“So you still have no idea whether the two murders were connected?” That was obviously the place to start, as far as I was concerned.
“Nada.” He shook his head. Either he really didn’t have any information or he was a terrific actor. “Althea and Mildred were just taken”—he snapped his fingers—“like that. No trace evidence, and nothing as far as motive. Both crimes seem to have been unplanned.”
He gave me a thoughtful look, his dark eyes flashing with interest. “Unless you’ve discovered something?” I shook my head, but he moved a little closer, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re not holding out on me, are you, Maggie? If you’ve found something, I need to hear about it. This is no time to play games.”
“Play games?”
Ouch
. “I’m not playing games. I found out that Candace Somerset, Althea’s sister, stands to inherit a small fortune. That’s all I know.” I felt a little flash of white-hot anger go through me. Rafe knows exactly how to push my buttons, and trivializing my profession is one of the best ways to do it. No matter how many times I tell myself not to get annoyed, I do.
“And that’s a hard fact, as you would say. Not a psychological interpretation,” I huffed. It’s very hard to be angry with Rafe because he’s so damn attractive, but I had to at least defend my profession.
“Oh, don’t be so oversensitive, Maggie,” he said, breaking into a grin. “It’s just an expression. You shrinks are all alike, you know. It kills me the way you analyze everything to death.” He broke away when we reached the edge of the grass, tossing a rakish smile over his shoulder. I watched him walking toward the squad car, his movements fluid, determined. Rafe is sure of himself, with an icy resolve that would bring a criminal to his knees.
Do I really analyze everything to death?
Funny, but Vera Mae has told me the exact same thing. Many times.
Chapter 19
“I can’t believe you’re checking your BlackBerry at a funeral reception,” I sniffed at Nick half an hour later. We were sitting in the front parlor of the historical society, and Nick had both thumbs on his BlackBerry, texting away. We’d found a quiet corner with two wingback chairs nosing up to a lovely Queen Anne coffee table facing the fireplace. Nick had stashed a towering plate of finger food on an end table, and amazingly, it was untouched. For once in his life, Nick was more interested in texting than eating.
I was intrigued, my antennae quivering. Something big must be up.
“You know, Nick, checking your messages all day long is looking a bit obsessive to me,” I said. “I’m concerned about you. And I say that not only as a shrink, but as a friend—”
He frowned, annoyed, and held up a finger to silence me, never taking his eyes off the keys. I let out a noisy sigh, nibbled at a pimento cheese puff, and took a quick inventory of the guests. Most of the people from the graveside service were there, plus a few elderly women I didn’t recognize. I pegged them as neighbors or friends of Althea’s, women in their eighties who were probably too frail to make it to the cemetery on a rainy day. They were talking in hushed voices, looking sad and dejected as they exchanged hugs. I remembered again how much good Althea had done for the town and how much everyone had loved her.
Not
everyone
, I reminded myself. One person had killed her. Maybe someone in this very room.
I watched Candace, Althea’s sister, as she flitted around the parlor. She was charming and hospitable, greeting each guest at the door with a warm welcome and then dashing off to make sure the platters were refilled with goodies. Candace looked very urban and quite sophisticated in her Armani linen suit and strappy Jimmy Choos. I had the feeling she paid more for her caramel highlights than I paid for my rent every month.
She looked out of place at the historical society. I wondered again about her relationship with Althea. As she’d said, it was “complicated.”
Complicated?
What relationship isn’t? That could mean anything, I mused.
“This is unbelievable,” Nick said softly, yanking me back to the present. His eyes were still riveted on the BlackBerry. He shook his head as he glanced at the screen, then punched a button and slid it into his pocket.
“What is?” I waited while he grabbed a miniature crab cake and swallowed it whole like he was a seal at SeaWorld. Then he took a very long swig of iced tea while I drummed my fingernails on the table. He was about to reach for another crab cake when I grabbed his right hand. “Tell me,” I demanded. “Now!” His eyes strayed to a tiny sausage biscuit just inches away, teetering on the edge of his plate. I increased the pressure on his fingers. “You can eat later.”
“Ow,” he said pulling away. “You’ve got a grip like steel. You’re stronger than you look.” He shot me a dark look and rubbed his wrist. “You must have been zeroing in on a pressure point.”
“Krav Maga,” I said, taking a deep breath. It was satisfying to know that all those practice sessions with a personal trainer in the Bronx had paid off. “Three years.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that the martial arts training method they use in the Mossad?”
“Yes. And unless you want to find yourself pinned on the floor in a spectacular takedown in the next two seconds, you’d better tell me what you’ve found out. I know it’s something big.”
“It is big, or at least it could be. My source managed to dig up some intel on Chantel. It seems she might have been here before.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he feared the flamboyant medium might materialize at any moment.
For a moment, I was puzzled. “She was here?
Here
, as in another lifetime?” I knew that Chantel believed in reincarnation, but I didn’t think Nick did.
Nick snorted. “Hardly. I’m talking about
this
lifetime. I found someone at the high school who thinks she remembers her.
“So Chantel might have lived here when she was young?”
“Maybe. She would have been a teenager. But we don’t know this yet, not for sure.”
This was interesting idea, and my mind scrambled to make sense of it. “You sound like you believe it.” I knew Nick had excellent sources, but this really seemed like a stretch. If Chantel had been born and raised in Cypress Grove, why was she keeping everyone in the dark? Unless, of course, she’d come back here for some dark, ulterior reason.
“That’s what my source says. I’m surprised no one in town has picked up on it, though.”
“Maybe someone did,” I said, remembering Irina’s comment. I watched as Nick devoured a shrimp toast, his brows knitted in concentration. “Vera Mae thought she recognized her.” Maybe what I thought had been a chance comment was actually a bombshell.
“She thought she recognized her?” Nick reached into his pocket for his notebook. “From where? What name was she using?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t that specific, just an offhand comment.” I gave a little dismissive wave of my hand. “I figured Vera Mae meant Chantel reminded her of someone she’d seen on television or in the movies. You know, a celebrity. It never occurred to me that she meant a real person, living here in Cypress Grove.” I made a mental note to ask Vera Mae for an explanation as soon as I got back to the studio.
Nick squinted at his notes and frowned. “This isn’t much to go on, but I can try to dig a little deeper.” He looked around the crowded parlor. “If Chantel really did live here before, wouldn’t someone here recognize her? How much could she have changed over the years?”
I shrugged. “If Chantel is really in her mid-forties, it might have been thirty years ago. And we don’t even have a name to go on. That Carla Krasinski name could have been an alias.”
Just like Chantel Carrington is an alias,
I thought. Trying to get a handle on Chantel was like trying to pin Jell-O to a wall.
“So what’s next?” Nick said, his words wrapped around a mouthful of flaky cheese biscuits. I was surprised to see that he’d already scarfed down half of the hors d’oeuvres on his plate. “I can ask my friend in L.A. to go deeper, but it might take a few days.”
“A good turnout for poor Althea,” an elderly woman murmured when I stood up to get another cup of tea. She looked like half the women in the room, probably mid-eighties, with tightly curled white hair and glasses.
“Did you know her well?”
“Oh, yes, my dear,” she said, laying her hand on my arm for a moment. “I’ve always admired the way she kept this place going.” She glanced around the room, taking in the old-timey furnishings and knickknacks. “She’s kept it just the way it was when it was built. Quite an achievement.”
“Yes, it was.” A lightbulb went on over my head, and I thought about the Joshua Riggs painting. “You’ve visited here a lot, right? I mean, to the historical society?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, looking puzzled. “Dozens of times, why?”
“I need to ask you something.” I guided her toward the front hall. “Take a good look around.” She raised her eyebrows, and I said quickly, “I know this sounds silly, but just bear with me. Does anything look different to you?”
She peered at the heavy mahogany Parsons table, the porcelain umbrella stand, the dried-flower arrangement. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “Not much has changed in this front hall in fifty years. I told Althea she needed to thin out these paintings. It’s hard to appreciate them when she has so much wall space covered. All the way from the floor to the ceiling.” She allowed herself a small chuckle. “Althea wouldn’t hear of it, though. She had her own way of doing things. Some people called her obstinate, but I think of it as being principled.”
“Take your time,” I pleaded. “Take a good look.”
Then she spotted it. “Oh, yes, I see it now. It’s this landscape.” She pointed her finger at the painting that was hanging right above us. “That’s what’s different.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. Althea had very definite taste in art. She loved watercolors and she was quite fond of landscapes, but not dark, dreary ones.” She took a step closer. “Someone’s switched the paintings, you see.” She pointed to the Joshua Riggs. “This one used to be on the right of the pond scene. Now it’s on the left.”
Bingo. That was just what I’d thought.
“Are you sure?” I could hardly keep the excitement out of my voice.
“I certainly am.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “This dreadful thing should be banished back to the basement.”
“What do you know about this painting?” I said, pointing to the muddy landscape.
“Well, I’m surprised that Althea would move it. She liked everything in its place. Very persnickety. She talked about getting it reframed. I know that was on her to-do list.” She paused. “Odd that she would move it, though.” She took a step back and studied the wall. “Maybe she was trying to get a different feel with the arrangement. I don’t think she succeeded, though. Now the whole collection looks unbalanced.”
“Very odd.” My mind was whirring with possibilities. “If she did have it reframed, where would she go? Someone local, or would she send it out?”
“Oh, there’s only one place in town to go. Chris Hendricks on Water Street does all the framing for the historical society. He knew her taste. She liked simplicity, clean lines, nothing ornate. But I know she didn’t get it reframed. This is the same dreadful frame as before.” She hesitated, glancing over my shoulder. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” She flashed an apologetic smile. “Because I see that my ride is waiting for me.”
“You’ve answered all my questions. Thank you so much. You’ve been wonderful, very helpful. May I write down your name and phone number?”
“Here, take a card, my dear. I’m Lucille Whittier.”
“Maggie Walsh.” I scrambled for a card, but she stopped me.
“Oh, I know who you are, dear. I love your show. I listen to it every day.” She gave a fluttery little wave and joined another woman in a pastel pantsuit who was moving toward the front door. “If you have any more questions, just call me. I’m home almost every day.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
I took a quick look around the dimly lit hall. It was dark and oppressive, and the massive furniture didn’t help lighten the atmosphere. I glanced at the Parsons table. It looked like it needed a good dusting, and the lace doily on the top had a grayish tinge around the edges. Odd to think that someone might have crocheted it a hundred years ago. It moved slightly when I touched it, and some flakes of blue confetti inched out onto the dark wooden surface. Strange.
I thought about the conversation I’d just had. So Lucille Whittier was convinced that the painting had been moved to another spot on the cluttered wall? I felt that this could be the clue I’d been waiting for, but the trick was knowing what to do with it.
I wandered back to the wing chair to ponder my options when an overbleached blonde sidled up to me. She was mid-thirties with big hair and a great set of veneers and was wearing a mint green and hot pink Lily Pulitzer. She looked vaguely familiar, and I thought I might have met her before at a literacy fund-raiser at the public library.
“Maggie,” she said, her voice tentative. She held out a hand with a flashy yellow diamond the size of a walnut. I half stood up to shake hands with her, and she immediately sat in the wing chair across from me. “Shalimar Hennessey. We met at that book event at the library, remember?”
I managed to smile. “Yes, of course.” She treated me to a blinding Hollywood smile, and as my synapses connected, I did a quick mental rundown her.
Social butterfly and ace tennis player. Rich, very rich. Bobby Hennessey’s net worth was rumored to be the same as the GNP of a small Latin American country. Vera Mae had described her as one of the “ladies who lunch.” Apparently, the biggest decision she has to make every day is whether she should play golf or tennis. Live-in help and a beach house in St. Thomas. (I stopped doing an inventory at this point. I was getting too depressed.)
The most notable thing about her (besides her bank account) was the fact that she was married to Bobby Hennessey, a big shot in all the town’s civic groups. Bobby plays golf with Cyrus, our station manager, and I wondered whether Shalimar was going to hit me up for a donation. Bobby is on the board of a dozen different nonprofits. Or maybe she just wanted some publicity for her favorite charity?