Stuck on Murder (23 page)

“I’m the one who found him bleeding in an alley,” Brenna said. “That makes it my business.” Okay, not really. But she was hoping it would stall an argument.

“You surely don’t think I had anything to do with it,” Ms. Sokolov said, looking outraged.

Brenna gave her a hard stare.

Ms. Sokolov drew herself up to her full height, which put her in the vicinity of Brenna’s nose.

“How dare you,” she said. “I am a respectable citizen. I would never harm a soul. You, however—I know all about you.”

Brenna stepped back as if she’d touched a hot stove. Her stomach cramped and a sick feeling of dread coated her skin like a rash.

“Oh, yes, you might well look shame-faced,” Ms. Sokolov continued. “I know all about that gallery robbery in which you were the prime suspect. If the police should question anyone, it’s you. Why, we never had a problem with crime in Morse Point until you showed up.”

“My past isn’t relevant,” Brenna gritted out, but even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak. “Why were you trying to get in touch with Ed?”

“Because I wrote the mayor’s eulogy,” Ms. Sokolov said. “And I wanted Ed to proofread it for me. Satisfied?”

To Brenna’s shock, Ms. Sokolov burst into tears and slammed the door in her face. She stood there gaping for a second before she walked back to her car on rubbery knees.

She had no doubt that if Ms. Sokolov knew about Boston, then everyone did. That didn’t sit well with her, but there wasn’t much she could do about it right now.

Brenna gathered the folder of pictures from her Jeep and ambled over to the copy store, trying not to think about what a colossal failure her interview with Ms. Sokolov had been.

She didn’t want to admit that Eleanor’s cruel words had gotten to her, but to call her surly would have been a dramatic understatement. The only person suffering an uglier mood swing than Brenna was the disgruntled youth behind the copy store counter, who sported a nose ring and an inability to make eye contact.

“I need these reproduced to a quarter of their original size with a matte finish. Is that possible?”

“Anything is possible,” he said with a heavy sigh.

Brenna glanced at his nametag. “Well, Chad, how long do you suppose that would take?”

“If you want to pay extra, they can be done in an hour,” he said.

“Fine,” she agreed.

She used her cell phone to check her messages. Cynthia had left one yesterday evening telling her that Jim’s body had been released by the medical examiner and that the funeral would be held the day after next. If she was going to have the plaque ready for the viewing, she had to get it done today.

While she waited for Chad to write up the order, she laid the pictures out on the counter. There were five of them. She knew exactly where she was going to put each one in the collage, balancing the colors and backgrounds. As she signed the order form, she glanced over the picture of Jim and Cynthia in formal wear. It was the largest of the five and would need to be cropped to fit in the collage, even if it was reduced. She studied the picture, trying to determine where she should crop it.

An object in the bottom-left corner caught her eye. She felt her heart rate accelerate and her breathing became quick.

“Excuse me,” she called over the counter to Chad, who was fiddling with some prints coming out of the behemoth machine in front of him. “Can you enlarge this for me?”

“I thought you wanted everything reduced,” he replied, looking put-upon.

“I did. I do, but I need an enlargement, too,” she said.

“It’ll cost more,” he said, as if bracing himself for an argument.

“That’s fine, but can you do it right now?” she asked.

“Lady, that’s a rush job,” he said as if she were asking him to hand-paint a portrait on the spot.

Brenna bit down her impatience, forced a smile, and said, “That’s okay, I’ll pay extra.”

He shuffled over to the counter and she handed him the picture.

“I just need the bottom-left corner blown up,” she said.

“But that’s their feet, not their heads,” he said.

“I’m aware,” she said. “Just do it, please, and hurry.”

He gave her a look that said more clearly than words that he thought she was cracked, but Brenna didn’t care. If she was right, and she was pretty sure she was, then she had just figured out who killed Jim Ripley.

Within fifteen minutes, Chad handed her the print she needed. She took it out into the sunlight to study it. There was no question.

Sitting unobtrusively in the photo behind Jim was the same trunk he’d been stuffed into when Brenna had pulled him out of the lake. She recognized the shiny brass hardware and burgundy leather trim. Smiling next to him in the photo was his adoring wife and, she suspected, killer, Cynthia Ripley.

Chapter 21

Brenna stood clutching the photo. Her heart was banging around in her chest like a rock in a tire. Now what? Did she take the photo to Chief Barker and tell him what she knew? But how could she prove it? He was still pretty ticked about last night. Did she really want to face his wrath this early in the morning? Uh, that was a no.

Besides, with Ed in the hospital, he might brush off what she’d discovered, thinking it unimportant. That would be bad. Then again, she could be wrong and that would be worse.

She studied the photo. Judging by the bookcases, the trunk, and the dark paneling in the photo, it looked to have been taken in a home library. She figured it must be the Ripleys’ house. Now if she could get into the house and make sure the trunk wasn’t there, she’d know for sure.

Without hesitation, she climbed into her Jeep and headed for their Laurel Hill address on the wealthy side of town.

As she drove, she tried to think of a legitimate excuse to be popping in on Cynthia Ripley. The plaque, of course, was the only thing that made sense. She would ask Cynthia if it was all right if she reduced a few of the photos, an artistic issue—that seemed plausible.

She wound her way up the hill, past the Morse and Portsmyth estates. The battle for the title of most prominent family waged steadily up here on the hill, as was evidenced by their landscaping.

Tenley’s mother had her Canada yew shrubs cut into the shape of sitting lions, like those outside the New York Public Library, and they loomed over the winding entrance to the mansion beyond. The Portsmyths’ gardener had attempted to match this by shaping enormous boxwood shrubs into the form of two elephants standing on their hind legs with trunks intertwined, making an arch over the drive.

It would have been impressive, except for the fact that it appeared that one of the elephants was missing a chunk out of its derriere. Brenna glanced back at the lions. Yep, one of the lions had a suspicious tangle of boxwood hanging out of its mouth. Apparently, the Morse and Portsmyth rivalry extended to their gardeners.

A beat-up red pickup truck zipped out of the Portsmyth driveway, forcing Brenna to slam on her brakes or risk ramming him. At the wheel of the truck was Patrick O’Shea, Phyllis’s gardener. The bed of his pickup was loaded with equipment, and Brenna watched as he spun gravel and parked in front of the Morses’ drive.

He climbed out of the truck wielding a pair of ominous-looking shears. She watched, in stunned silence, as he stood on the hood of his truck and lopped off the head of the lion with the elephant’s butt in its mouth.

Then he waved his fist at the Morse estate and yelled, “That’s for costing me my job, you rat bastard!”

He climbed back in his truck and sped off, not even sparing Brenna a glance. She scanned the area and stepped on the gas, fearing someone might see her and think she was the lion head lopper-offer.

The Ripley mansion was on the backside of the hill, an address of lesser prominence befitting a mansion of lesser square footage. Brenna turned into the drive, noting that there were no shrub animals, maimed or otherwise, to greet her.

Cynthia’s Escalade was parked in the circular drive in front of the house. Good. She was home. Brenna noticed that her hands were slick with sweat. Confrontations were not her specialty.

Uncertainty flooded her as she wondered what exactly she hoped to get out of this. A teary confession? A hot denial? Or just confirmation of her own suspicions? Oh yeah, that was it. She wanted to prove that Cynthia was indeed the murderer. She felt weak in the knees and thought maybe she should have had more fiber in her breakfast this morning.

An older woman, wearing a serviceable gray dress with a white Peter Pan collar and a crisp white apron, answered the door when Brenna pressed the bell. Her face was impassive, expressing neither annoyance nor welcome at the sight of her.

“Good morning, ma’am, may I help you?” she asked. Her voice was not exactly robotic but it was as if any hint of emotion had been bleached from it like a stain from her apron.

Brenna wondered if this was something taught in the domestic arts or if years spent waiting upon other people had slowly eroded any emotion from her until there was nothing left.

“Hi, I’m Brenna Miller. I’m working on a memorial plaque for Mrs. Ripley and I . . .” Brenna trailed off under the woman’s unblinking stare. She was babbling and yet the woman didn’t cut her off or encourage her. It was very unnerving.

“Who is it, Grace?” a voice Brenna recognized as Cynthia’s called from inside the house.

“A Ms. Brenna Miller,” Grace answered, turning slightly so that her voice would carry.

“Please show her in,” Cynthia called.

“If you’ll follow me, ma’am.” Grace moved aside to let Brenna in.

She stepped into an austere marble foyer, done in rich earth tones. A fragile wooden table stood in the center of the rounded entrance with an ornate ceramic bowl of fruit placed on it. Brenna couldn’t tell if the fruit was real or not as she passed, which she found bothersome.

She realized that this was likely her best opportunity to snoop for the paneled room with the trunk. As she followed Grace down the hall, she craned her neck to peer into the rooms they passed.

The sitting room, first door on the left, was yellow trimmed with white and decorated with sunflowers on the drapes and upholstery. A small office followed that on her right, done in a nautical theme of navy blue and red. A staircase was tucked into the wall beyond, and Brenna knew she had no hope of going up there unless she was invited.

They passed the entrance to the kitchen, all brushed steel and mottled granite, and then Grace paused at a door that stood slightly ajar on the right. She gave it a light rap and pushed it open.

Brenna entered a bright room, done in masculine green stripes with a matching lush green carpet. Tall windows, along one wall, boasted a magnificent view of the back lawns, and two brown leather wing chairs were placed in front of a fireplace, which was framed by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There was not a strip of paneling to be seen. Nuts.

Cynthia rose from the desk that sat in front of the window and came around it with her hand extended. She was still in her bathrobe and her hair looked knotted as if she hadn’t combed it in days. Brenna felt a twinge of unease. What if she was wrong and she was intruding upon Cynthia’s grief with her suspicions? But then maybe it was guilt gnawing at her that made Cynthia look so disheveled. Brenna straightened her back.

“Hello, Brenna.” Cynthia clasped her hand in between her cold ones. The contact made Brenna shiver. “Is it done then?”

“Is what done?”

“The plaque?” Cynthia released her hands.

“What? Oh, no, not quite,” Brenna said.

Cynthia frowned at her, looking less welcoming by the second. “There isn’t a problem, is there?”

“No, no problem,” she said. There was an awkward pause and she rushed on, “I did want your permission to reduce a couple of the photos.”

“Reduce?” Cynthia asked.

They remained standing. It appeared Cynthia would not be asking her to stay and visit. Hmm.

“Just to make them fit more easily into the plaque,” Brenna said.

“You’re the artist, do as you will. Just make sure it’s done in time,” Cynthia said. Her voice was short and tight. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have so much to do to plan Jim’s funeral. I’m sure you understand.”

Brenna pretended not to. “I like what you’ve done with this room. I always think of home offices as being dark-paneled rooms without windows, maybe done in burgundy.”

“Hmm,” Cynthia muttered, moving toward the door.

“Ever consider anything like that for this room?” Brenna asked.

“No, I loathe paneling,” Cynthia said. “It’s much too stuffy. I wouldn’t have it in my house.”

“Really?” Brenna asked. “Not in any room?”

Cynthia gave her a piercing look. “Why are you so interested in my decorating?”