”

“But I talked up a storm! Dr. Chandler took notes. She said I talked so fast she could hardly keep up with me. All this fascinating information about a life I was living way back in ancient times. I was wearing clothes made of wolf and bear skins, and I carried my baby in a sling made of the special soft skin of some unborn animal. She said I kept stroking the air as if I were actually feeling that soft skin and murmuring to my baby.”

Cate made some noncommittal murmurs of her own.

“And then I lived another life when it just rained and rained, and everything started to flood. We decided afterward that that must have been during Noah’s time, when he was building the ark!” Mrs. Linderman smiled, as if she was delighted with having been a contemporary of Noah’s. “Then I lived in Egypt once, a very hard life, making bricks with straw in them. That sounds like Moses’s time, doesn’t it?”

“Quite a variety of lives,” Cate murmured.

“I also told her about a life when I came across the plains in a covered wagon. I’ve always been interested in that era.” Mrs. Linderman nodded, as if having lived in that era explained why she had an interest in it now.

“You really think Dr. Chandler took you back to these past lives?” Cate said.

“Of course.” Mrs. Linderman sounded surprised at the skepticism in Cate’s question. “I still have her notes.”

“Could I see them?”

“Oh, they’re such a treasure I wouldn’t dare keep them here. They’re in my safe deposit box.”

A satisfied customer.

“But I’m still not sure we should be messing around with some things,” Mrs. Linderman fretted. “Duane wouldn’t approve.”

She glanced at a blue vase on a corner shelf—Duane’s final
resting place?—as if she were afraid he might pop out and wag a disapproving finger.

“He wouldn’t approve of the past lives thing, or the relaxant?” Cate asked.

Mrs. Linderman hesitated and finally, like a child who’s been caught at something, sighed and said, “Probably both.”

“Why did you do it?”

“A friend knows a woman who found out that she’d died rescuing a girl back when the Romans were feeding Christians to the lions. She said it ‘opened up new vistas’ for her, knowing she’d been a heroine back then.” Mrs. Linderman’s smile turned self-conscious. “I figured I needed some new vistas in my life. I seem to plod along in the same old rut day after day.”

“Do you feel as if new vistas opened for you?”

“Um, well, I guess not,” she admitted. She glanced toward the vase again. “Duane would say that it was all phony-baloney. That was a word he used. Phony-baloney. So once in a while I wonder if I was just . . . spouting nonsense.”

And maybe she hadn’t spouted anything. Maybe Dr. Celeste Chandler had busily scribbled fake notes while her client lay in a silent semi-coma induced by something she’d given her.

“Dr. Chandler charged for these, um, services?” Cate asked.

“Four hundred dollars. That’s a lot of money, but what bothers me more is that stuff she put in my root beer.”

“You think it may have been something harmful?”

“I think it was something illegal,” Mrs. Linderman said flatly. “And that’s why you’re here.”

This was the crux of her worries when Cate had called, Cate realized. Mrs. Linderman was afraid Cate might be coming with handcuffs and a prison jumpsuit because she’d taken some illegal drug.

“What makes you think it was illegal?”

“I’ve had pain pills when I hurt my back. I’ve had tranquilizers and antidepressants when I was so down after Duane died. I have to take a sleeping pill once in a while since then too. But that stuff she gave me . . .” She shook her head. “It was different. It was like it just cancelled out time.”

Cate didn’t particularly feel like defending Celeste. The woman’s excursions into past lives struck her as phonier than the brown wig Octavia had demolished, and Celeste couldn’t do prescription drugs if that “Doctor” degree wasn’t a real MD degree. But maybe she’d found some way to circumvent that.

“It may have been a legal relaxant you’ve simply never taken before,” Cate said.

“It was something illegal,” Mrs. Linderman repeated. “She was murdered, wasn’t she? Right when I heard about it, first thing I thought was that it was a drug dealer or someone like that who did it.”

“Do you think she knew it was illegal?”