Fillet of Murder (11 page)

All the more reason Talia wanted to pry into Suzy's psyche a bit more. She felt sure Suzy had lied to her about refusing to sign Turnbull's petition.

Had Jim lied, too? Was that why he hadn't been able to look her in the eye when she'd asked him about it?

Despite her warm jacket, a shiver danced up Talia's arms. She had a sudden image of Phil Turnbull as puppeteer, controlling the strings of the arcade proprietors even from the grave.

As if he'd had some hold over them.

Some strange, manipulative hold that even death couldn't break.

Jill locked the door and they all stepped outside onto the cobblestone plaza. The night air, nippier than before, sneaked its icy fingers under the sleeves of Talia's jacket. She shivered and tucked her scarf more tightly around her neck.

Talia jumped when she saw that they weren't alone on the plaza. Several yards away, a man in a trench coat stood watching them, his hands resting protectively on the shoulders of the young girl standing in front of him.

“Mommy!” Clad in a short camel jacket over corduroy pants, the little girl broke away and raced over to Jill.

Talia realized she was looking at Carly—Jill's daughter.

Squinting, Talia studied the child. Was she the little girl in the mystery photograph? Did she bear any resemblance to Turnbull?

“Hey there, Carlycat!” Jill grinned and wrapped her arms around the child, pulling her close. “Aren't you cold, standing out here? Why didn't you and Daddy wait for me in the car?” Jill's gaze skittered to the man walking slowly toward her, but she didn't acknowledge him.

“She wanted to wait for you here,” he said with a polite nod to everyone. “I promised I'd treat you both to a sundae at Scooped.” His voice was Ivy League suave, his features pleasing but unremarkable. Even in the dark, his navy trench coat looked straight out of Brooks Brothers.

Jill introduced Carly all around. In a clipped tone she added, “And this is my husband, Gerry.”

“What about the sundae, Mommy? Can we get one?” Carly begged.

“Of course, if that's what you want, sweetie.” Jill kissed
the top of her head. “But I thought we were going to save that for tomorrow?”

“We can't. Daddy has to leave for a business trip in the morning.”

Jill shot her husband a dark look. “On Saturday.”

“It came up suddenly,” Gerry said, avoiding her eyes. “I have a meeting in Tokyo on Monday.”

Talia shifted her weight from one polka-dotted sneaker to the other. If there was a magic button she could press that would instantly transport her to her car, she'd be on it in a heartbeat.

“Luvvy.” Bea tugged on the elbow of Talia's jacket. “We really ought to be going. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day, and we both need our beauty sleep.”

“That's true. We really should fly. Thanks for hosting the meeting, Jill.”

Talia and Bea issued hasty good-byes and fled toward their cars, Suzy in hot pursuit.

•   •   •

“Whew,” Suzy said. “Thank God for you guys. That was
sooo
embarrassing, wasn't it?”

“It was uncomfortable, to say the least,” Talia agreed. “By the way, I loved the way you handled Kendra at the meeting. I had the feeling she'd never been spoken to that way before.”

“Thanks, but it had to be done. The way she bombed in there like a locomotive? I figured someone had to switch off her key.”

They made their way across the plaza toward Main Street. Most of the downtown shops had gone dark, although tiny lights shone in several of the front windows. They passed
Talia's favorite gift shop—the Chortling Giraffe—where a string of orange lights flickered around the edge of the darkened display window. Beyond the glass, a trio of papier-mâché witches gathered in a spooky faux forest. Among the bare branches, several sets of fake staring eyeballs had been cleverly tucked. The witches hunkered around a black plastic caldron, maniacal grins plastered on their wart-encrusted faces. Talia smiled, imagining a mini-version of the scene on the mantel above Nana's never-used fireplace.

Not that she had time to decorate this season, or the inclination. She remembered the Realtor cautioning her not to load the house with tchotchkes. “The barer, the better,” the broker had told her. “Buyers want to imagine their own personal touches there, not yours.”

When they reached the town parking lot, Talia dug out her ladybug key chain. After ensuring that Bea and Suzy were safely ensconced in their vehicles, she beeped open her car lock. A moment later, Bea's ancient Datsun crawled up and idled in front of her. It wasn't until Talia flashed her headlights that Bea's car eased out onto the main drag.

A thought struck her like a hammer to the chest. She'd never told Bea about Westlake's advice to get a lawyer. She'd been stalling, dreading Bea's reaction.

But if she delayed telling her long enough, maybe she'd never have to. Wasn't it possible the police would have the real killer in custody by morning?

Didn't the police work around the clock to catch a killer?

She sure hoped so. Because the thought of them marching into the eatery the next day and arresting Bea for murder was just too horrible to imagine.

Talia zipped her little car into Nana's driveway and killed the engine. The bungalow was pitch dark. With an involuntary shiver, she vowed to buy a timer for one of the lights. Never again did she want to be forced to enter an unlit house.

Using the mini-light on her ladybug keychain for guidance, she climbed the front steps and unlocked the door. A sudden, plaintive cry gave her a start.

Mewww.

Talia let out a breath. The sound was animal, not human.

Heart thumping, she walked to the side of the porch, toward the sound. She flicked the beam from her keychain over the edge of the railing. An adorable feline face came into view—a furry, tricolored angel. The cat gazed up at Talia with a pair of moon-sized eyes.

Talia ducked inside the bungalow and plunked her handbag and the empty pickle tray onto her grandfather's ratty
old chair. She flipped on the porch light and then, moving quietly, descended the steps. She hoped she hadn't already spooked the cat with the bright light.

It was still there—a darling calico, thin and shivering. Its face was mottled black and tan, and it had delicate white paws. Talia recalled reading somewhere that calico cats were almost always female, though she couldn't remember the reason why.

Moving slowly, Talia stooped and held out her hand. “Oh, sweetie, are you hungry?” she said in a soft, singsong voice. “Would you like something to eat?”

The cat took a few skittish steps backward. She looked ready to bolt.

Talia rose and retreated into the house, praying the cat would remain where she was. She returned with two plastic bowls—one filled with fresh water and the other with a can of flaked tuna. She wasn't sure if cats were supposed to eat “people tuna,” but surely it was better than starving.

The calico kitty was still there. The moment Talia set the bowls down, the cat attacked the tuna.

Talia watched her scarf down food for a few moments, her heart melting for the little creature. If nothing else, the cat wouldn't go to bed hungry. Wherever her “bed” was.

She climbed the porch steps again and stepped into the cozy warmth of Nana's bungalow. The cat kept popping into her mind. Was she alone in the world, with no one to care for her? Had someone dumped her and fled, leaving her to fend for herself?

Nana had always wanted a cat, but her severe allergy to cat dander had put the kibosh on that notion. Chet, naturally, had an intense loathing of cats, so Talia never even brought up the subject with him.

For now, the least she could do was feed her little visitor. In the morning she'd check the animal shelter to see if anyone had reported her missing.

Talia washed the pickle tray and set it in the dish drainer, then nabbed a quick supper of Cheerios with low-fat milk. Curled up on Nana's sagging green sofa, she channel-surfed for at least half an hour. It struck her that the Friday night television lineup was alien territory. When she lived with Chet, their typical Friday evening consisted of drinks and dinner with a colleague or two from Chet's investment firm, followed by a late movie or the occasional sporting event. For Chet, the idea of spending an intimate Friday evening alone with Talia had all the allure of a trip to Mars. Not possible. Not happening.

With a sigh, she gave up trying to find anything that appealed. Random thoughts tumbled through her head, refusing to leave.

Her concern for Bea.

Her worry over needing a job
and
a permanent place to live. Plus, she hadn't seen her folks in several days and she knew they were getting antsy.

And the biggie—a murderer still at large.

At last, the bath oil Suzy had given her beckoned. Talia filled the tub and stepped into the steamy, aromatic water. The luscious scents of pumpkin and vanilla bubbled around her. She sank deep into the water. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine she was lying on a tropical beach. A bright sun warmed her face, while the sound of the waves curling over the shore lulled her into peaceful drowsiness.

Without warning, a man emerged from the sea, intruding on her tranquil image. Red-rimmed eyes shone from a pale, angry face. A knife protruded from the ugly wound on his
neck. Dripping wet, he trudged toward her, one arm outstretched. He drew closer, until she could see him clearly.

Phil Turnbull.

Talia's eyes jerked open. Good glory, she must have nodded off for a minute or two.

Or was Turnbull haunting her from the grave, trying to send her a message?

No, it was her—she was losing it. It was her overactive imagination, struggling to make sense of the murder.

One thing could not be denied—someone had hated Turnbull enough to want him dead.

Someone had seen to it that he would never again laugh or love, or peddle his lamps, or drive his treasured Caddy. Unfortunately, Turnbull had been a pro at making enemies. The killer could be anyone. Someone the police haven't even thought of.

It was all making her head throb.
Relax, relax.
She breathed in deeply and then exhaled, trying to slow her heartbeat. On her hit parade of murder, two suspects jockeyed for first place.

In the top spot—Kendra. The K-witch.

She'd crashed the meeting, but for what purpose? To rub their noses in the fact that her bizarrely clad stepson was going to set up shop in their midst?

According to Jill, Kendra also owned an interest in the lighting shop and had been strong-arming Phil to make changes he'd have hated. Talia suspected the word
compromise
did not occupy the pages of Kendra's personal dictionary. What if Kendra had taken matters into her own hands? Took the ultimate step and killed off the source of the objection?

Kendra had also made a cryptic comment about having
“bigger, more lucrative fish to fry.” The woman had plans up her designer sleeves. Was it the lighting store she coveted? Somehow, vintage lamps and chandeliers didn't seem like her type of gig.

And what had Jill meant when she pulled Kendra aside and accused her of
sitting pretty
?

And then there was suspect number two—Suzy Sato. Talia hated adding her to the list. She genuinely liked Suzy. Still, a few things about the woman didn't add up.

Suzy swore she hadn't signed Turnbull's petition, but Talia was more convinced than ever that she was lying. The way she'd blushed and caught herself when she made the “weirdo” comment had been a sure tipoff.

Something else about Suzy nagged at Talia's memory—something she couldn't quite lasso into her consciousness. It would come to her eventually. Maybe if she slept on it, it would float into her brain, and by morning she'd have all the answers.

Yeah, right. In the words of Aerosmith . . . dream on.

Talia closed her eyes again and tried to unwind her jumbled thoughts. There was another suspect she needed to consider—Jim Jepson.

Before tonight, she would never have believed she'd be considering her former geometry teacher for the position of murder suspect. Mr. J.—Jim—was the quintessential pacifist. Then why had he avoided looking her in the eye when she'd asked him about the petition? The phone call was odd, too. Whispered. Urgent. Was it about Turnbull? Or had she read too much into it?

After pulling on her favorite sleep jersey—a knee-length purple affair embellished with ladybugs—Talia booted up her laptop. Of the seven property management companies
she'd sent her résumé to, so far only two had responded. Both replies had been in the negative, although they promised to keep her “fine résumé” on file in the event of a future opening. The rejections had sounded eerily similar. Was there some database these people went to for stock responses?

She scrolled through her inbox, deleting the junk. She opened a message from her mom, sent a few hours ago:
Didn't want to bug you, honey, but are you okay? Dad and I are worried about you!

Talia grinned. Her mom disliked texting, preferring to use e-mail. Talia e-mailed back that she was hunky doony, as her dad liked to say, and that she'd see her on Sunday at Rachel's play.

She scrolled down to the last e-mail. It was from Diamond Crown Properties, a property management company in Holyoke. Her pulse pounding, Talia opened it.

Ms. Marby, thank you for your résumé and for your interest in Diamond Crown Properties. Are you available for an interview next Friday at 9:00 sharp? Our company is expanding, and we have an opening for a property manager. Your excellent qualifications fit our needs, and we look forward to meeting you.

Yes! She scored an interview! She crafted a quick response thanking the sender—one Donna Franklin—and confirmed the appointment. But when she slid the cursor to Send, her mouse finger froze.

Was this what she wanted? Holyoke was only an hour or so from Wrensdale, in the central part of the state. She could buy a garden-style condo for herself, start building up some equity. Meet new friends.

So what was the problem? Why was she wavering? She couldn't stay in Nana's house forever. At best it was a stopover until she could find her own place.

In her mind, she pictured herself telling Bea she was bailing on her, and Bea's kindly face crumbling. Okay, sure, Bea knew Talia wasn't a forever employee. She was only helping out while Howie was laid up. Still, it would be a setback, especially with the present turmoil in her life. Bea was going to be crushed if she got this job.

Stop being ridiculous. You're thirty-four, for pity's sake. Time to get a life and a home.

Before she could overthink it, she clicked Send. Task accomplished, her mind drifted back to her suspect list. Maybe Google could perform a little magic.

The search engine brought up several links on Suzy. The first was a 2010 snippet from the
Wrensdale Weekly
. “Vermont Native Opens Fragrance Shop in Wrensdale Arcade.” The article featured the opening of Sage & Seaweed. On the left was a photo of Suzy with her husband, Kenji Sato. Suzy's face was half hidden by an enormous pair of faux scissors as she pretended to cut a yellow ribbon in front of the charming new shop.

The remaining links mentioned Suzy in a cursory way, mostly relating to local charitable donations or fund-raisers. Talia searched for a Facebook page, but the only one she landed on was the one for Sage & Seaweed. She was surprised someone as gregarious as Suzy didn't have a personal page.

A search under Kendra's name brought up scads of links—everything from a fender bender with her Beemer to an Easter egg hunt sponsored by the Wrensdale Women's Council.

One particular link caught Talia's eye. The article, dated five months earlier, was from the
Berkshire Eagle
. “Wrensdale Resident Pitches Spa Designs to Planning Board.” The short clip described Kendra LaPlante's intention to acquire a seventeen-acre spread near the town line and build a luxury day spa. The spa would offer everything from facials and massages to yoga classes and professional beauty consultations.

Bigger and more lucrative fish to fry.

So that's what Kendra was cooking up.

Later articles confirmed approval of the plan. Envisioning new tax dollars plumping up the town's coffers, the planning board members had unanimously approved the proposal.

So where was Kendra getting the funding for her grand project? Even the sale of the lighting shop wouldn't make a dent in the cost of the new spa.

It was all making Talia's head spin. She yawned, too tired to think anymore. She was about to power down when a chirp from her computer signaled a new e-mail. She opened her inbox. Her stomach flipped when she saw the name of the sender—Chet Matthews.

A tiny sprig of optimism bloomed in her chest. Did he have a change of heart? Did he want to apologize for his bad behavior? Scrap the past and give their relationship a fresh start?

Is that what
she
wanted?

She opened the e-mail.

Hey, Talia. Hope things are well. I hate to pressure you, but I wondered if you could come by soon and pick up the rest of your things. Your quilt is still here, and a slew
of winter clothes. Do you want that table you bought in Rockport? It goes more with your décor than with mine. Anyway, if you pick a day, I'll arrange to be here. I can always work from home if necessary. How's the job search coming? Regards, Chet.

Stunned, Talia reread the e-mail.

Four years she'd lived with Chet. Loved Chet. Let him make all the decisions—which furniture to buy, where to vacation, how to spend every moment of her precious free time.

And since when had the décor become his and hers? Had she ever objected to the sleek, hard-edges pieces he'd chosen for the living room, and to which she contributed half the exorbitant cost? The single piece of furniture she'd chosen—the antique mahogany candle table—had been the only item in their condo she truly loved.

Swiping at the hot tears flooding her cheeks, she bashed out a terse response.
Monday is my day off. Will late morning work for you
? She didn't even type her name. Let him think she was too busy to be bothered.