Ghost in the Wind (20 page)

Paul chose to be focused. “What possible motivation would Vance have to claim his ex-lover Claudia Rabinowitz was here in the house, posing as one of your guests?”

The bagel had not yet popped—I like them nicely toasted if they're not fresh that day—so all I had to do for the moment was sit and think about what Paul had said. “You make a good point,” I said. “But I can throw one back at you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yeah.” The toaster popped, so I got up and picked a plate off a shelf in the cabinet above the toaster. “Why would Claudia be here at the guesthouse? She would have had to book the trip well in advance, and I had never even heard of Bill Mastrovy before Friday night, so there was no reason to think she could find Bill here if her goal was to knife him.”

Paul grinned, which I did not expect. “You know, you really are progressing at this,” he said. “You wouldn't have thought of that a year ago.”

“Don't butter me up. You're only saying that because I was mad at you a couple of days ago.”

“No, I mean it. I think you're doing quite well. I hadn't considered that position. Claudia, assuming she was the one who killed Bill, would had to have presumably lured him here somehow for the showing of
Ghost
last night. If she'd booked her trip three months ago, how would she have known such an event would take place? Why would she choose to murder him here? Why not go to where he was living and do him in at home?”

“Great. So we have tons of questions. How do we answer them?”

Paul pursed his lips. “The first thing to do would be to try and reconnect with Jeremy Bensinger,” he said. “He might have some idea about his mother's whereabouts.”

“He said he didn't. He said that once they had their fight, she pretty much disowned him.” Having now spread the bagel with cream cheese (something not especially easy to do with a very hot bagel), I sat down to eat.

“Well, that might also mean he has no strong reason to protect her. Tell him you have some reason to believe she might have been involved with the murder here last night. See if that changes his position.”

“After I finish this,” I said, chewing vigorously.

“There are times I don't mind not being able to eat anymore,” he said.

“What do I do if Jeremy doesn't immediately cave in and hand over a print out of his mother's address, phone number and Social Security information?” I used a napkin to wipe a little cream cheese off the corner of my mouth. Daintily, of course.

“I'd say get in touch with Sammi Fine,” Paul said. “According to the voice recording you gave me of your interview with Bill Mastrovy, Sammi didn't know he was still involved with Vanessa McTiernan at the time Vanessa died.
But if she found out, she might have been angry enough to do something about it.”

The second half of the bagel was calling to me, and I was responding. “How come I always get the good jobs?” I asked.

“Because you're the one who's still breathing,” Paul reminded me so drily I think some dust might have escaped from his mouth.

“For the time being.”

“I'm so sorry. Is there something I can be doing for
you
?” He thought he was kidding.

“Yeah,” I said. “Get Maxie and her dancing keyboard fingers on the case of Claudia Rabinowitz, and while we're at it, find out who else was in the room when Vanessa died. And you can do one other thing for me.”

“What's that?” Paul asked.

“Get on the Ghosternet and see if you can find a short blond guy named Lester from Topeka, Kansas.”

Finding Sammi Fine was not hard, but strange nonetheless. The only Samantha T. Fine I'd seen listed in the tristate area was at an investment firm called Plantiere and Associates in Red Bank, which seemed unlikely (
incredibly
unlikely, to be honest), but it was all I had to go on. So I went on it.

If you're wondering why I didn't start with a follow-up interview of Jeremy Bensinger instead of searching for Sammi, it was because Jeremy hadn't responded to my text messages or voice mail, and wasn't home at his apartment when I'd dropped by this morning. Jeremy, after having met me once, was apparently ducking any further contact. Imagine such a thing. I decided I'd have to drop by his place of business later.

There'd been a general consensus from the guests that we could continue the spook shows in the afternoon—“especially if there'll be that wonderful music,” as Tessa had suggested—but this morning had fallen into the too-soon category. I'd agreed with that sentiment, took Melissa to school (despite
her protests that having a murder in the house exempted her for the day) and headed out to invade Samantha T. Fine's professional venue.

I drove to Red Bank and sat in my Volvo across the street from the investment firm's offices, pondering possible courses of action. Stomping into the investment firm and asking for Sammi Fine seemed somehow unwise, like I'd be doing damage to this poor woman's reputation just by showing up. The PI license in my wallet probably wouldn't do her a ton of good, either.

The idea of this Samantha Fine and the one I'd seen drumming for Once Again two nights before being the same person was laughable. Plantiere's website had not offered a photograph of Ms. Fine, so I couldn't be sure she
wasn't
Once Again's drummer, but I just had a hard time imagining that people would actually hand over their savings for investment to a woman who had dated Bill Mastrovy and played at a club called the Last Resort. Or if they did, I wanted to call each one and warn them personally. The woman behind the drum kit had three nose rings, tattoos on both upper arms, a very healthy streak of orange in her hair and a very serious chewing gum habit. I worried about gum being a gateway drug to, I don't know, Twizzlers or something. Stay in school, kids.

It was only nine thirty in the morning, so waiting out here in the hopes that Samantha would wander out for her lunch break was a bad plan. Not to mention that if she wasn't the Sammi Fine I'd seen, I'd be sitting out there all day waiting and never actually know whether I'd come to the right place or not.

So, following Paul's sage investigator's advice, I was about to be sneaky. Paul called it “creative,” but we both knew what that meant.

I'd forgone my usual sort of outfit—fine for an innkeeper, especially one often working on home repairs—and worn something more businesslike, with a skirt and everything.

I figured having dressed up, I might as well show myself off, so I got out of the car, smoothed myself out, pretended my hair looked the way I wanted it to and crossed the street to the three-story office building.

It wasn't quite as fancy or off-putting as I'd expected. Not every place is a Wall Street firm, and the sad fact was that I'd never had enough money to consider investing except for the time I was foolish enough to sink every last dime I had into a charming but somewhat rickety Victorian on Seafront Avenue. So perhaps I wasn't the savvy investor this sort of place usually attracted.

A very pleasant-looking receptionist inquired if she could help me, which was something I was wondering myself. I asked if I could see Ms. Fine and she asked if I had an appointment.

Of course, I did not. And I couldn't rely on the old movie trick of looking at the handwritten list of appointments in front of her and claiming to be one of those people because this was the twenty-first century and computers had been invented in the interim. The one on the receptionist's desk had a screen that faced away from me.

“I'm afraid I don't have an appointment,” I said. “But I have one quick question that will only take a minute of her time.”

The difference between, say, a lawyer's office and an investment firm, I knew (from being married to The Swine, who was in that business), was that the investment firm doesn't gain anything from turning a potential client away. The law firm might not want to deal with your kind of case and probably deals with a lot of people who are, how shall I put this delicately, crazy. Walk-ins are not encouraged.

An investment firm, on the other hand, is happy when someone they don't actually seek out comes to talk business. Since so much of the business is generated by word-of-mouth,
getting a “free” client is a boon. So I was betting that Samantha T. Fine, whoever she was, would be glad to talk to a wayward investor for a few minutes.

“I'm afraid she doesn't have anything available today,” the receptionist said.

Another in a long list of ways my ex-husband has failed me. I should have known.

“Not even for a minute?” I pleaded.

“I'm sorry.”

It was time to play hardball. “Could you please just mention the name William Mastrovy?”

The pleasant-looking receptionist looked up from her screen. Her face didn't read worried or astonished, just confused. “I'm sorry?” It was her favorite phrase because it was so versatile.

“William Mastrovy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that you?”

“No. Please just call her extension and say someone is here about William Mastrovy. If she doesn't want to see me, I'll leave. How's that?”

Probably more out of curiosity than anything, the receptionist punched a button on the console in front of her. She spoke into the earpiece she was wearing in a professional, unobtrusive tone. “Ms. Fine? There's a woman here to see you. No, I have your schedule. She said to mention the name William Mastrovy.” Impressive that she didn't have to ask me for the name again. This girl was earning her money.

She listened for a moment, betraying nothing with her expression. Then she said, “I will. Thank you.” And she punched the button on her console again. She immediately pulled a pad out from under her desk. “Name, please?” she asked.

Ms. Fine's office, I was told, was one floor up and three doors down on the left. So I followed the directions and ended up in front of a plain wooden door, not especially
fancy (in keeping with the rest of the décor in the office), but bearing the nameplate “Samantha T. Fine.” I knocked.

“Come in.”

Sure enough, seated behind the standard-issue desk was the drummer from Once Again. It took me a moment to recognize her because she was wearing a very sensible power suit (I thought those had gone out of style, but maybe they were making a comeback), her hair up in a bun. The tattoos were covered with a white blouse and a gray jacket was draped over the back of her chair. The nose rings were nowhere to be seen.

“You,” she said.

“I could say the same.” I didn't wait to be asked; I just sat down in front of her desk. Luckily, there was a chair there for just that purpose. “I figured I had the wrong Samantha T. Fine.”

“Hey. It's the day job. I have to make a living until the music starts to pay off.”

“I guess so.” Every bar-band member has a dream. One in a half million realizes it.

“How did you find me?”

I produced the PI license from my tote bag and said, “I'm looking into Bill's murder.” Technically that didn't answer her question, but I didn't see how that was a big deal at this point.

But Samantha's (she just didn't look like Sammi now) eyes widened to maximum density and she gasped. “Bill was murdered?”

“Oh, come on. The cops must have called you by now. I gave them your name when they questioned me.”

She shook her head. “I swear. This is the first I'm hearing about it. I was so mad at him, I haven't spoken to him since that night at the Last Resort.” Her eyes were tearing up, and unless she was a graduate of the Actor's Studio, the tears were real. “What happened?”

I told her about the previous night at the guesthouse and how it had ended, permanently, for Bill. Samantha sat back deeper and deeper into her leather chair until her head seemed almost encased, but she kept shaking it back and forth.

“Why?” she finally said. “Why?”

“Once we find out who, we'll know why,” I answered. If I could focus her on the task at hand, it might be possible to delay the emotional scene I'd prefer to avoid at the moment. “What can you tell me? Why was he at my house last night?”

Sammi dabbed at her eyes, but not in a theatrical way. Her eye makeup was running a little, so she dabbed at it with a tissue from a box on her desk. Investment counselors were like doctors, The Swine used to say. If the news was bad, you wanted to have some Kleenex at the ready. “I don't know. He was acting all weird even before we met you. Said he'd run into an old friend but he wouldn't tell me who, and then he canceled rehearsal last night. Said he had to be somewhere.”

“So it seems like he planned to be at my house.”

“No, this was before you showed up,” Sammi pointed out. “He said there was something big going on and he wasn't going to tell me until it was all done. Bill was like that—he liked the big gesture.” She started to well up again. “He's really dead?”

Sammi looked so distraught my heart went out to her, but I had to see if there was some information that might help. I told myself finding Bill's murderer would give her closure. “Who do you think the old friend was?” I asked.

“Oh, man, I don't know. I mean, it sounded like a music thing the way he was talking. And he could piss people off, you know. But killing him? Who'd want to do
that
?” Sammi seemed legitimately upset and sniffed back tears a few more times.

“That's what I'm asking you. What did he tell you about the day Vanessa McTiernan died?” I watched her face for a
reaction the way Paul always says I should, and I got one: her lips pursed and curled a little at one side. Sammi was back, and she didn't like the mention of Bill's old girlfriend, even if now they were both dead.

“You think this is about Vanessa?”

“She used to be in your band. She used to date Bill. And she died a few months ago. It's at least possible there's a connection.”
And her dead father the rock star asked me to find out. That's not weird, right?

“I mean, don't get me wrong: I'm sorry she's dead, you know? But I never liked her. Maybe that's bad to say, but she was weird. She used to stare off into space and talk to people who weren't there. It freaked out everybody in the band except Bill. Then her brother started coming around and saying he was her manager, and she needed to sing her original songs in the set. We're a cover band; you can't do that. So she quit Once Again and went off to record or something. That's when Bill and her broke up.”

“Did you steal him away from her?” I asked. When Sammi found out that Bill was still seeing Vanessa when she died, she had not looked pleased. I wanted to see if I could get the same reaction now.

“Nobody stole anybody from anybody,” Sammi said, her mouth twitching a little, maybe another attempt to keep from crying. “Vanessa and Bill were a thing. They broke up before she left the band. He and I started up later. Then she died.”

The look on her face had changed and I wasn't really convinced about this last part, so I pressed the issue. “When he said he'd seen Vanessa the day she died, you looked surprised. Then you got so mad you didn't talk to him again.”

Sammi let out an involuntary sob. “Yeah. Now I can't ever talk to him again.”
Would it comfort her to know that I might be able to, if he showed up in the right form?
She started to
cry, not steadily, but not just choking it back, either. I wasn't sure whether to leave her to herself or if it would be cruel to abandon her when she felt so awful. But Sammi gathered herself and went on. “I was mad at him because he was stupid for going to see her. I don't remember that day exactly, but I know he wanted her back in the band so we could do some Fleetwood Mac. Vanessa sounded a little like Stevie Nicks.”

“You think he was going there to ask her to come back? What did he tell you about that day?”

“He
said
he never went,” Sammi's voice froze over and she put down the tissue, which wasn't going to be needed now. “Said Vanessa canceled because her mom was in town.”

“Why? Did Vanessa not see her mother often?”

“No, her mom had moved to, like, Ohio or something,” Sammi said. “But she was in town now and wanted to see Vanessa. They'd had some fight about her brother or something; I don't remember. So her asking to get together was a big deal. But I guess it was all a lie because then Bill told you he was there the day Vanessa died.”

Claudia being around on the day of Vanessa's death did seem to jibe with Vance's claim that she had something to do with Bill's murder . . . I made a mental note to have Maxie look for Claudia Rabinowizes in Ohio.