Wound Up In Murder (6 page)

I started to walk toward my back door and remembered the muffins. Rather than pull the car out, I decided to walk the supply across to Vista Del Mar. There were no streetlights here on the edge of Cadbury and it was pitch dark, so
I grabbed my flashlight as I took out the plastic container of blueberry muffins.

The grounds of Vista Del Mar were quiet and the windows in the guest rooms all were dark. Even the small lights that illuminated the edge of the roadway had been turned off. Though the lights still blazed in the Lodge. Since it functioned as the lobby and registration for the place, it stayed open 24/7. Inside the cavernous room was empty. I waved at the sleepy-looking clerk leaning on the huge registration counter. I left the plastic container outside the door of the shuttered Cora and Madeleine Delacorte Café and made my way back across the room. It had been Kevin St. John's idea to give that name to the café. He knew whom he had to please.

And now to bed, I thought as I walked back into the dark night. I had just started down the driveway that led to the street when I heard a rustle in the brush. There were no buildings on this part of the grounds, just land with shrubs and grasses left to grow as they wanted, which meant there was a tangle of undergrowth below the stand of tall Monterey pines.

I automatically trained my flashlight where the noise had come from. A deer stopped in its track, momentarily stunned by the light, and then it loped away and disappeared in the brush. I started to move the flashlight back to lighting my way, but the beam of light reflected off something glittering in the distance. My curiosity was instantly stirred and I thought about finding out what I was seeing. But then I reconsidered and turned the flashlight back to where I was headed.

Did I really want to go stumbling through the undergrowth? Who knew what I might step on? I shuddered as I thought of something that I'd heard. There was a rumor that not only trees that fell were left to decompose naturally, but any animals that died on the grounds were left as well.

I took a step toward home, but stopped to run the light over the undergrowth one more time. There seemed to be multiple spots picking up the light and shining it back, making me even more curious. Still the idea of tripping over twigs and through dead grass seemed like a bad idea. That is, until I noticed an old path leading back into the area.

I pointed my flashlight ahead to light the way, hating to admit that the bits of sparkling light were drawing me toward them like a moth to a flame.

I could feel my heartbeat pick up in anticipation as my feet crunched twigs and dry grass on the path. I got to a clearing and the spots of brightness were just ahead. I began to notice there was something colorful around them and quickened my step.

It all came into focus now and I recognized what I was looking at. I don't know what I expected the source of the glittering to be, but certainly not tiny mirrors on a gauzy piece of fabric. There was another source of reflection. Something metallic with a lot of detail. An earring? I stepped even closer and then shrank back in horror as I realized there was a woman sprawled on the ground. I shone the light on her face. It was Diana Rathman, the woman who had ruined Sammy's show.

I checked for Diana's pulse and found none. There were bruises on her neck and red spots on her neck, face and around her eyes. By now I knew those were the signs of strangulation. But I was hardly a doctor and rushed to call the paramedics in the hopes I was wrong.

I was operating on adrenaline now and without thought propelled myself to the Lodge to use their phone since now that Vista Del Mar was unplugged my cell phone was useless. The sleepy clerk snapped to attention when I said there was an emergency. I called it in and then left the clerk to notify Kevin St. John.

I was waiting in the long driveway of Vista Del Mar when the rescue ambulance came down the street. There were no lights flashing or siren breaking the quiet of the night because there was no need for either at this hour. The streets of Cadbury were dead and there was no traffic to warn out of the way. And no need to stir up the sleeping guests.

I showed the ambulance where to stop and then pointed my flashlight down the path toward the woman. Kevin St. John arrived just as a police cruiser pulled in. The headlights of the ambulance illuminated him as he got out of his tan Buick sedan. I did a double take when I realized that it was the first time I'd seen him in anything but a formal-looking dark suit. I had to choke back a nervous laugh when I saw the red and blue spatter print of his pants. I didn't know what the technical name of the style was but they ballooned around his legs and seemed to have elastic at the ankles.

His close-cropped hair looked tousled, and his expression got grimmer when he saw me.

“Ms. Feldstein, so you're connected to yet another mishap,” he said in a terse tone. “Who is it this time? One of your early arrival retreat people?”

“You really shouldn't jump to conclusions,” I said. It was hardly a time to feel a sense of triumph, and yet it was hard to keep that feeling totally out of my tone as I told him who I had found.

The manager swallowed hard. “You're telling me that Norman Rathman's wife is over there?” He swung his arm in the general direction of the path without looking. When I nodded, he swallowed hard again.

“That's right, Mr. St. John, it is not one of my people. It is one of your people. Norman Rathman is the head of the Favorite Year Club and the person who let you arrange their retreat?”

I'm not saying Kevin St. John had no empathy for the woman in the bushes or her family, but I'm sure the look of upset on his face was also connected to his hope that Vista Del Mar would become the regular venue for their future retreats.

The adrenaline from finding the woman was beginning to wear off and my legs felt rubbery. The fact that I'd been
up for way too many hours didn't help, either. I knew the cops would want some kind of statement, and I looked around hoping I could be done with it and go home.

“You're here,” I said, surprised, as Dane approached me. “I thought you were on desk duty.”

“Can't stay away from trouble, can you?” he said in a teasing voice.

“Or maybe trouble can't stay away from me,” I countered in a tired voice.

“As soon as I heard where the call came from and from who, I got somebody to take over for me.” He looked at me closely, examining my face as he offered his arm for support. “Are you all right?”

“More or less,” I said, letting out a sigh. The paramedics had the back of the ambulance open and were loading in a gurney. They were clearly not in a hurry, which confirmed that I'd been right about Diana's lack of a pulse.

Kevin St. John and another cop were conferring. “About tonight,” Dane said. “I'm sorry for the way things turned out. But I think we should give it another try.”

“Maybe not,” I said. The expression drained from his face and his eyes grew dark. “It's nothing about you,” I said quickly. “I like you—a lot. I just have a lot on my plate with all the baking and this retreat that starts tomorrow. I mean, today.” I glanced down and saw the hour on my watch.

Dane's usual cocky stance had gone south and he shifted his weight with displeasure as I continued. “It doesn't mean anything has to change. I'll still leave you desserts and you can still leave off plates of your delicious pasta dishes. No way do I want to give up the chance for your lasagna oozing with cheese or anything with your homemade tomato sauce.”

I was a little surprised by his response. Basically he just ignored what I'd said. “You want to call it quits after one
dinner? I'm sorry for my immature cop buddy and his stupid remark, but other than that and a few comments by other diners in the restaurant, I thought it went pretty well.” He looked at me directly. “If you want to avoid all the stares, we could just have dinner at my place.”

“I don't think so,” I said, feeling the pull of his presence even in this situation. “It was okay when we were just neighbors, but as a date—no way.”

“We could try going to the movies,” he offered and I rolled my eyes at his persistence.

“I just don't want to start something I'm not sure I can finish. And having the whole town watching is too much pressure.” I was avoiding looking at him, afraid my resolve would melt. “I'm doing you a favor. I'm a real heartbreaker. Just ask Dr. Sammy.”

“Hey, Mangano, over here,” his partner shouted. I followed behind Dane as he went along the narrow path into the brush, both of our flashlights illuminating the way. The other officer was standing at the edge of the small clearing where I'd found Diana, holding a roll of yellow tape. For a moment they discussed where to position the yellow tape that marked the crime scene. There was something on the ground. “Look what I found,” the other cop said as he pointed toward a long piece of brightly colored silk. I felt my breath stop. It was Sammy's long streamer of silks.

My mind was reeling over the appearance of the silks. Though no one had said the words, I was pretty sure they were the murder weapon. No one had said the word
murder
yet either, but they had said she appeared to have been strangled, and let's face it, that's not something she was likely to have done to herself or by accident. I didn't get off just giving a statement to Dane and his partner. Instead, as more cops came and set up a tent over the area where Diana had been found, we adjourned to the Lodge.

It felt strange to be in the large room in the middle of the night. Kevin St. John had somehow managed to change into something that looked more managerial. Maybe he kept a suit of clothes there. Someone had awakened Norman Rathman and he was sitting slumped on one of the leather sofas. He had hastily put on the suit he'd worn earlier. It appeared really strange now with the dress shirt hanging out. I recognized the elongated face of his assistant, Sally Winston,
who was seated on the piano bench in another area. Had they been found together, or did she just follow wherever he went? I had been offered a chair next to my muffin container near the café. I eyed the
CLOSED
sign on the café door and wished I could get a cup of coffee.

I was also beginning to feel a little panicky. In a few hours, I'd be back in this same room welcoming my retreat group. Visions of me nodding off at the registration table danced anxiously through my mind. And contributing even more to my feeling of anxiety was seeing Sammy's silks.

A cop finally had come by to take my information and my statement. I simply told him what I had seen and done. I hesitated when I got to the end. There was no reason to mention what I'd seen on the ground after Diana was removed. But I couldn't get the image of the brightly colored prop out of my mind. What had Sammy done? I got up to leave. “Not yet,” he'd said, gesturing back toward my seat.

The officer didn't explain why he wanted me to stay but I thought I knew the answer. When the door opened and Lieutenant Borgnine came in, I realized I was right. He glanced around the room and his gaze stopped at me. There was a flicker of “oh no” in his expression. Not that it was a surprise. And the feeling was mutual.

Lieutenant Borgnine had moved up to Cadbury after spending years working for the Los Angeles Police Department. I think he viewed working in Cadbury as retirement with pay since the crime rate was very low in the small town. Murder had been unheard of for years. And then suddenly there seemed to be an upturn in the homicides, which unfortunately seemed to coincide with my moving to town. It wasn't my fault, honest. There was a little more to the tension between us. Let's just say he'd been wrong and I'd been right on a number of cases.

He was just a little taller than me with a firepluglike shape. His hair was salt and pepper, heavy on the salt, and cut so short it was more like stubble around a generous bald spot. The rumpled gray-toned sport coat seemed to be his uniform. I still hadn't figured out if he had a number of them that all looked the same or he just always wore the same one. The surprise was, he had jeans on instead of his usual slacks. They weren't the form-fitting kind of jeans that Dane wore. I'd classify Lieutenant Borgnine's loose-fitting pair as grandpa jeans.

He had zeroed in on me and crossed directly to where I was sitting. “I dressed in a hurry,” he said in a curt voice, apparently noticing that I had focused on his pant choice. “Let's get down to business,” he said, taking out his notebook. “I understand you found the victim.” He was doing his best to sound professional, but there was a tinge of disappointment as if, if there had to be a victim, he wished anybody else in the world had found her.

I nodded and he continued. “Is the victim one of your retreat people?”

“No,” I answered.

“Any personal involvement with her?” Again I said no and he seemed a little relieved. “Then you'll just answer any question without a problem.” He said it more as a statement but left it hanging like a question. Maybe we'd had a little problem in the past of me asking him too many questions and answering too few of his.

I wasn't looking to be disagreeable. In fact, I wanted to give him the information about her as quickly as possible, hoping he'd let me go without bringing up the long tail of silks. I was hoping that the lieutenant would think it was just a scarf she'd been wearing.

“Diane Rathman is the wife of the president of the organization putting on the My Favorite Year 1963 retreat.” I still used the word
is
. Wishful thinking maybe? “I don't know her. In fact, I have never even spoken to her.” I mentioned that I'd been with Madeleine Delacorte, hoping that he was like the rest of the town and viewed her as local royalty. “I overheard a conversation with her husband, Norman Rathman, and he seemed surprised that she'd come. And not so happy about it, either.” As I said it, I dipped my head toward where Norman Rathman was sitting. I wanted to imply something without saying it. To somehow make it so that Lieutenant Borgnine would think it was his idea there was something going on between Norman Rathman and his assistant. I thought he'd be less resistant that way. “That's his assistant, Sally Winston.” I did a similar move with my head toward the woman sitting on the piano bench. “She didn't seem happy to see Diana, either.”

When I'd started working for the detective agency, my boss, Frank, had given me a short lecture on investigating. I'm not even sure why he bothered. I was only temp help and he had me doing phone interviews. But the information had stuck with me. Did I mention that working for Frank was my favorite of all temp jobs, and if he'd had more business, I'd probably still be in Chicago working for him? One of the things he'd said was that most killers knew their victims, usually very well, and the cops always considered spouses first. I'm sure Lieutenant Borgnine knew that and would get there on his own, but I wanted to point him in that direction on the slight possibility he wasn't thinking of it.

I made a move to get up, thinking we were finished, but he gestured for me to stay put. “You gave that up a little too easily,” he said, studying my face. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” I said, putting up my hands in capitulation. “She's not one of my people, so there's no reason for me not to tell you everything I know about her or her husband or even the assistant.” I couldn't resist and had to add, “Isn't it odd that Norman's assistant is here? I mean, did Kevin St. John feel obligated to notify her? Or maybe she and Norman were having a late-night meeting to discuss the next day's activities. I heard that Norman and Diana were getting a divorce. Probably a messy one. But that's not an issue anymore, is it?”

“Ms. Feldstein, I knew your cooperation was too good to be true. Just because you worked for a PI once upon a time doesn't mean you're qualified to investigate—anything.” He sat forward and moved a little closer. “I understand there was some kind of altercation between Dr. Sammy Glickner and the victim.”

I tried to do the cop face thing and not react to what he said, but his words hit me like an arrow and I instinctively drew back. Did that mean that someone had identified the scarf as Sammy's?

What to say, I thought, trying to come up with something that wouldn't sound defensive. The lieutenant smiled. “Don't worry, there's nothing you need to say. There were plenty of witnesses.”

He abruptly snapped his notebook shut with a satisfied expression, but even so I noticed him give his right temple a slight massage. I'd heard that I'd given him a headache before, and it seemed that even when he thought he'd won, he got one anyway. And he'd probably blame me.

The night was fading when I finally went home. I'd never seen Vista Del Mar at dawn before. Other than the cop cars and the tent that had been erected over the spot where Diana had been found, the place was still. The low-hanging clouds
absorbed even the sound of the rustle of the wind. Normally, I would have been fascinated by this last moment of quiet before the place began to stir, but today it only made me more apprehensive.

I glanced at the guest house before continuing on to my kitchen door. What had Sammy done? Then I mentally shook myself. Of course, nothing. Sammy was a big teddy bear who said he was a lover, not a fighter. He'd been heckled before. He'd survived doing silly magic tricks at a biker bar in Seaside. Surely one woman ruining an illusion wouldn't put him over the edge. Would it?

Julius was waiting for me when I came in the kitchen door. He rubbed against my legs in his version of a welcome. Then he sat down and looked up at me with his yellow-eyed stare. It seemed like some sort of reproach. Was he trying to ask where I'd been all night?

I didn't waste any time fussing with him and went right for the stink fish in the refrigerator. I had it wrapped in multiple layers of plastic inside a plastic bag and still the fishy odor escaped. He smelled it, too, and rubbed against my ankle, this time appearing to be saying thank you.

He was noisily eating when I went for the phone. I calculated the time difference. Even so, it was still early in Chicago, but Frank had to be up, didn't he. I punched in the number and waited.

Frank answered with an abrupt hello. I'd barely gotten my greeting out when he interrupted.

“Feldstein, is that you?” He didn't wait for my response before he continued. “Oh, no, an early morning call from you can't be good. What's wrong now?”

Frank was my former boss, the PI in Chicago. He had nothing in common with the sexy TV detectives, but then I doubted any real private investigators did. I always said he
resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy more than James Bond. This wasn't the first time I'd called him for help and I knew I'd have to endure his grumbling before he gave me advice.

I was proactive this time and didn't wait for him to ask if I was still living in the place he referred to as “that town that sounds like a candy bar.”

“So what is it this time?” he said. “It can't be another murder.” I swallowed hard, trying to think of a way to put it so it wouldn't sound so bad. At last I croaked out a yes.

“Feldstein, you better give me the details. How do you know the victim?”

“I don't know her at all,” I began. “It's more about who the cops are going to focus on. It's Sammy,” I said.

“Sammy?” Frank repeated. “Is he the cop down the street you keep flirting with?”

“No, that's Dane,” I said.

“I can't keep up with the men in your life. Who is this Sammy?” Frank let out a little grunt, trying to sound like he was frustrated by the whole thing. I gave him the rundown on how Sammy fit in my life, explaining that he was my ex-boyfriend from Chicago who had recently relocated to Monterey. I detailed that he was a doctor of urology who did magic on the side.

“The magic part is important,” I said before describing how, in the midst of Sammy's magic act, the victim had intervened and pulled the trail of silk scarves from Sammy's sleeve. When Frank heard that the same trail of scarves had been found at the murder scene, he sighed. He sighed even more heavily when he heard that Sammy had showed up drunk on my doorstep mumbling that he'd done something terrible.

“Maybe you should just find him a good lawyer,” Frank said.

“But I'm sure he didn't do it,” I protested.

Frank tried to tell me that it didn't matter what I thought. “Feldstein, it sounds like he had a motive—she made him look bad in front of a crowd. He had the means, the silks you seem to think she was strangled with were his prop, and he could have easily had opportunity. You describe that place as dark and eerie. He could have been waiting behind a tree when she walked by and then . . .” It sounded like Frank snapped his fingers to re-create the sound of a breaking neck.

I let out an involuntary
ewww
.

“I'm telling you, Feldstein, your best bet is to lawyer him up before the cops even get to him.” When I protested further, I could hear Frank mumbling to himself about unrealistic amateur detectives. “Okay, have it your way, defend the guy. Then why don't you just settle down with him. A nice doctor for a husband, isn't that every woman's dream?”

“You sound like my mother. Getting Sammy off the hook has nothing to do with wanting to marry him. Where should I start?”

“Feldstein, you know what to do. I know you only worked for me a short time, but I like to think I taught you a lot and I have given you advice since. Think about it.”

“I suppose I should start by talking to Sammy. Maybe he has a great alibi. And I should find out what happened to the silk piece . . .” My voice trailed off as I thought about it.

“See, I told you, you know what to do. But even so, you might want to have a lawyer in the background, just in case.” Just before he hung up, he told me to let him know what happened.

I sat back with the phone in my lap. I planned to think about my options, but instead drifted into a light sleep. I was vaguely aware that Julius had jumped on the couch and had cuddled next to my thigh. And then the phone in my lap rang and shattered my sleep.