Extra Sensory Deception (13 page)

“I guess you haven’t heard any more about the murder,” Rick said, as the door closed behind John.

“Nothing helpful.” Clara filed the copy of the receipt and entered it in the computer. “We tried to find out last night if Paul Eastcott had eaten dinner at the Pioneer Inn the night of the murder. Everyone we spoke to didn’t remember seeing him, but we don’t really know if they were just trying to protect their customers. So we still don’t know for sure if his alibi holds up.”

“He must have told the cops the same thing, and I’m sure Dan would have checked it out.”

She stared at him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. That could be why nobody wanted to tell us anything.”

He gave her a long look. “So you did go there to ask questions. You’re not giving up on this thing.”

“Nope.” She walked around the counter and laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I know what you went through when you were accused of murder. If Wes is innocent, I want to help clear his name.”

“That means a lot to me. Wes’s career is on the line. It’s his whole life. I don’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t compete.”

“I know.”

“But that doesn’t mean I want you risking your life to save my buddy.”

“All I’m doing is asking a few questions.” She grinned up at him. “Besides, with Steffie and Tatters at my side, what harm can come to me?”

He still looked worried. “Well, okay. But promise me, at the first sign of trouble, you’ll get out of the way and let Dan handle it.”

“I promise.” She decided not to mention that she planned on talking to Diane Eastcott. If she got anything useful from Paul’s wife, she’d tell him afterward.

“I see you have a new assistant.” Rick nodded at Edgar, who was now snoozing with his jaw on his paws.

Clara grinned. “Meet Edgar. Molly had been hiding him in the stockroom. Steffie and I found him when we were moving boxes around.”

“Ah, so that explains the scuffling sounds you heard in there.”

“Right. I guess my worries about rats and mice are over as long as Edgar is around.”

“He looks capable enough.” He glanced at his watch. “So when should I come for dinner, and what can I bring?”

“Tuesday night? It’s my day off, so I’ll have plenty of time to prepare. You don’t need to bring anything.”

“Tuesday night it is. I’ll have Tyler close up. Around seven?”

She smiled, though her stomach was churning with doubts. “Seven is fine. Tatters will be overjoyed to see you, so brace yourself.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He blew her a kiss and headed for the door.

Several minutes after Rick left, Tim appeared from one of the aisles, carrying a book. Handing it to Clara, he muttered, “It’s for my mom.”

Hoping fervently he hadn’t overheard her conversation with Rick, she took it from him and glanced at the cover. Another fantasy romance. It was the fourth book in the series he’d bought in the last month. Taking it over to the counter, she wondered if Tim was really buying the books for his mom, or if he was reading them himself.

She was sorely tempted to ask him about Paul’s alibi, but that would lead to questions of how she knew about the alibi in the first place. Besides, her reasons for wanting to talk to Paul’s wife went beyond the alibi thing.

If Mrs. Eastcott suspected her husband was having an affair with his assistant, that could well be a motive for murder. Clara was very anxious to meet Paul’s wife to find out what kind of person she was, and if she seemed capable of killing someone.

The moment the deputy left, Clara turned to the computer and entered Paul’s name in the search engine. It took only a minute or two to find his address, and she quickly wrote it down on a sticky pad and pulled off the page. Tucking it into her pocket, she left the counter and headed for the first aisle. It was time to tidy up the shelves, then close up shop.

Half an hour later she was in her car in the parking lot, her phone pressed to her ear.

Stephanie answered on the second ring. “Are you okay? Is everything all right at the store?”

Clara sighed. “Why do you always assume something is wrong when I call?”

“Because it usually is when you call.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I know. Just a minute.” There was a pause, then she added, “Oh, it’s okay. For a minute there I thought Michael had drowned the cat, but I just saw it running out the door.”

“Drowned the cat?” Clara shook her head. “Why would you think that?”

“Because he keeps saying Jasper needs a bath. I caught him in the bathroom this morning, trying to give him one in the toilet bowl.”

“It’s a miracle that cat survives.”

“It is, indeed. So why are you calling just as I’m getting dinner?”

“I thought we could go visit Paul’s wife tonight. That’s if you’re not busy.”

“I’m always busy. What if Paul is there?”

“He won’t be. He’ll be at the rodeo. He’s there every night according to the article I read on the local news website.”

“Except for the night of Lisa’s murder.”

“So he says. Now’s our chance to find out.”

“If we’re lucky. So what’s our excuse for our visit?”

“The one we always use. We’re doing an article.”

“What kind of article?”

“I don’t know.” They were both silent for a moment, until Stephanie suggested, “How about an article on influential women in Finn’s Harbor?”

“There’s a whole bunch of articles like that on Diane Eastcott. We need to find something unique so she doesn’t brush us off.”

“All right, what if we tell her we’re doing an article for a fashion magazine and want to feature not only her, but her home as well. I bet she’d go for that.”

Relieved, Clara let out her breath. “Perfect. I’ll call her and see if I can set it up for tonight. I’ll call you back.” She stabbed the end button and fished in her pocket for the sticky note.

Diane Eastcott answered right away. She sounded impatient at first, but when Clara explained why she was calling, Diane’s tone changed. “I was planning on a quiet evening,” she said. “Could we make it one night next week?”

“I’m sorry,” Clara told her, “but I have a strict deadline. I just got the go-ahead from the magazine and I need to start work on it tomorrow. Of course, if you’re busy, I could ask someone else—”

“On, no, don’t do that.” Diane hesitated, then added quickly, “I guess tonight will be okay. What time?”

Clara glanced at her watch. “Would eight p.m. work for you?”

“That will be fine. You have the address?”

After assuring her that she had all she needed, Clara hung up and hit Stephanie’s speed dial.

“Did she go for it?” her cousin asked, the second she answered.

“Of course. We’re expected there at eight p.m. I’ll pick you up around seven thirty.”

Stephanie sounded worried when she responded, “What shall we do if she asks which magazine it is?”

“We’ll tell her it’s for
Vogue
.”

“She’s going to want a copy of the article.”

“We’ll just have to tell her they decided not to buy it.”

“What about photographers?”

“Bring your camera.”

“My phone is my camera.”

“I mean that big old clunker you used to wave about at parties.”

“That’s my father’s camera, and it’s almost as old as I am. It needs film, for pity’s sake, and I don’t have any. I don’t even know if they make film like that anymore.”

“Diane Eastcott won’t know that. Besides, it looks authentic.”

Stephanie’s sigh echoed down the line. “You know we’re becoming accomplished liars, don’t you?”

“I know. It bothers me, too. I guess I could always submit the article to
Vogue
. They’ll probably turn it down, but at least it won’t be an outright lie.”

“Does that mean I have to take real pictures?”

“Maybe you could take a few with your phone when she’s not looking.”

“This is getting so ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it’s all for a good cause.” Clara was smiling as she hung up, though she had to admit to a disquieting sense of guilt. She didn’t like the pretense and lies any more than her cousin did, but there were times when they had no other option.

Diane Eastcott was not going to discuss her husband’s whereabouts with complete strangers off the street. They had to gain her confidence and trust if they were going to learn anything useful.

Pulling out onto the street, Clara refused to acknowledge that all her hopes were pinned on the possibility that Paul Eastcott was the killer, thus clearing Wes of the crime. She had to keep an open mind if she were to get at the truth. She was running out of time, and if Wes was innocent, his career had to be saved.

If he was guilty, on the other hand, she really wanted to see him arrested before the rodeo left town. Either way, she would feel she’d done her best for Rick, though every fiber of her being prayed that Wes was not the killer. If he was, and she was the one who found the evidence that led to his arrest, that might affect her relationship with Rick. And not in a good way.

A little after seven thirty that evening, Clara picked up her cousin and headed for Diane Eastcott’s home. She was a little startled to see Stephanie wearing a royal blue cocktail dress sparkling with crystals and a fake diamond–encrusted comb pinning up her blonde hair. “You look like you’re going to a New Year’s Eve party.”

“Too much?” Stephanie pouted. “I was going for the professional fashion photographer look.”

“It’s more like a high school prom look.”

“That bad?” Stephanie pulled the flap down to look in the mirror. “I could take out the comb.”

“Good idea. What did George say when he saw you dressed like that?”

“He asked me who was getting married.” Stephanie dragged the comb from her hair and combed the strands back into place with her fingers. “Did you tell Aunt Jessie where we’re going?”

“Yeah. She wanted to come with us.” Clara glanced at the camera bag sitting on her cousin’s lap. “Do you remember how to work that thing?”

“It’s like all cameras. You just point and click the button.”

“What about focusing and all that stuff?”

“I’ll fake it.” Stephanie’s voice wavered. “We’re not going to get into trouble for this, are we?”

In spite of her tightened nerves, Clara had to laugh. “I wish I had a dollar for every time you said that when we were kids.”

“So do I.” Stephanie lapsed into silence, and Clara concentrated on the road as they headed into the upscale district where the Eastcotts lived. Following the directions the calm voice on her GPS gave her, she pulled up outside a pair of large iron gates, behind which a long driveway led up between perfectly manicured lawns to the stone steps of a massive house.

“Wow,” Stephanie murmured, staring at it through the car window. “Paul Eastcott and his wife are living well.”

“No kidding.” Spying the intercom at the side of the gate, Clara stepped out of the car to press the button.

A female voice floated out through the speaker. “Who is it?”

“Clara Quinn. I have my photographer with me. We’re here for our appointment.”

“Come right in.” The gates slid silently open, allowing Clara to drive through and up to the house.

“This is some house,” Stephanie said, as they pulled up in front of the steps. “It’s not surprising Paul wants to hang on to his marriage.”

“Exactly.” Clara cut the engine and leaned back. “It gives him a pretty strong motive for murder if he was having an affair with Lisa. Maybe she was threatening to tell his wife if he didn’t ask for a divorce.”

“Classic murder-mystery stuff.” Stephanie opened the door and clambered out of the car. “I wish now I’d worn pants and flats. I’d forgotten how hard it is to walk in heels. Especially when I’m carrying this thing.” She hauled the cumbersome camera off the backseat and slammed the door shut with her hip.

“Just slip off your shoes when you get inside the door,” Clara said, as she led the way over to the steps. “Diane will thank you.”

“Great idea. Thanks.” Stephanie grunted as she heaved the bag up on her shoulder.

Inside the shaded porch a large pot of geraniums nodded in the breeze. Next to it, a tall, willowy, metallic Siamese cat sat staring at them with fixed golden eyes. The eyes blinked, making Clara jump. Wondering if she’d imagined it, she stepped up to the front door just as it opened. Apparently the cat was some kind of sensor.

A stern-faced woman with gray hair and glasses peered up at her. “Ms. Quinn?”

“Yes.” Clara smiled. “This is my photographer, Stephanie Dowd. We have an appointment with Mrs. Eastcott.”

“This way, please.” After waiting for them to shed their shoes, the woman led them down a long hallway covered in maroon carpeting that embraced Clara’s toes like a soft pillow under her feet.

Cream wallpaper with pale green willow trees and blue waterfalls hugged the walls, and gleaming oak doors on either side guarded the rooms. Reaching the end of the hallway, the housekeeper turned into a narrow passage and then out into a solarium, where tall glass walls overlooked a luscious lawn bordered with hydrangeas and rosebushes, and a scattering of mimosa trees.

A woman with smooth, platinum blonde hair falling about her shoulders sat in a rattan chair, staring out at the gardens. On the small table at her side ice was melting in a glass half full of water. The woman turned toward them when the housekeeper announced, in a voice heavy with disapproval, “Mrs. Eastcott, this is Ms. Quinn and Ms. Dowd.”

Diane Eastcott looked as if she really did belong on the cover of
Vogue
. Her makeup was impeccable, and dressed in flowing, wide-legged brown pants and a coffee-colored silk shirt, she appeared both comfortable and incredibly chic.

Envisioning her own blue cotton pants and sleeveless white top, Clara felt decidedly dowdy—one of her mother’s favorite expressions. Holding out her hand, she advanced on Diane, her smile feeling fixed and awkward. “I’m Clara Quinn. I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Mrs. Eastcott. You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you.” Ignoring Clara’s attempt at a handshake, Diane waved at another rattan chair across from her. “You can call me Diane.” She ran her gaze over Stephanie, who stood gazing at the woman as if she were starstruck. “And this is?”

“My photographer, Stephanie Dowd.” Clara fiercely signaled at her cousin with her eyebrows.

Stephanie appeared to make an effort to pull herself together. “Happy to meet you, Mrs. Eastcott.”

“Diane.” Paul’s wife turned back to Clara. “I assume your photographer will want to take pictures of the house?”

“Yes, of course.” Clara looked at Stephanie. “You have everything you need?”

As if suddenly realizing she was being dismissed, Stephanie looked worried. “Yes, I think so.”

“Mrs. Schwartz will show you the house,” Diane said, nodding at the housekeeper. “Just let her take pictures of whatever she wants. Oh, and bring me some more ice.”

“Yes, Mrs. Eastcott.”

“Thank you,” Stephanie mumbled, with a quick, panicked look at Clara.

“This way,” Mrs. Schwartz barked, and, heaving the heavy camera higher on her shoulder, Stephanie staggered after her and out of sight.

Left alone with this icon of sophistication, what little confidence Clara was clinging to rapidly disintegrated. Reminding herself that she had done this many times before, she pulled her recorder from her pocket and sat down. “I have your permission to record our conversation?”

Diane hesitated for a second, then leaned back in her chair. “As long as you don’t get too personal.” She reached for the glass and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls before putting it down again.

Clara switched on the recorder and laid it on the table between them. She’d made a list of the things she wanted to ask, and she pulled it from her purse. After asking a few general questions about the house, she said casually, “I interviewed your husband a couple of days ago. He might have mentioned it. I wrote a review of the rodeo. You can find it on the city council’s website.”

Diane took another gulp from her glass. “Oh, that rodeo. Frankly I can’t imagine why my father thinks we need rodeos to publicize the Hill Top chain. The resorts should speak for themselves.”

“I take it you don’t care for the rodeo?”

Diane sniffed. “I don’t care for all the work it entails. My husband has been rushing around all week, missing meals at home and spending most of his time worrying about the whole thing. I can’t see that it does anything for the resort, and now that dreadful girl is dead and everyone remotely connected to the rodeo is under suspicion. The whole thing is a travesty. I just wish—” She broke off as the housekeeper walked through the door carrying a pitcher of ice and a bottle.

Watching Diane refill her glass, Clara realized that the woman was drinking something a lot stronger than water.

As if reading her thoughts, Diane raised the bottle, waving it unsteadily at Clara. “Would you like a drink?”

Noting that the bottle contained gin, Clara glanced at Mrs. Schwartz, who was staring at her as if daring her to accept the offer. “Thanks, but I’m fine,” she said quickly, and the housekeeper turned to leave.

“Where’s the photographer?” Diane demanded, halting her at the door.

“I left her taking pictures in the bedrooms.” Mrs. Schwartz’s sour face turned even more forbidding. “I figured your
ice
was more important.”

Her emphasis on the word clearly indicated her disapproval, and Diane’s cheeks warmed. “That will be all,” she said coldly.

The door snapped shut behind the housekeeper.

“It’s impossible to find decent help these days.” Diane stood the bottle on the table and raised the glass to her lips. “What were we talking about?”

“The rodeo.” Clara leaned forward. “I was so sorry to hear about Lisa Warren’s death. Your husband must be devastated.”

Diane took a large gulp of the gin and coughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clara hurried to reassure her. “I only meant that she was his assistant, and a very good one, according to some of the people who work with the rodeo. As you said, it’s hard to find good help nowadays.”

Diane stared at her, creases appearing between her finely drawn brows. “She was a slut,” she said, beginning to slur her words.

Clara caught her breath. Had Lisa been telling the truth about the affair? Had Diane found out and decided to get rid of her competition? She pretended to be shocked. “Excuse me?”

Diane took another gulp of her glass and set it down firmly enough to slop some of the liquid over the side. “Lisa Warren slept with anyone who asked her. There were even rumors that she was involved with my husband.” She hiccupped, and placed a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.”

Clara chose her next words very carefully. “But of course, they were lies.”

“Of course they were lies.” Diane leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I went to the office to confront her.”

Afraid the woman would nod off, Clara asked quickly, “What happened?”

Diane opened her eyes again. “She wasn’t there. So I searched her desk drawers to see if I could find anything incriminating.”

She slurred the last word so badly Clara had to guess what she’d said. “But you didn’t find anything.”

Diane sat up so suddenly she made Clara jump. “Ah, but I did.” She waved her hand in the air as if she were trying to fan herself, then reached for her glass again. “I found a note.”

Clara watched her take another gulp of gin. “A note?”

Diane nodded, but said nothing.

After a long pause, Clara prompted, “What did it say?”

Diane leaned forward and lifted a shaking finger to her lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.”

Hoping she wouldn’t notice the recorder on the table, Clara shook her head. “I won’t.”

Her hopes were dashed when Diane flapped her hand at the recorder. “Turn that thing off and I’ll tell you.”

Reluctantly, Clara switched it off.

Diane held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

She handed it over and watched Diane fiddle with it until she was satisfied. “It was a note from Paul,” she said at last, “telling Lisa to meet him behind the concert stage at eight p.m.”

Clara stared at her. It was the last thing she’d expected. No wonder Diane wanted her to turn off the recorder. But why would the woman tell her about such damning evidence against her husband?

Once more Diane read her thoughts. “He didn’t kill her.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Nope, he didn’t. You know how I know?”

Clara gave a quick shake of her head.

“I went there!” Diane beamed, as if she’d done something incredibly clever. “Yes, indeedy. I went behind that lil’ ol’ concert stage and I waited for ’em.”

Clara couldn’t have moved at that moment if the ceiling had caved in. She waited, barely able to breathe as Diane sat there nodding her head.

After another long, suspenseful pause, the woman raised a finger and shook it at Clara. “They didn’t turn up.”

Clara blinked. “They didn’t?”

“Nope. I waited until ten past eight for them, and then I knew that note wasn’t from Paul. My husband has never been late for anything in his life. If he said he was going to be there at eight p.m., he would have been there at ten minutes before eight. For eighteen years he’s driven me crazy, always having to be somewhere at least ten minutes before he’s due.” She shook the finger again. “I keep telling him it doesn’t matter if we’re ten minutes late, but nope, he’ll kill himself every time to get there early.”

Clara frowned. “What about Lisa? You didn’t see her?”

“Nope. Lisa was just the opposite. Always late to everything. Drove Paul nuts.” Diane swallowed some more gin. “He was going to fire her, you know. He was just waiting to find the right person to take over for her.”

“Did Lisa know that?”

Diane shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Did you ask Paul about the note?”

Diane gazed at her bleary-eyed. “What?”

“The note. Did you ask Paul about it?”

Diane shook her head. “As soon as I heard about the murder, I flushed it down the toilet. I didn’t want anyone suspecting my husband of killing Lisa.” She leaned forward, her words running together, making them hard to understand. “He didn’t write it. Someone else wrote that note to lure Lisa to the concert stage that night.”