Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder (12 page)

“Figures,” I said, guessing Officer O’Reilly had filled him in. “Who else knows?”

“Well, Kate called, and that little editor of yours, Meredith Mancini. So did a guy from the paper named Rhodes. He said he was your editor. I thought Meredith was your editor.”

“Ken Rhodes called here?” I asked.

“He sounded concerned. Maybe even a little mad. I hope you won’t lose your job over this, Colleen. You need the money.”

“I was run off the road, Ma!” I said. “I wasn’t working at the time. You didn’t happen to get his number, did you?”

“He said you have it.”

“I did,” I told her. “It’s at the bottom of the bay.”

“Oh, well. I’m sure he’ll call back. Go change, and I’ll make you a hot cup of coffee.”

Ken Rhodes called about an hour after my mother left for the night. He ranted and raved and reminded me that Jason Whitley’s murder was off-limits. I wholeheartedly agreed. My life wasn’t worth much, but it was certainly worth a whole lot more than a ten-year-old Escort.

13

Officer O’Reilly brought my water-logged purse to the house the next morning. I spilled the contents out on the picnic table in the backyard to let everything dry in the sun. While I waited, I downloaded background information from The Grand Duchess Hotel’s website.

The sweeping Victorian mansion was built by a local doctor in 1885, and had been kept in the family for years until they let it fall into disrepair and vacated the premises in the 1970s. It remained abandoned until Greg and Patrice Milner bought the property and embarked on a two-year restoration which returned the mansion to its former grandeur. Presently, The Grand Duchess served as an upscale bed-and-breakfast inn, with packages touting rejuvenating massage, aromatherapy, sauna, facials, and a hydrotherapy spa. The pampering aspect appealed to the area’s wealthier residents.

I phoned Patrice Milner to set up the interview and asked Bevin to drive me the next day. In return, I promised to treat her to lunch.

* * *

“That’s the place down there on the right,” I said, spotting the inn from blocks away.

“Your assignment is The Grand Duchess?” Bev asked. “I thought you said it was a spa.”

“It is a spa. It’s also an inn.”

Bevin pulled over to the curb and stopped in front of the building.

“You can’t park here, Bev,” I told her. “There’s a lot on the side street.”

“I’m not parking. I’m dropping you off.”

“You’re not coming inside?” I asked.

“You’re working, and I’ll just get in the way. I’ll ditch the car in the municipal lot and window shop until you’re done.”

There were a few stores—a pharmacy, a vintage record place, and six antique shops. They weren’t exactly Bevin’s style. “Are you kidding? There isn’t a Saks or a Nordstrom within miles of this place,” I told her.

Bev squinted through the window. “There might be some interesting boutiques past the railroad tracks.”

“The train station and the parkway entrance are the only things past the tracks. Be a sport, Bev. Come inside with me. You’re more familiar with this self-indulgent garbage than I am. I’ll need a translator if the Milner woman is even half as snooty as she sounds on the phone.”

Passing traffic came dangerously close to Bev’s silver Mercedes. A cruiser pulled up behind us and the policeman inside blasted an order over the loudspeaker to move the vehicle. Bev glanced in the rearview mirror and appeared to think the matter over.

“Bev! Are you crazy? What’s with you today? Park the car!”

“Okay!” she snapped.

She put the car in drive and turned the corner. Six cars occupied diagonal spaces in the lot. Bev pulled into an empty slot near a walkway that led around the building to the front entrance. She brooded on the way to the lobby, a disposition I was getting used to from Sara’s attitude at home.

I left Bev browsing through a rack of postcards and went to the registration desk. A young girl with dyed black hair and the dewy-moist skin of one accustomed to twice-weekly facials greeted me.

“Are you Colleen Caruso from the
Crier
?” She made it sound like the
Washington Post
.

“I’m here to interview Patrice Milner,” I told her.

The girl picked up the phone and buzzed her employer.

“Patrice will be with you soon, Miss Caruso,” she said when she hung up. “You can have a seat, or maybe you’d like to look around at the renovations. Your photographer came by yesterday to take pictures. He seemed very interested in the architecture.”

The Victorian exterior of The Grand Duchess had not been compromised during the reconstruction, but the lobby had been modernized and furnished accordingly. I had hoped for authentic nineteenth-century charm. What I saw was stark Swedish-modern that reminded me of IKEA
.

Patrice Milner emerged from a doorway across the lobby. “I am so pleased to finally meet you, Miss Caruso,” she said.

The statuesque brunette in a long, coral skirt and matching eyelet jacket drifted toward me. Patrice clasped my hand and nearly lobbed off a few of my fingers with her five-carat, pear-shaped diamond ring.

“Nice bling,” I said.

“My engagement ring.”

My own engagement ring, a half-carat number that, with my luck, was cubic zirconia, sat in the bottom of my jewelry box.

“Where should we begin, Miss Caruso?” Patrice asked.

“You can call me Colleen, and I’d like to begin with a tour and end with the spa treatments.”

“We can visit the guest suites first and then the aromatherapy steam chambers, massage rooms … did I mention we also cater to men during our phone conversation?”

“No kidding? Men go in for this stuff?” I asked.

“Absolutely. It’s a competitive world. A younger look can give a man an edge in the business world.” Patrice guided me toward a small elevator beyond the registration desk. “Rest, relaxation, and a great massage all help ease away the stress of high-pressure jobs.”

I pulled a notebook from my bag and hunted for a pen. Ordinarily, I could find at least half a dozen at the bottom, but not on this interview.

“Bev,” I called out. “Do you have a pen in your bag?”

It was the first time Patrice Milner noticed another person in the lobby. She stared frankly at Bevin, sizing her up, and then her eyes lit in recognition. “Why, you’re Mrs. White, aren’t you?”

Bev looked up from the Jersey Shore postcards. “Sorry. You’re mistaken.”

“It’s uncanny,” Patrice said. “I could swear you were Barbara White. You and your husband were guests a few months ago—a nice-looking man in his mid to late thirties?”

After a moment of awkward silence, Bevin offered Patrice a sick smile. “My name is Thompson. Bevin Thompson.” To me she said, “I’ll wait for you in the car, Colleen.”

Patrice gave me a pen from the registration desk and we took the slow, claustrophobic elevator to the third floor.

“I hope I didn’t offend your friend,” Patrice said. “She must have a doppelganger.”

I laughed. “They say we all have a twin. I’m sure she isn’t offended.”

But I knew the Milner woman wasn’t mistaken. Bevin’s maiden name was White—too much of a coincidence. And nobody looked like Bevin. I wondered why she’d felt the need to use an alias.

I thought back. Bev had spent a weekend at an art convention in February. It wasn’t like her to take a brief hiatus and indulge in a few days of facials, body wraps, and deep muscle massage, especially not with Franklin in tow. He often got on her case about the money she spent. Besides, there was no lighting scheme anywhere on the planet flattering enough to make Bev’s husband look good. Franklin Thompson had a face like Herman Munster.

Now I was anxious to get the assignment over fast and talk to Bevin in private.

The elevator stopped, and we stepped out into a narrow hallway. I took hold of Patrice Milner’s arm and hurried her along, paying so many extravagant compliments to her decorating skills that I couldn’t stand to listen to myself a moment longer.

We toured the charming bedroom suites and then made our way down to the spa. I asked the proper questions about structural renovations, sea salt scrubs, and whether or not aromatherapy really did aid in sleep and relaxation. The hour I usually allotted for interviews dragged, but finally our meeting ended. I thanked Patrice, grabbed a handful of brochures from the front desk, and ran out to Bev’s silver Mercedes in the parking lot.

“What was that all about?” I asked as soon as I opened the car door.

Bev didn’t answer. I climbed in and barely had time to buckle my seat belt before she put the car in drive and floored the gas. We almost clipped a Toyota exiting the lot, but Bevin was too intent on getting out fast to be rattled by the close call. My foot nearly broke through the floor when I stomped on the imaginary brake

“Would you like me to drive, Bev?” I asked.

“I’m fine! Just fine!” she insisted.

Bevin Thompson wasn’t fine. She looked like all the blood had drained from her face and she was on the verge of tears.

“Let’s skip lunch. You’re in no condition …”

“I said I’m fine.”

“We can do it another time,” I said.

“We can do it right now!”

A tear slipped down her check, and Bev was lost in thought. A NJ Transit bus tried to merge into our lane from the shoulder, and she didn’t notice.

“Bev, watch out! Pay attention!” I braced for impact, instinctively grabbing the dashboard.

She glanced at the bus, gasped, and swerved into the right lane to get out of the way.

“God, that was close,” she muttered. Her hands trembled on the wheel, and her complexion faded even whiter.

“Bev …” I began.

“Let’s talk about it at the restaurant.”

“Maybe we should go home and talk in private,” I suggested.

“At the restaurant,” she insisted. “That’s more private. I wouldn’t want your mother barging in and overhearing anything.”

Traffic was horrendous. Mall mommies in minivans clogged the lanes, and the ride back to Tranquil Harbor took nearly forty-five minutes. Except for grumbling at incompetent drivers, Bev didn’t speak again until the hostess seated us at our table inside the Happy Garden.

“We need appetizers and white wine right away,” Bevin told our lean Chinese waiter. “Egg rolls and steamed dumplings—and bring a bowl of those crunchy noodles with hot mustard. Don’t forget water. MSG makes me thirsty.”

“No MSG!” the waiter insisted.

“Just bring the water.” With a flick of her wrist, Bev dismissed him.

“What’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you so rude! What’s going on?” I asked her.

“I guess I’m just a little on edge.”

After the strange encounter with Patrice Milner, I felt the question needed to be asked outright. “Level with me. Are you cheating on Franklin, Bev?”

She lowered her head and her gorgeous red curls tumbled forward. Patrice Milner was right. There was no mistaking Bevin for anyone else.

“I know what you’re thinking. How can anyone cheat on good old stable Franklin? It seems Franklin isn’t as stable as everyone believes.”

I put down the menu and folded my hands on top of it. My friend deserved my undivided attention. “
He’s
been cheating on
you
?”

“With a trader at work. Most traders are miserable, burned-out bastards who travel in packs like wolves. They comfort each other in every way you can imagine. He found a hot Wall Street chick without an artistic bone in her lower-Manhattan body.”

Neil once told me all traders should be drowned at birth. I never paid much attention because Neil’s words of wisdom were generally broad, stupid statements. “So you took up with someone for,
what
, revenge?”

“I needed revenge. And I couldn’t discuss it with you because you had enough on your mind with Neil, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. I knew Neil was cheating on you. All the signs were there, Colleen. Did you honestly think he put in all those extra hours to build up the business?”

I shrugged. Maybe somewhere deep down inside, I knew Neil was carousing and refused to acknowledge it—not that it mattered anymore. “I wish you would have confided a little more in me, Bev. You shouldn’t have gone through that alone.”

“Obviously I didn’t.”

The waiter brought a tray of appetizers, two glasses of wine and two tumblers filled with ice water. Bevin took a dainty sip of wine, then another. I didn’t feel much like white wine. I asked the waiter to bring me a very dry double martini on the rocks with house gin and six olives.

“Who was your revenge stud, Bev?” I asked.

She twirled a strand of her long, red hair. “I’d rather this didn’t get out. It could look—bad.”

“Who would I tell?”

“That hunk editor up at the
Crier
, for one.”

Generally, I put two and two together and came up with five, but somehow I knew what Bev would say next. “Please don’t tell me it was Jason Whitley.”

“This can’t make the papers!” she hissed.

“Dear God! You can’t be serious! Jason Whitley? I thought you of all people would be more particular! And you call yourself an artist!”

Bevin winced.

I picked up a crunchy noodle and dunked it in the hot mustard. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but you didn’t happen to kill him, did you?”

Bev finished her wine and reached across the table for my untouched glass. “Of course not!”

The waiter returned with my martini, and I took a long, well-earned gulp. We gave our lunch orders. Bev went for the chicken with cashews. I ordered the beef with broccoli.

“Whitley was available,” she continued when the waiter left. “He was kind to me, Colleen. Franklin isn’t, you know. He hasn’t been for a long, long time.”

“How long were you and Whitley, um, hitting the sheets?”

“Since January.”

“And?”

“It went on up until his death,” she said.

“Nearly four months? Yuck! I can’t imagine you and Whitley together! What did you find so appealing about him? He must have been terrific in the sack. It certainly wasn’t his sparkling personality.”

Bev drained my wine and picked up an egg roll. “For God’s sake, Colleen. This is serious!”