Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 02 - A String of Murders (14 page)

15

From: Jerry Burton ([email protected])

Date: Friday, April 25, 9:36 PM

To: Magda Mallory ([email protected])

Subject: Hidden secrets

The truth will come out. You are like the religious leaders that Jesus accused of being white-washed sepulchers.

I not only know what happened forty years ago; I know what happened eighteen years ago.

Expect to see me soon.

Saturday, April 26

When I stopped by Gaynor Goodies on Saturday morning, I wondered if Jessie would greet me with questions about Suzanne and Magda.

Yesterday, Jessie had ribbed me about the incident with Mrs. Lambert at the nursing home. The day before, she had asked how the premarital counseling session had gone with the pastor. She also admired Magda’s pearls and tried to pry more information out of me. I was wearing the pearls, of course. I tried to be circumspect in my answers—anything told to Jessie would soon be known town-wide.

Today she didn’t say much of anything. She didn’t mention Magda at all or anyone else involved in the play. For one day I had not provided fodder for the town gossip mill, and that suited me fine.

I spent the morning planning my next window display. I decided against putting the ’30s material back out; why remind potential customers of mayhem and murder every time they walked by?

Instead, I would proceed to the next decade, the War Years. I had located several well-preserved women’s uniforms from each branch of service: WACS, WAVES, SPARS, WASP. I was partial to the uniforms of the Cadet Nurse Program, which was supervised by the Public Health Service. My father’s mother had worn the brown army-style jacket—khaki blouse, skirt, and tie—with pride.

For my window, however, I decided to highlight native Oklahoman Marjorie Dresbach. After her meeting with Jacqueline Cochran, the driving force behind the WASPs, Marjorie served at Spence Field in Moultrie, Georgia. I had the perfect WASP uniform to go with her life story.

By lunch time I had sketched out the display and penned placards for the featured items. I went through my back storeroom to locate other items from the ’40s. I wouldn’t actually sell the uniforms; that seemed like a sacrilege to the women who defended our country so bravely. But I expected to turn a tidy profit on a large inventory that harkened back to America’s “greatest generation.”

I was dressing my mannequin in a bomber jacket and slacks when Dina and Peppi entered.

“Bologna today.” Dina held up a brown paper sack. “Hope you don’t mind.”

I would have eaten peanut butter and jelly if Dina brought it. She rarely provided lunch. The girls’ arrival reminded me of Magda’s decision to reveal all about Suzanne. For a few hours, I had immersed myself completely in the heroics of the War Years and forgotten my own personal quest for answers. Who killed Vic Spencer? Who was burglarizing Lincoln County? And who was sending threatening e-mails to the people of Grace Gulch? I was no closer to an answer than I was a week ago, when Audie discovered Spencer’s body.

“You left me a message. Said it was urgent. What’s up? Do you want our help investigating again?” Today Dina wore a pink-and-white checked button-down shirt, untucked, of course. It matched her hair. Peppi, in her blue-and-lavender plaid big shirt, looked almost normal.

“No, it has nothing to do with the murder.”

“Blackmail, then.” Dina grinned.

“What would you say if I told you that Magda Grace Mallory wants both of you to interview her?”

“Magda? That’s awesome!” Dina zipped out a date book with two cute kittens on the cover. “When? And what’s the occasion?” She stopped, her pen poised in midair. “Oh, wait a minute, this isn’t about the Center for the Arts, is it? That’s old
news.”

“No. It’s. . .personal.”

“Maybe she’s going to get married,” Peppi suggested with a giggle.

“Did we miss a birthday or something?” Dina thumbed through her date book. Magda could command a community-wide celebration any time she wanted to. Of course she rarely did, and never for herself, which made us love her all the more. “Nah. Her birthday’s in August.”

My little sister never failed to amaze me. She had Magda’s birthday at her fingertips, literally.

“Can you two keep a secret?” I wasn’t sure how much I should tell them.

“Reporters never reveal their sources.” Peppi spouted journalism 101.

“Well, it’s a secret until you talk with Magda and get the details.”

“Magda has a secret,” Dina said in the same singsong voice she used when she crept behind me and Cord—back when we dated in high school—and said “Cici has a boyfriend.” Dina smirked. “Do tell.”

I couldn’t resist. They would know all about it soon enough. “Well, Magda wants to talk to you about a child she gave birth to.”

“Gene?” Dina scoffed. “He’s no story.”

“No, not Gene. A baby born before Magda was married.”

“Magda had a child out of wedlock?”

Peppi’s lack of surprise reminded me of Mrs. Lambert’s accusation, but before I could ask about it, Dina interrupted.

“How come we didn’t know about this already?” Dina, the Grace Gulch native, wanted to know. “And who is it? Someone we know?”

“Magda will tell you the rest.” I waved my hands. “She’ll see you at half past four this afternoon if that works for you.”

“If! I would skip a final to get a story like this.” Dina jumped to her feet, ready to head over to Magda’s house at that moment.

“I’m coming with you when you go.” I wanted to hear the details first-hand.

Peppi’s mouth opened in a perfect oval. “You’re not a reporter.”

“No. But Magda is my friend. I want to offer my support.”

We arranged to meet at the store at quarter past four and head over to the Mallory mansion together. The two girls returned at the appointed hour with a backpack full of reporter accessories: recorder, spare batteries and tapes, camera, even the faithful steno notebook. Dina attempted to pry more information out of me during the five-minute drive.

“The child must have been born when Magda was away. You know, after high school? When she supposedly went off to seek fame and fortune in the theater.”

I shook my head. “You won’t get it out of me that easily.”

Since Magda had set the time of our appointment, I expected her to greet us at the door. Instead, we found a three-by-five index card taped to the door which read, If I don’t answer your knock, please enter. I can’t hear when I’m at the back of the house. The door isn’t locked.

I knocked once. Dina knocked a second time and then opened the door. “Magda?”

I repeated her name. Through the arch to the drawing room, I saw that Magda had prepared for company. A pitcher of iced tea waited on a mirrored serving tray.

“Magda?” Dina moved past me into the house, Peppi following close behind. We poked our heads through every open doorway, calling out her name. I paused by the bathroom and, feeling a bit silly, laid my ear against the door. She might be too much of a lady to answer from that location. No sounds emerged, however.

Dina headed for the back of the house, where the kitchen was located. The scream that followed would have done justice to a horror film—pure terror and surprise and fright.

Peppi ran down the hallway ahead of me. The two of us peered over Dina’s shoulder where we stood at the door.

First, I noticed the three-inch high heels that Magda loved to wear through long hours of rehearsal. My eyes traced her form from stocking-encased legs past a pink silk dress. Last of all, I forced myself to look at her face, an unrecognizable, ugly shade of blue. I considered checking her pulse. No
.
I shuddered. She couldn’t possibly be alive.

Small white objects were scattered across the floor, as if a turtle had laid her eggs in the kitchen. I bent forward to get a closer look—pearls. The broken strand hung from Magda’s neck. Fearful that I would get sick, I pulled back and punched 9-1-1 into my cell phone.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

What should I say?
I didn’t want to announce Magda’s death over airwaves that anyone with a police scanner could hear.

“Uh. This is Cici Wilde. We need help at Magda Grace Mallory’s house. It’s at the—”

“I have the address. Someone will be there soon.” A slight tremor in the dispatcher’s voice suggested the questions that must be running through her mind.

Dina recovered from her shock enough to retrieve her camera from her backpack. Her reporter instincts were kicking in.

“Don’t go in the room,” I cautioned her.

“Someone needs to check for a pulse.” She ignored me and knelt by the still body. In a steady voice she whispered, “She’s dead.” She backed up a few feet and snapped a picture.

It was time to back out of big-sister mode. Dina knew what to do. On the other hand, a white-faced Peppi had taken a single step back from the doorway.

“Come with me.” I placed my arm around the young woman’s shoulders and led her back to the drawing room. The drink tray Magda had prepared for her guests seemed like the perfect antidote to shock. The police wouldn’t object, would they? This room wasn’t part of the crime scene. The murderer would not have stopped to grab a drink on the way out the door. I poured three glasses of tea. After a minute, Dina joined us. Peppi’s face had regained a bit of its normal color when the front doorbell rang and then opened.

“Cici?” Frances Waller had responded to the call. An ambulance careened around the corner.

“We’re in here.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin and stood up.

She took in the scene with a glance—the three of us, drinking tea without the services of a hostess. “What happened?”

I steeled myself. “She’s. . .back there.”

“Who?” Frances stopped in midquestion. I could only be referring to one person. “Come this way.”

Dina followed. Peppi stayed rooted to her seat.

Frances took one look at the kitchen and said a couple of words under her breath. She checked Magda’s pulse. “She’s dead.” Then her professional self took over—no longer Frances Waller, high school acquaintance, but Officer Waller of the Grace Gulch Police Department. She called the dispatcher and gave one of those numeric codes that let other police understand the nature of the emergency. “We need the chief on this one.”

The EMTs arrived and went about their business while Frances spoke with us.

“What did you touch?” Frances whipped out her notebook.

“The front door. It was unlocked and there was a note—” Dina began.

“I saw it.”

“Magda was expecting us,” I said.

“Oh?” Frances started to pursue the subject, but returned to her original line of questioning. “Did you touch anything else?”

“We waited in the drawing room for a few minutes, but when she didn’t come, we checked out the rest of the house.” I explained how we had checked each room, calling out Magda’s name, until we arrived in the kitchen.

Frances made notes and waited with us for the chief. Peppi asked if she could go to the restroom.

Frances hesitated and then hedged. “No. We don’t want to disturb anything more than you already have. You’ll have to wait.” She must have noticed Peppi crossing and uncrossing her legs because she suggested an alternative. “Why don’t you go to Cici’s store? We’ll meet you there.”

Peppi jumped to her feet, ready to scoot like a cottontail at the first sign of trouble.

“Don’t leave the store after you arrive. The chief will have my hide if you’re not there when he comes to question you.”

“I’ll make sure they stay put,” I promised.

“Don’t tell anyone what happened.” Frances seemed to think I needed a detailed instruction list.

Of course I won’t. Then I remembered our plans for the evening, and I paused at the doorway. “Audie is expecting all of us at rehearsal before long.”

“Gene will be there, too,” Dina added. “Has anyone spoken to him yet?”

Frances debated for a few seconds. “We’ll inform the family.”

Including Cord?
My heart jerked. Magda’s death would echo across every corner of Grace Gulch.

“You’ll have to let Audie know you won’t be there, but tell him as little as possible, okay?” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Now go, before the chief gets here.”

We drove to the store, opened the door, and rolled down the blinds to discourage visitors. Tonight I didn’t need any curiosity seekers.

I called and left a vague message on Audie’s voice mail. Dina, Peppi, and I had been held up at Magda’s and none of us would make it to rehearsal. Not even Reiner could find fault with that.

“I’m hungry.” Dina jumped out of her chair and poked her head in the tiny refrigerator I kept in my office. “You don’t have anything in here.”

I checked the doughnut box—one remained. No one spoke while I divided it three ways, with as much ritual as castaways on a desert island sharing their single meal of the day.