Stay Tuned for Murder (25 page)

“Rafe,” I said, quietly, pointing to the gizmos on the roof. “Are those what I think they are?”

He followed my gaze and grinned. “Bingo. Cameras.” He squeezed my arm. “Good work, Maggie.” He looked at Vera Mae. “Maybe your intruder was caught on tape.”

“Really?” She scowled. “I don’t know if those things even work. I figured they were just for show. Like those security stickers people put on their front doors.”

“We might be lucky.” He turned to Officer Brown. “Get Gina Raeburn’s phone number. I want to see if we can pin down what time she was here.” He looked at Vera Mae. “And I’m going to pay a call on your neighbor right now and see if those cameras were turned on tonight. Maybe we just got lucky.”

“Maybe you could cite him for disturbing the peace. I’m really sick of hearing that recording night and day.”

 

It was after ten o’clock when Rafe and his sidekick, the Opie lookalike, wrapped up their investigation and left. Rafe had the video surveillance tape from Lemuel Clemson’s camera and was going to look at it down at headquarters.

Vera Mae felt uneasy staying in the house after the break-in, so after she grabbed Tweetie Bird’s cage and some extra bird food, I had Nick drive us both back to my place. Mom was down in Miami auditioning for yet another B movie, and I quickly set up the guest room for Vera Mae. Pugsley was ecstatic to see her and danced in circles around her ankles, hoping for a belly rub.

I made a pot of tea, and the two of us sat at the kitchen table, going over the box of papers from Gina Raeburn.

“Do you really think there’s anything in here worth stealing?” Vera Mae was wearing John Lennon-style reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Some of this stuff doesn’t even look old. She’s got some of Mildred’s mail in here, and look, here’s an electric bill and a pizza coupon.”

“And there’s some personal correspondence,” I said, opening a piece of pale blue stationery that was tucked inside an envelope. I looked at the postmark. Georgia. “Do you think I should read it?”

“What difference does it make now, sweetie? She’s gone.”

I quickly scanned the letter, written in a precise script.

“Anything interesting?” Vera Mae bent down and scooped Pugsley onto her lap.

“Maybe. It sounds like Mildred wrote to this woman in Georgia, trying to get some information on the Paley family. She was hoping to get a list of the contents of the time capsule, as far as I can tell.”

“Did she have any luck?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. The person she wrote to suggested some other contacts she could try.” I put the letter down and sipped my tea. Clover honey. I warmed my hands on the cup and breathed in the sweet aroma. “Why was Mildred so interested in the Paleys? And the time capsule. Why would she write to someone in Georgia about it? I wonder what kind of lead she was tracking down.”

“Maybe because she just liked to dig up facts. She was a librarian, after all.” Vera Mae said. “Doing research was part of her job, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so. But this seems like this is going above and beyond, doesn’t it?” My mind kicked back to the conversation with Mark Sanderson, the condo developer. Wasn’t he from Georgia? Was there a connection here?

“It does seem a little odd, now that you mention it.” Vera Mae shrugged. “Almost something obsessive about it. All this interest in the time capsule,” she mused. “It makes it seem like there’s something much bigger at stake.”

“Do you suppose there’s going to be any big surprise when it’s finally opened?”

“I sure hope so. We’ve been pushing it in those promos, and Cyrus is going to be disappointed if the ratings don’t show it.” She paused, tracing a pattern on the checkered cotton tablecloth. “It’s funny, but all this hullabaloo about the time capsule has sort of taken the focus off the murders, hasn’t it? It almost seems like they’ve been pushed to the back burner.”

“I think I may have a lead,” I said softly. Vera Mae raised her eyebrows, and I filled her in on what I’d learned from Lucille Whittier about the painting in the hallway of the historical society.

“It could be something important,” Vera Mae acknowledged. “What are you going to do about it? Do you think you should run it by Rafe? He has resources you don’t, honey. He has the whole Cypress Grove PD and the CSIs behind him.”

Rafe
. I hesitated, drumming my fingertips on the table. The thought had crossed my mind, but I wanted to follow through on this myself. “I think I want to talk to that picture framer first, Chris Hendricks. And then I may just call Candace Somerset and see if I can borrow a painting for a few days. The one that Althea had planned on getting reframed.”

“A painting? What will you do with the painting?”

“I don’t know exactly. But I think the painting is somehow involved in the murder. It goes to motive.” I shook my head. “I can’t be more specific than that.”

Vera Mae stifled a yawn. “Then let’s hope someone can help you with it,” she said sleepily. “I still think you should tell Rafe.” Vera Mae is a huge fan of Rafe’s and always takes his side if I have a problem with him. She’s a sucker for his bad-boy charm and acts like she’s taken a hit of scopolamine if I remind her of his many faults.

I smiled. “I’ll tell him eventually, but only if my hunch is right. Only if things pan out the way I think they should.”

“Because?” she asked, a teasing note in her voice.

“Because if I’m wrong, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

 

Either Chris Hendricks had something to hide, or he was just a short, twitchy guy with an unfortunate facial tic. I decided to hit his framing shop first thing in the morning. I’d dropped Vera Mae off at the station at nine o’clock and had swung into town, figuring I’d catch him alone, before any customers arrived. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. The place was deserted; the picture-framing business must be slow.

“Chris Hendricks?” I asked. He stopped fiddling with a collection of wedding photos and stared at me through Coke-bottle lenses.

“That’s me. Can I help you?” He wiped his hands on his pants.

“I hope so. I’m Maggie Walsh.” I gave him my card. He peered at it and then gave me a puzzled stare. “From WYME? We run your radio commercials.” Actually, we weren’t running any current spots for him, but I remembered seeing his name on the traffic log a couple of months ago. Technically he was still a client.

Suddenly his mood changed. “Maggie Walsh! I know you.” He came back from zombieland and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You’re the shrink lady with the call-in show.”
Shrink lady?
I managed a smile as he wiped his hands on his jeans once more and then folded his arms across his chest. “I listen to your show all the time.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

A beat passed. I raised an eyebrow and waited. Here it came. “You know, you’ve really got some wack jobs calling in. How do you stand it?” He chuckled but he looked uncomfortable. I noticed he had trouble making eye contact with me.

“Some days it’s not easy,” I said. “It’s all part of the job, though.”

He pulled over a wooden stool and perched on it. “Usually Big Jim Wilcox stops by when it’s time to sign up for some more commercials—”

“Oh, I’m not here to sell you airtime,” I said quickly. “I just want to ask you a few questions. About Althea Somerset.”

“Althea Somerset?” He strung out the words slowly, like they were unfamiliar to him. He gave me a passable imitation of someone who was genuinely puzzled, but he was no Al Pacino. I’d give him a seven out of a possible ten on the acting scale.

His right foot was jiggling back and forth like it had a life of its own. A dead giveaway. Nerves. Guilt. Deception. Maybe a mixture of all three?

When I interviewed convicted felons in my forensic work back in Manhattan, the foot tapping was a giveaway. One of the probation officers called it “The Jailhouse Jitterbug.” These guys could look me straight in the eye and manage to keep their voices steady, but their feet told another story. One foot would be dancing away to an invisible mariachi band.

“You have heard of her, right? She was the head of the historical society?” He tore his eyes away from the ceiling and gave a shifty-eyed glance to the right and then to the left. His eyes slid right past my face.

Another long beat passed. It seemed very quiet in the shop; the only sound was the low hum of the air conditioner. Even though it was as chilly as Antarctica, Chris Hendricks was sweating bullets. I decided to press on. “She was murdered last week. You must have seen it. It’s been in all the papers.” Would he deny it? Unless he’d been living in a cave, he’d know that Althea was dead.

When I said the word “murder,” he’d jumped as if I’d just laid a dead fish on his countertop. “Sorry. Did I say something that startled you?”

“No! I mean yes, of course I remember Althea. From the historical society.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. Then his expression shifted and he managed a somber look, something you’d expect from a junior undertaker. “Very sad to hear about her. Probably one of those drugged-up teens from Palm Beach with too much money and time on his hands. I hope they catch the guy.”

“Is that what you think happened?” I let a little note of astonishment creep into my voice. “That she was attacked by a drug-crazed teenager?” I knew he was hiding something, and this bizarre explanation only heightened my suspicions.

“Well sure. Wilding, they call it. Isn’t that what you think happened?” This time he tried for a direct look, his hand wandering over to a crowbar lying on a workbench. He was a skinny guy, but his hands looked powerful, and I felt a little chill go through me.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of that explanation.”
Wilding?
That expression hasn’t been used since the Central Park jogger case in New York many years ago. If had been a case of wilding, there would be several perpetrators involved, but the lack of trace evidence and fingerprints at the crime scene suggested a single killer.

Chris Hendricks was a liar, and not a very skillful one. “I really wanted to talk to you about a painting Althea had hanging in the front hall.”

“Really? Which one?” He studiously kept his face a mask as he reached for a watercolor and began taking apart the framing. He caught me staring at him. “You don’t mind if I work while we talk, do you? I’ve got a rush order on this frame.” His hands were trembling, and maybe he figured it would be less obvious if he kept them busy.

“No, go right ahead.” I forced a little smile, and my pulse went up a notch. This guy was definitely creeping me out.

“So which painting are you talking about?”

“It was a landscape in the style of Joshua Riggs. A very bad Joshua Riggs. It had an ornate frame, one of those gilt ones with fat cherubs playing tag with each other. It was awful. Althea wanted something simpler. I heard she was planning to bring it into the shop so you could take a look at it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Joshua Riggs. Never heard of him.” He answered too quickly. He didn’t even think about it; the words spilled out in a rush. If he’d been smarter, he’d have stalled, pretending to jog his memory. That would have made him seem more credible.

“But you do remember talking about reframing a painting for her? Sometime during the past week?”

He put the crowbar down and leaned his elbows on the workspace. I could see a flash of naked fear creeping into his eyes. “You know, I do remember her asking me about making a new frame for a painting. Funny, that slipped my mind.” He gave a little shrug. “I’ve been so busy, I can hardly think straight.” An obvious lie. The shop was empty, and the stock looked dusty, as if no one had touched it in a long time.

I decided to take a wild chance. “But did she bring the painting here, into the shop? Or did you go see her at the historical society?”

They call this a “forced choice” question because the person being interviewed has to choose between A and B. Once you pose the question this way, it’s much harder for him to say he never saw the painting at all. You just don’t give him this option, and usually it works. He has to choose A or B.

It worked. I felt a little zing of pleasure when Chris Hendricks took the bait. “She brought it in here to the shop,” he said in a rush. “It was just the other day.” Funny how his memory had suddenly improved.

He was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. His glasses started their inevitable downward slide again, and he jammed them back in place with his index finger.

“What happened when she came to the shop?”

“Althea showed me the painting. Like I just said.” He looked at me like I was an idiot.

“The Joshua Riggs?”

“Yes.”
A few minutes ago, he’d never heard of Joshua Riggs. It’s always fascinating to see how easy it is to trip someone up.

“And then what?”

“I could see what the problem was. She was right. The painting was overshadowed by the frame. It was way too heavy.” He shrugged. “Some people like those Victorian frames with a bunch of curlicues and doodads, but I think it detracts from the painting.” He stopped talking again, so I just stared at him.

“Althea wanted it reframed.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes.” He swallowed. He had a prominent Adam’s apple, and it looked like a walnut bobbing up and down in his throat. “I quoted Althea a price, but she thought it was too high.”

“Is that so?”

“She always thought the price was too high. You know how these old ladies are. They’re out of touch with what things cost these days. Althea asked me if I could give her a discount because the historical society is a nonprofit.”

“What did you tell her?” I kept my voice neutral.

He spread his hands. “I told her I’d go out of business if I started reducing my prices.” He cast a pleading look my way. “A guy’s gotta stay in business, doesn’t he? Everybody and their brother-in-law wants something for nothing. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?”