Death of A High Maintenance Blonde (Jubilant Falls Series Book 5) (14 page)

Chapter 21 Charisma

I handed the letter back to Gary.

“She’s accused him of GSI—gross sexual imposition. That’s pretty damned serious,” I said. “Did you know that was in there?”

Gary flipped through a few more pages of Martz’ personnel file before answering me.

“If I did, it wouldn’t have mattered before Eve Dahlgren was killed. But look at this.” McGinnis handed me another piece of paper. “The post did an investigation, as she asked. The commander took the whole thing very seriously—put Martz on desk duty and everything—but it didn’t last too long. Apparently, what Miss Dahlgren didn’t realize was that warnings—written or verbal—are recorded in the dispatch log. It’s a little different than what we do here at the PD. We actually keep all written warnings on file for a period of time. When investigators checked the log for the nights Eve claimed Martz stopped her, they found no mention of a warning or even a traffic stop. They couldn’t even find a record of her calling in to complain—and if someone called in to accuse a trooper of a sex crime, there’d sure as hell be a record of it and there would sure as hell be a swift response. Because of that, the post commander said there was no basis for her accusations and dismissed the whole thing. She apparently wasn’t happy.”

“According to one of Addison’s sources, the woman who was the cheerleader with Eve, she had a tendency to fabricate stories to get back at people,” I said.

“Looks like that’s what happened here,” Gary said, flipping through the file. “She wanted to stick to her guns, though. Her lawyer threatened a lawsuit, screamed cover up, but backed down when faced with the truth.”

“But why would she target a trooper?”

“I don’t know,” McGinnis said. “According to the investigation report, this whole thing was ‘the result of some unknown personal vendetta.’ Bob Martz may have flirted with the women in the office, but he was a professional with the general public, from what I heard while I was there. Eve may have come on to him somewhere or somehow. When he refused her advances, it pissed her off and she wrote this letter. Who knows at this point?”

“Could it have gotten him killed though? Could Eve Dahlgren have shot him?”

Gary shot a sideways look at me. “You’re listening to your boss too much. She wants to pin an awful lot on our victim. Eve may have been a badge bunny—”

“A
what
?”

“A badge bunny—a woman who wants to have sex with cops, especially if they’re in uniform. Eve may have been a badge bunny, but we don’t think she’s a killer.”

A shadow darkened the door and we looked up as a heavy, almost obese police officer stepped into the room. The epaulets on his white starched shirt had four stars and he carried his hat in his hand. It had the same four stars across the front.

“Hey Marvin,” Gary said, nodding. “Charisma Lemarnier, this is my brother Marvin. He’s the chief.”

“Pleased to meet you, Chief,” I said shaking his hand. “I had hopes of interviewing you for the story about the body in the creek, but we never seemed to make connections.”

Marvin McGinnis’s bear-paw hand covered my hand. “Yes, my schedule can get pretty full. Still, I’m pleased to meet you. It’s not often we have a reporter with your qualifications come to Jubilant Falls,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my throat tightening.

“Most reporters who’ve covered Baghdad probably find Jubilant Falls a very dull place.”

I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. What I’d feared for so long, what I’d tried to hide was somehow known to the world. Who would have done this to me? Why? My hand, still clutched in the chief’s heavy grasp, began to shake. I pulled it free.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please don’t say anything… I can’t let anybody find me. I’m not ready.”

The chief didn’t hear me. “You don’t look like I remember you from television, though. Wasn’t your hair blonde back then? You’re face is a little different, too, but then with the injuries you sustained… I probably shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I just remember sitting in front of the television watching that one series you did on girls’ schools in Afghanistan. Man, that was powerful stuff, powerful stuff. Then when that bomb went off—”

Gary’s eyes widened as he too realized my identity.

“You’re Charisma Prentiss!” he gasped. “Oh my God!”

“
Stop it! Shut up!
” I screamed. Dropping the papers from Bob Martz’s file onto the floor, I ran from the room, out the door of the basement department and up the stairs into the street.

Chapter 22 Leland

I ordered lunch at the hotel restaurant and carried it up to my room, where I would continue my research.

Thanks to the clip files, I had a list of firms Eve Dahlgren was employed by, either full-time or as a consultant, up until the mid-1990s. Hopefully, I could get folks to talk to me and let me know what she was like, where she went after that and why. A couple phone calls shouldn’t take long; although not the most ethical thing to do, being a fake PI was a good cover. There would be plenty of time this afternoon to run that stuff down.

My mind was on Charisma.

As I ate, I thought about everything I’d seen in the
Journal-Gazette
newsroom this morning. They were a hard-working bunch, comfortable working with each other. Although Charisma also gave her job all she had, I noticed she kept herself apart from most interaction with the other staff members. One young man spoke incessantly about his infant daughter; an older male reporter, looking to be in his early fifties, spoke about covering city hall to Addison. From his conversation, he sounded like the most senior reporter there. A photographer was on staff, but he was apparently out on a vacation day. Dennis, the only person whose name I caught, was the assistant editor and functioned often as the one who kept everything running smoothly.

The chatter was typical of most newsrooms I’d been in—loud, profane and politically incorrect—but Charisma didn’t take part in any of it. She kept her head down and worked as everything circled around her. It might have been part of her efforts to stay unrecognized; it might have been her single-minded focus, I wasn’t sure. As a result, she wasn’t really an integral part of the team. The others knew she could be counted on, that she would fulfill her responsibilities, but I sensed that they hadn’t bonded with her. She wasn’t one of them and until she opened up and put down roots here, she wouldn’t be.

I’d seen that in other small newspapers, ones dominated with staff members whose families had been in the community for generations. New employees who were not related to someone in the community were welcomed and accepted, but it was expected at some point they would move on—and they generally did. Was that what was happening here? If so, that couldn’t necessarily be blamed on Charisma.

Why had she chosen this particular little Ohio town? Was it the slower pace? Was it the off-the-beaten-path aspect of Jubilant Falls? Maybe she figured both would be make it easier for her to recover. And why choose to hide in plain sight as she had? Why continue to work in an industry like the news that made someone’s identity so public, day after day?

When Noah died and my marriage collapsed, I couldn’t face the public scrutiny and chose to hide in academia. While I wasn’t charged with my son’s death, I still had to live with the story on the front page, followed less than six months later by another headline,
Reporter Charged In Assault
, after I punched Bitch Goddess’s lover in the face. Philly newspapers, as well as every other East Coast paper had a field day with it, with headlines filled with leering, juvenile double meanings that nearly destroyed Bitch Goddess’s career. That was followed a few months later by a brief page 3B story that began:
An Inquirer reporter charged with assaulting a Channel 3 news anchor received probation and will enter alcohol rehabilitation as part of his sentence.

The story ended with the publisher’s statement, “Mr. Huffinger has been a great part of the team here at the
Philadelphia Inquirer
for a number of years and we wish him well on his efforts to regain his health.”

The story didn’t include a picture of me being escorted out of the building by security, a box of personal belongings in my arms. Management wouldn’t fire me until I’d been proven guilty, after all.

No one ever came looking for me and I did everything to keep the story of my own personal and professional implosion to myself. Outside of my AA meetings, I never told anyone the truth about myself.

Like Charisma, I’d found a place to hide, an insular little world of my own.

She said I’d been the first to come looking for her. It hadn’t been too difficult. Did the general public really have that short of an attention span? Was that what she was counting on?

Maybe tonight she’d be willing to open up to me about her PTSD. Maybe I could find out more of what was behind her choices.

I swallowed my last bite of lunch, stacked my dirty dishes on the tray, and opened the door to set them in the hall for pick up. A young woman from housekeeping walked by, carrying a stack of towels in her arms. A lavender fragrance, similar to Charisma’s, followed in her wake.

I sat the tray on the carpeted hall floor and leaned against my doorframe, struck by the nearly physical reaction I had to the scent.

I had more than veered off the path I intended to follow when I came to Jubilant Falls. I wasn’t anywhere near close to looking at this whole situation from an academic or objective viewpoint. Why even pretend I was here to research anything? After all, it’s not like the department chair knew what I was doing, or that I’d received any kind of a grant or stipend to fund this wild goose chase. My meals, my hotel bill and my airline ticket all came out of my own pocket.

Don’t lie to yourself, old man
, I thought.

I came in search of the world’s most sought-after reporter, and suddenly didn’t want to expose her secrets. I’d seen her at her best, making sure she got the information she needed the night the inn burned. I’d seen her at her worst, fighting through the after-effects of the trauma she’d endured. Who was I to rip open her wounds again, this time for the public to see?

Charisma held me at arms length for that very reason. I saw that now.

I stepped back into my hotel room and closed the door.

If I was going to gain her trust, I had to keep up my end of the bargain and see what I could dig up about Eve Dahlgren.

Chapter 23 Addison

“Betty Dahlgren abused Eve?” I stared at Earlene, who was back to gazing at herself in the make up mirror, adjusting each one of her false lashes, like Gloria Swanson in ‘Sunset Boulevard,’ ready for her close up.

An abusive background would make sense of the bullying Angela Perry suffered through, I thought to myself.

Somehow, I couldn’t put the image of a raging, abusive parent together with the well coiffed little old lady sitting on the front porch of that old elegant farmhouse, but god knows what secrets lurk inside someone’s door. Maybe Eve’s father was the abuser. He might not have abused Eve—he might have abused and controlled Betty and Eve was simply a witness. In either case, it would color her relationship with men. It might also explain what happened at the bar near OSU—and even her overreaction to me tutoring Jimmy Lyle.

“I don’t know what the exact details were,” Earlene said. “She wouldn’t talk about it—never,
ever
—except in these cryptic one-sentence declarations when she’d had too much to drink
.
”

“Like what?”

Earlene shrugged. “One thing she would say, particularly when she had been drinking, was ‘You don’t know what’s behind those awful doors.’”

How could a house with such local historic significance have such dark secrets? Suddenly, I thought about the stocky woman in the pink baseball cap, the one I’d seen at Betty’s house.

“Did Eve have a sister or a cousin? Somebody that lives at the house with her?”

Earlene grimaced. “Not that she mentioned. Why?”

“I saw this person the other day when I was out at the Dahlgren house to talk to Betty. This woman is short, stocky, maybe a couple years younger than us. She has bad hair, short and dirty blonde. She had a ball cap that said ‘Barn Diva’ across the front.”

Earlene shook her head. “No idea. They’ve had horses for some time. I’ll bet she works with them.”

“You and Eve went to college together, too, didn’t you?” I vaguely remembered her rattling on and on about tailgating at college football games.

“Yes, Texas A&M. We applied at the same time and everything.”

“Didn’t you guys room together?”

“Not the first term. Eve didn’t show up until January, when winter term began.”

“Why not?”

“She said her parents decided to take her to Europe at the last minute, as a graduation gift.”

“Did that seem strange to you? You would think that your best friend from high school would want to pick up where you left off, party-wise.”

Earlene shrugged. “If my Daddy wanted to take me to Europe at the last minute, I’d sure let him. Anyway, Eve was bright. She made up all the classes she missed during summer term. We had an off-campus apartment together that summer—while I was working retail at the mall, she was studying.”

I made a few more notes. Earlene stood up and smoothed her tight skirt.

“You’re going to do a story on this, right?”

“What does your lawyer say?”

“Oh, who cares what he says? He did his job.”

“As long as you realize the consequences of talking to me. The investigation is still open and you could be charged again.”

Earlene rolled her eyes. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Can you explain how your fingerprints got on the Lincoln’s steering wheel?”

“Of course! I’ve driven that Lincoln more than once when Eve’s had too much to drink! I drove that car just a few days ago.”

“What about the knife the police found?”

“Well,
clearly
Eve was right to feel paranoid at the restaurant Saturday night. Somebody was following her, just like she thought. Whoever it was, overpowered her in the car on Sunday and drove her to wherever she was killed. And I’ll bet you they wore gloves when they drove the car and when they stabbed her with the knife. I’ve seen that lots of times on television.”

“This isn’t television!”

“I know—and I didn’t kill her!”

I tried not to shake my head in disbelief as I made a few more notes and we both stood.

“When do you think you’ll be back in the office?” I asked finally.

“Daddy wants me to go back to Texas to visit some old friends until this blows over. My lawyer says I need to stay until this whole thing gets resolved. I may not listen to either one of them,” she shrugged. “I may go to the Bahamas. I can’t go back to that office as long as people think I killed somebody.”

*****

I returned to the newsroom for a few minutes to check in before calling it a day. Marcus waved at me as he finished up a story on the annual meeting the county commission held with township trustees. He also had photos of the fair board painting the cattle barns at the fairgrounds in preparation for next month’s fair.

Dennis had a whole list of messages for me: Graham was awaiting a trial verdict on the school bus driver caught driving drunk and wouldn’t be back in the office until he heard one way or another. Two people called about being left out of an obituary, claiming to be children from their deceased father’s unknown first marriage, and the city school transportation coordinator wanted to do a story about two new buses the district purchased but couldn’t get in touch with Charisma.

“Where is she, anyway?” I asked Dennis. “I haven’t heard from anybody. My cell phone hasn’t rung all afternoon.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s put in a lot of hours over the last few days, according to her time card. She might have gone home for the day.”

I nodded and laid the message on her desk. She could get it tomorrow.

“Well, I think I’m going to do the same,” I said.

In a few minutes, I was pulling up the long gravel driveway to the farmhouse, past the soybean field where the tiny green leaves were starting to poke through the rich, black soil.

It was one of those perfect Ohio days where white puffy clouds hung in a light blue sky. Today, one of them hovered behind our old red barn; the Holsteins in the paddock outside the barn added to the pastoral scene. Duncan’s old Allis Chalmers tractor stood outside the barn, hitched to a hay wagon, which held several plastic-wrapped round bales, the first cut from our hay fields. They would be used to feed our heifers later this summer and into the fall and winter. A second cutting would come about a month later, and depending on the weather, we might be able to get a third cutting, which could be a source of cash when we sold it to area horse owners.

I am so lucky to be here,
I thought to myself as I parked my Taurus next to the side door.
On this beautiful day, on this beautiful farm, who could want anything else?

The old wooden screen door, which led into the kitchen, was open. As I stepped from the car, a high-pitched angry wail pealed from inside the farmhouse.

“Hi guys,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. “Did I hear a baby cry?”

Duncan and Isabella stood in front of the microwave. Duncan turned to face me.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “We’ve got some company tonight.” In his arms was a small, red-faced bundle, kicking and crying. The microwave beeped, and Isabella removed a bottle. She took the baby from her father and popped the bottle into its mouth, instantly stopping the squalling.

“Hi Mom. This is Miss Gwendolyn Kinnon, Graham’s daughter,” she said.

“Ahh, Miss Gwennie,” I said, touching her little face. “I haven’t seen you in a little while.”

Gwennie, now pleased she had something in her stomach, smiled from around the bottle nipple, formula running from her mouth and into the fat folds of her neck. Duncan wordlessly took a dishtowel from the kitchen counter and wiped it away, laying the towel on Isabella’s shoulder.

“Graham has another jury he’s waiting on, so I’m watching her again,” Isabella said. “He said he tried to call you and let you know what was going on, but it went straight to voicemail.”

I grimaced and dug through my purse. “Hmmm. My phone didn’t ring all afternoon—figures, it’s dead. I did hear from Dennis about the trial, though, so we’re good. Dad and I will go out and get the milking done while you feed Gwennie.”

Duncan and I headed out to the barn as Isabella sat in the living room to finish feeding the baby.

He reached over and took my hand as we strolled across the grass toward the milking parlor.

“Kind of nice to have a baby in the house,” he said.

I looked over at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Maybe.”

“Isabella has a couple terms in college yet and no plans beyond this farm, Grandpa,” I said. “Let’s not rush things.”

Still, after I ran back into town for a pizza, and we all settled into the living room, it
was
nice to sit back and watch Isabella play with Gwennie on the rug. The drooling, now smiling baby kicked both legs and waved her arms as Isabella held a squeaky toy above her. The joyous sound of a giggling baby, the way Isabella—and Duncan— got down on the floor and played with her… I couldn’t help but feel warm, safe and calm here in my own home.

But what about Eve? From what I learned from Earlene, she didn’t experience the feelings that now surrounded me. The abuse she allegedly suffered at the hands of her parents clearly colored her relationships with others, both women and men. She bullied other members of the cheerleading squad and the men she dated, subjecting them to physical abuse and lies. Jimmy Lyle did something to her that set her off and, if Earlene was to be believed, he ended up dead. She vandalized yet another young man’s vehicle when he was caught flirting with another girl in a campus bar.

Her job continued the abuse, if Angela Perry was to be believed, ripping people apart before eliminating their jobs in an effort to streamline corporate efficiency. Was the young man in the creek one of her professional victims? Betty Dahlgren’s reaction was striking: “Eve didn’t like that boy.” What did that mean? Had they been romantically involved? Had he not taken a break up well? Or had this unknown young man come to Jubilant Falls, begging to get his job back? Had she killed him then?

In Charisma’s story, Hiram Warder surmised that two people committed the murder. But who? Eve and her father? He was still alive at the time the boy’s body was found. Could he have killed him and then out of guilt, committed suicide several years later? Could it have been someone else who lived in that house? Eve never spoke of any siblings, according to Earlene.

And who was that woman in the ‘Barn Diva’ hat? Where does she fit into all this? Does she work at the farm, caring for the horses as Earlene surmised? Does she help care for Betty Dahlgren? What’s her place in all this?

Who killed Eve Dahlgren? Who had she enraged in her long history of abuse to make her feel paranoid while out to dinner Saturday with Earlene? Was someone following her? And what would push them far enough to want to kill her?

My thoughts on Eve’s murder evaporated as Gwennie squalled. Isabella picked her up, patting her on the bottom as the baby sucked ravenously on her fist.

“Time to call it a night, little one,” Isabella said. “One last bottle and we’re putting you to bed.”

Duncan made up another bottle of formula and, when the microwave beeped, handed it to Isabella. Gwennie took the rubber nipple into her mouth, sucking until her eyes grew heavy with slumber.

“Where is she sleeping?” I asked as Isabella walked down the hallway toward the dining room we used as an office.

“Graham brought over a portable crib,” Duncan said. “We set it up back there the last time Izzy babysat.”

“What, is this going to be a regular thing?” I asked.

Duncan shrugged. “It works out pretty well for everybody. Gwennie seems to like Izzy. Graham knows his daughter is OK, Izzy has a little extra money in her pocket and you have a reporter who can stick with a story until it’s done.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door.

“Speaking of the devil…Isabella, don’t put her down just yet. Graham’s here.” Duncan walked through the kitchen and let Graham in the door. “Come on in,” he said.

Graham waved sheepishly at me.

“Got a verdict?” I asked.

He nodded. “Guilty. Sentencing will be later this month, but guy won’t be driving a school bus—or anything else—anytime soon. At least that’s what the prosecutor is asking for and the judge indicated he wants to throw the book at him. I can write the story tonight, if you want. We’ll need to follow up with the school district, too, and see if he gets fired.”

“Go ahead. That way we will have it before the TV stations and the eleven o’clock news,” I said. I knew as soon as he got her settled into bed, he’d sit down and write the story. Many things may have changed in his life, but his drive to be first on a story hadn’t. He could post it from home to the website.

Isabella brought Gwennie into the kitchen and handed her off to her father. Quickly, we rounded up baby stuff: blankets, toys, bottles, a final bottle of formula from the fridge as Graham fastened his daughter in the car seat outside. Duncan and I handed everything to Izzy, who packed it all in the diaper bag.

“Got everything?” I asked, reaching for the diaper bag. “I’ll take it out to him if you want.”

“I got this.” Isabella smiled and pulled the diaper bag closer to her. “Let me go say goodbye to Miss Gwennie.”

Duncan wrapped his arm around my shoulders as she walked out to Graham’s minivan.

“It was nice to have a little one around, I have to admit,” I said, leaning against him. “Maybe some day.”

Duncan drew me close and hugged me. As we parted, I glanced out the kitchen door. I saw Graham lean close to my daughter’s face and his arms slip around Isabella’s shoulders. Did he just kiss my daughter? What the hell is going on here?