Stuck on Murder (14 page)

Brenna had no doubt that this was Eleanor Sokolov. Her half-moon reading glasses perched low on her nose and were anchored by a chain about her neck. Her eyebrows were drawn on with a pencil shades darker than the fat, sausage-sized, champagne-colored curls that rolled about her head. Brenna could picture her sleeping in cold cream and rollers every night, which would probably explain her cranky disposition. She wore a turquoise and cobalt paisley polyester blouse with a large bow at the throat. She was a stout woman, who boasted a prominent bosom that reminded Brenna of the prow of a ship.

“May I help you?” she asked, sounding as if she had no intention of doing so but good manners forbade her from saying as much.

“Hi, Ms. Sokolov,” Tenley said. “It’s me, Tenley M—”

“I know who you are,” Ms. Sokolov interrupted. “It hasn’t been that long since I caught you and your boyfriend in flagrante delicto in your car in the school parking lot. I daresay I’ve seen more of you than anyone should.”

Tenley turned a vibrant shade of red, and Brenna felt her own eyebrows go up in surprise. Tenley caught fumbling in a car? Had it been with Matt? She could only imagine how Tenley’s parents had reacted to that.

A glance at Tenley and Brenna noticed her red face had receded into blotchy patches and she was drawing in a deep breath, the kind that would precede a yell. She figured she’d better intervene before it got ugly.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Brenna Miller. I’m working on a collage for Cynthia Ripley as a memorial to the mayor, and I was wondering if you had anything you wanted to include?”

With great reluctance, Ms. Sokolov pulled her gaze away from her stare-down with Tenley. She turned to Brenna and looked her up and down, the pursing of her thin crimson lips indicating that she found her wanting. But Brenna persevered. She’d worked the art scene in Boston, dealing with snot-nosed aristocrats with more money than taste. Surely, she could handle this old broad.

“Is this the mayor’s office?” she asked and strode forward.

Ms. Sokolov gaped at her as Brenna walked past. Then she leapt out from behind her desk. She was wearing a knee-length navy blue skirt that rode up higher in the back than in the front, due to her more than generous posterior. She splayed her arms across the doorway, blocking Brenna’s entrance.

“You can’t go in there!” she said.

“Why not?” Brenna asked. “I need more memorabilia for the collage. It’ll be on display at his service, where hundreds, maybe thousands, of people will see it, and I can’t have it looking shabby, now can I?”

“But this was Mr. Ripley’s office,” Ms. Sokolov said. “It’s private.”

“Hey, is that a picture of the two of you?” Brenna asked as she ducked under one of Ms. Sokolov’s beefy arms and strode into the room.

Hanging on the wall, amid scores of other photos, was a small framed photo of Mayor Ripley and Ms. Sokolov, standing at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for what appeared to be the new little league fields. It was obvious from the worshipful gaze she bestowed upon him in the photo that Ms. Sokolov had more than secretarial feelings for her boss. Ew.

“That sure would be nice to add to the collage,” Brenna said. “How long were you his secretary?”

“Six years,” Ms. Sokolov said. She fidgeted with the large bow at her throat.

“Well, we simply have to add a photo of the two of you then, don’t we? It wouldn’t be right to leave you out of his memorial, now would it?”

“No, but that’s the only photo I . . . we . . . have of . . .” Ms. Sokolov trailed off, obviously torn between her desire to be in the memorial and not wanting to give up perhaps the only picture of herself and her beloved boss.

“Tell you what, I’ll take it to the copy store and have them run me a copy, then you can have the original back,” Brenna offered.

“I suppose that would be all right,” Ms. Sokolov said. “But you must be very careful with it, and now I really must ask you to leave.”

Just then, on cue, Matt walked into the main office behind them.

“Excuse me, I’m here to test the fire extinguisher,” he said.

“What?” Ms. Sokolov whirled around and frowned at Matt then at Tenley and then back at Matt.

“Ms. Sokolov,” Matt said. “Imagine finding you here.”

He walked over to the side of the room and pulled a fire extinguisher off the wall.

“Now just a minute,” Ms. Sokolov protested. “These were tested six months ago. I’m sure of it. I know I have the paperwork in my file.”

“New mandate,” Matt said. “Testing is every six months now for municipal buildings.”

“But you’re just a volunteer,” she protested. “Last time it was Fire Chief Levy.”

“Budget cuts,” Matt said. “It’s tragic, but I’m willing to do my part. Oh, whoa, hey there!”

In one deft motion, he “accidentally” pulled the plastic tag, hit the lever, and dropped the hose. White foam shot across the room.

Eleanor shrieked as she was slapped across the chest by a spray of foam, which then doused her desk and a good portion of the far wall.

Matt appeared to wrestle the extinguisher to the ground. “Sorry about that,” he yelled. “Good thing we tested. It must be a malfunction.”

Tenley ducked her head to hide her laughter. Brenna grabbed a tissue off the desk and offered it to Ms. Sokolov, who ignored her. Eleanor had her arms raised at her sides, looking speechless, but she recovered quickly.

“Out! Out!” she yelled at Matt, looking as if she’d pick him up and throw him if he didn’t move fast enough.

“Oops, uh, my bad,” Matt said. He looked at the mess on the desk and took a second to appreciate Ms. Sokolov in her dither. Then he turned his back to her and winked at Tenley, who grinned back at him, before he disappeared through the door. His work here was done.

“My desk! My wall!” Ms. Sokolov cried. She swiped at the foam on her chest and hurried to her desk. She grabbed her phone and punched in numbers with shaking fingers. Then she slammed the receiver down.

“Lazy janitor,” she snapped. “He’s never there when I need him. I’ll just have to clean it myself.”

She huffed toward the door, and as soon as she rounded the doorframe, Tenley assumed the post of lookout while Brenna hurried back to search the mayor’s office for information.

She began flipping through the Rolodex, past names of prominent Morse Point residents and the heads of other city departments. Nothing seemed of interest. She moved on to his desk, opening the drawers, looking for something, anything.

The top drawer was filled with pens and paperclips and a cache of wadded-up receipts. She quickly stuffed those into her pocket to examine later. After all, it wasn’t as if he could get reimbursed for his expenses now.

“Brenna, hurry up,” Tenley whispered. “She’s in the lobby yelling at Abner. She’ll be back any minute.”

“Okay, okay,” Brenna said. She pulled on the door to the mayor’s file cabinet. It was locked. Damn.

She scanned the top of his desk. A small, round wooden box sat at one corner. It was decorated with the wrappers from different cigars. Brenna recognized it as a project Cynthia had done in decoupage class a few months ago. It seemed a likely place to keep a key.

She opened the lid and bingo. A small key sat nestled inside. Brenna snatched it up, and sure enough, it fit in the lock to the file cabinet. She flipped through the files. Some were by person’s name and some were by city department. Halfway through, she spotted one that said “Morse Point Lake.” Damn. She was running out of time.

She opened her black backpack purse and stuffed it inside. It really wasn’t stealing if you planned to return it, right? Besides, Brenna had learned it was generally easier in life to get forgiveness than permission.

“She’s halfway up the stairs,” Tenley hissed.

Brenna shut and locked the cabinet, returned the key to the box, and dashed back to stand in the doorway, exactly where she’d been when Ms. Sokolov had left.

Ms. Sokolov puffed her way into the room, carrying a bucket full of cleaning supplies. Beads of sweat coated her upper lip, and one fat curl drooped over her forehead.

“You’re still here,” she said. She glanced between them. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

“No, ma’am,” Brenna said.

“I’ll know if you did,” she warned. She dumped a towel onto the floor and began to stomp on it to sop up the frothy mess. “And you can tell that Matt Collins that I’d better never see him in here again.”

Tenley gave Ms. Sokolov her most withering Morse family glare. “I doubt you’ll have to worry about that anytime soon.”

“Humph,” Ms. Sokolov dismissed them.

Together they headed for the door, Brenna feeling weak-kneed with relief that they had managed to pull it off. She could only hope that no one missed the file from the cabinet.

“Stop right there!” Ms. Sokolov’s voice ordered, yanking them back like two leashed puppies.

Oh no, busted. A sick feeling of dread pooled in Brenna’s belly, and she spun slowly on her heel. She could feel Tenley do the same beside her.

“You forgot this,” Ms. Sokolov said. She held out the picture to Brenna.

“Oh, silly me,” she said. She could feel her heart resume beating in her chest as if someone had kick-started it. “I don’t know where my head is. Thank you. I’ll have it back to you as soon as possible.”

“I would appreciate that,” Ms. Sokolov said stiffly.

“Ms. Sokolov, may I ask you a question?” Brenna asked. She knew this was foolhardy in the extreme and that she should be beating feet down the stairs and out the door, but if she didn’t take this opportunity, she might not get another.

“Certainly,” she said. Although, with her lips pursed tight as if pulled by a drawstring, she didn’t look as if she meant it.

“Where were you the night the mayor was murdered?” she asked. She saw Tenley stiffen beside her.

Ms. Sokolov stared at Brenna with a look so cold it could have put a sheet of ice on Morse Point Lake. She did not answer. She just stared.

“Well, all right then,” Brenna said, feeling awkward. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

She and Tenley turned simultaneously and headed for the stairs, moving as quickly as possible without actually breaking into a run—but just barely.

Chapter 14

“Did you notice she didn’t answer the question?” Brenna asked.

“I’m just surprised we weren’t turned to stone back there. Yikes, she’s scary,” Tenley said.

They were halfway across the town green when Brenna saw Phyllis Portsmyth heading straight for them. She was wearing a pretty floral dress with pink high heels, looking as fresh as a fistful of spring flowers. She had her hand in the air, waving at them, and the midday sun sparkled off the yellow Portsmyth rock on her finger, making it almost impossible not to see her. Still, Brenna pretended she hadn’t.

“Crap,” she whispered. She was feeling terribly exposed and really just wanted to be back at the shop. “How are we going to avoid her?”

“No need to,” Tenley said. “Follow me.”

She put her chin in the air and strode forward right into Phyllis’s path.

“Hello, girls,” Phyllis said. “I stopped by the shop but it was all locked up.”

“It’s such a nice day, we decided to go for a walk,” Tenley said.

“Interesting business practice,” Phyllis said. The criticism was evident in her voice, but Tenley blithely ignored it.

“Prerogative of being the owner,” she said.

“I suppose,” Phyllis said. “You know, of course, that I won’t make it to class this week. I really need to be there for Cynthia.”

“I understand,” Brenna said. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“Yes, she is. The poor thing is wracked with guilt,” Phyllis said on a sigh.

Brenna felt as if everything went suddenly still. “Why would she feel guilty?”

“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean . . . I really shouldn’t say,” Phyllis said.

“If you really don’t want to,” Tenley said with a shrug, “we understand.”

Brenna looked at her as if she’d cracked her nut. This was information. They needed to know what she meant. Tenley gave her a quelling glance, and Brenna realized that Tenley was playing Phyllis. By pretending not to care, she was sure to get Phyllis to dish the dirt. Sheesh! Brenna was sure she would never master the subtleties of small town communication.

“Oh all right, but you have to swear not to tell anyone,” Phyllis said.

“We swear,” Brenna said before Tenley said something that made Phyllis change her mind.

Phyllis scouted the green and then leaned in close and continued, “You didn’t hear this from me, but the night that Jim was killed, Cynthia came to my house because they’d had a terrible argument. Cynthia was hysterical. Then Nate Williams killed Jim before they could reconcile. It’s just tearing Cynthia up.”