The Marsh Madness (11 page)

Tiff was unreachable. Usually, she’d be my go-to for this kind of thing. She was always able to find the right words or vintage wine to ease the pain. I didn’t really want to get into relationship stuff with Lance, because . . . well . . . just plain awkward. Pulling out my earbuds, I opted for a bit of mindless TV but found
Law & Order
, a
Cops
marathon,
The Bachelor
and
The War of the Roses
. Sometimes it’s like the universe is pointing and laughing. Why, I’d almost forgotten the dead flowers I’d received and their sickly scent. Who hated me enough to go to that effort? On the plus side, though, if I went to jail for murder, I’d probably be safe from the wacko who sent them. Off with the television.

Walter sighed heavily, sensing this was a rough time for me. He ground his soft, furry face into my side in a show of commiseration and support.

“Let’s go to bed with a book, Walter.” I helped him into my fluffy feather bed and cuddled up with another Marsh, as I’d already whipped through
A Man Lay Dead.
This time I picked
Final Curtain
, another setup in a grand house with a bit of theater and a large group of suspects who weren’t quite what they seemed. Sleep did not come quickly.

*   *   *

YOU CAN PICK your friends, they say, but you can’t pick your relatives. My relatives proved a challenge on a daily basis, but the good news was that the skills I learned from them came in handy this morning.

I didn’t have much from the Kelly gene pool, aside from
what I like to think is a strategic mind. No ginger hair, no red cheeks, no fifth-generation-removed Irish blarney. But I did have the family knack with changing one’s appearance on occasions when being oneself might prove awkward, mostly if the police were watching. In this case, I figured they would be.

A second benefit of my relatives was wheels. My uncles maintain an ever-changing fleet of anonymous-looking older compact cars, Civics, Fiestas, Accords, that kind of thing. The cars were always in beige, burgundy or dulled silver. Never in what Tyler used to call “Arrest Me Red.” I knew the registrations would be in order as would the insurance. The vehicles would be part of the rolling stock of shell companies within shell companies within . . . well, you get the idea. I would be listed as an occasional driver on all of them. I’d needed these vehicles before, but I’d always hoped I’d never need one again.

Oh well, when life gives you lemons, time to slap on a wig and drive off.

I left Van Alst House wearing highly noticeable clothing, a great swirling vintage cape in crimson being the centerpiece of that outfit. I was accompanied by Walter in a fetching little plaid jacket. Walter kept a much better pace when he was dressed. I guess my love of fashion was rubbing off on him. He pranced around proudly as we headed for the car.

I popped Walter into the passenger seat and then got behind the wheel of the Saab with what I hoped was a flourish and not a nervous twitch and spun down the long driveway. I waved to the police officer who was keeping an eye on the house. The drive to Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques is only about ten minutes, but it takes you from the bucolic country setting of Van Alst House to the center of Harrison Falls. I pulled up in front of the family business and parked the Saab in the most conspicuous spot possible. There wasn’t too much going on in that little part of the downtown, as Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky seemed to have bought up
most of the adjoining properties, using some convenient corporation. Better I didn’t know how or why.

A dark Crown Victoria, obviously an unmarked police car, pulled in behind me and waited, idling.

Not surprising, but not good either.

Walter and I stepped up to the shop briskly, and I used my keys to open the door. Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques (By Appointment Only) is run by Uncle Mick, when he’s in the mood. Lately that hadn’t been all that often. Uncle Lucky had always been there, but only in spirit. I grew up in the rooms behind and above the shop. Some of my happiest memories were of the shop: the dim lights, the wide, dark plank floors, the full shelves and, of course, the dusty smell that hinted at other people’s fascinating stories. I’d loved the glow and glimmer of possible treasures of glass, brass or silver set up by Uncle Mick. The gleam of the locked glass cases near the cash registers always made me happy. So many treasures so close to my old home.

I rummaged through the excellent supply of wigs that resided in a large drawer, marked “WIGS—NEVER WORN.” Uncle Mick seemed to have an unending source. They were undeniably useful for certain activities. I had purchased several of the wigs myself for fun, for costumes, for emergencies. This was an emergency.

There wasn’t a lot I could do about my blue eyes, dark brows and eyelashes, but I could ditch my dark hair. If, as my uncles claim, the Kelly legacy is from Olaf the Viking, then I must owe mine to some Spanish sailor who washed ashore half alive when the Armada had that awkwardness with the English fleet. Whoever he was, he and others like him left a genetic legacy around rocky coasts. Black Irish, some people say.

Changing my hair was the easiest thing to prepare for my bit of reconnaissance. People can gauge your age by your build, posture, ways of moving. It’s very hard to disguise. But hair color makes a huge difference. My favorite bright
red wig was familiar to many in the police department after last fall, but it wasn’t the only game in town. I searched for and found an amazing little short and tightly curled honey blond number. It added at least fifteen years to my age and subtracted any cool factor whatsoever. Excellent. Next, I hunted for a pair of glasses in the jumbled glasses section. Mixed in with the vintage and collectible frames was a pair of horn-rimmed specs with clear glass lenses. All I needed was a severe suit and a briefcase and I’d be in business.

Upstairs in my old closet I found the perfect suit, a charcoal worsted vintage jacket and skirt, bought for a funeral a few years back, but too somber for anything else. My plan was perfect. Under my swirly cape, I had on a crisp white blouse, which looked exceptionally uptight under the suit. Back in the shop, I topped it all off with some supersized pearls—necklace and clip-on earrings—and a black leather briefcase. I was going to cover the
KRR
monogram using a washable black marker but decided not to. Usually, I’d wonder who KRR had been, that he had a gold monogram, but no time for fanciful imaginings today. Today, I would make use of it.

In front of the shop mirror, I thickened up my eyebrows and added an unflattering shade of coral lipstick, and I was ready to go.

In the apartment, I left the lights on and turned on the television set.

Next I found the newly added recess behind the kitchen cupboard and fished out a burner phone. I left my iPhone on the kitchen table and pocketed the burner. I didn’t have a plan for it, but I was well aware that it’s often advisable to make an untraceable call. That’s part of being careful and planning to avoid trouble.

I trotted upstairs again to check myself in the only decent full-length mirror. I turned and twirled. The shoes were wrong, but I had no choice. I would have to do.

Walter looked at me with worry in his huge googly eyes.

“Don’t worry, Walter,” I said. “You’ll be taken care of. Too bad you don’t have Cobain for company, but it can’t be helped.”

Back in the kitchen with the bare wall as a backdrop, I managed an excellent selfie with my iPhone and uploaded the image. With Uncle Mick’s first-rate equipment, printer and lamination machine, I soon had myself a driver’s license and a very good ID tag for a well-known firm of auditors: Jackson and Dogherty.

I thought I looked like everyone’s stereotype of an auditor. Stereotypes are our friends when we need disguises. I’d learned that from the best.

I took ten more minutes to look up a few phrases used by auditors, memorized ten of them and was ready to depart. First, I needed to give Walter the few little treats he expects if I am leaving without him. We definitely didn’t want to have any separation anxiety.

I tossed the treats, and Walter scampered after them. My departure was no longer a concern.

Kathryn Risley Rolland was on her way, with her monogrammed leather briefcase and a plan.

Minutes later I was out the back door heading for my ride of the day. To my surprise, I found a shiny black Infiniti parked in Uncle Mick’s spare garage two doors down. I could have taken the dreary old Civic or that washed out Mazda6, but this looked so much better. It was about three years old and exactly the kind of car Kathryn Risley Rolland would drive. I hoped that my uncles didn’t have big plans for it that day and made a phone call from the burner to check.

With all systems go, I slipped behind the wheel and exited. Without an apparent glance and with chin held high, I drove past my Saab, which was patiently parked in front of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques. I didn’t acknowledge the officer in the unmarked police car, who was obviously tasked with keeping an eye on me.

T
HE COUNTRY CLUB and Spa was worth the drive. I sped along the access road, noting the number of Beamers, Mercedes and glossy Caddies parked near the entrance. The Infiniti fit in.

I used my most businesslike stride to arrive at the front door. A fresh-faced teenage boy was stationed at the door for security. His sandy hair had natural highlights from the sun, and he stood well over six feet with a build that indicated time in the gym. He was pretty enough for any movie screen. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was discovered here one of these days. If I read his tag correctly, his name was Braydon. I approached him for what I assumed was an entirely normal and appropriate member’s ID check. I resisted straightening my tightly curled blond wig—which would only draw attention to it—and donned the look I remember from my third grade teacher, Miss Dagenham. It could stop your blood cold and could not be withstood.

He stepped back a bit. I held up my hand to stop any requests for ID.

“Kathryn Risley Rolland, auditor. Jackson and Dogherty,” I said, crisply. “The police are aware that I’m here. I need to visit your corporate office, please.”

He blinked. He also blushed. So cute. Of course, this was a country club and spa, so he probably didn’t know there was a corporate office.

“The person in charge,” I said. “Lisa.”

“Oh right. Lisa Hatton.”

I wasn’t sure why he was blushing quite so much, until I noticed a cluster of women arriving right after me. He glanced their way and then back to me, a slightly hunted expression on his handsome face. They looked to be in their late thirties, expensively dressed, and they were all giggling as they took the stairs. I hoped they weren’t laughing at my shoes, but I suspected they were acting like high school girls because of Young Mr. Handsome and Blushing. Ladies, your hormones are showing.

I made sure I still had his attention. “Do you accompany me, young man, or shall I go on my own?”

“Oh. I’m supposed to stay here. You can go over on your own, ma’am. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” I stepped confidently through the front door. I experienced a small frisson of excitement. Yes, I was going straight and I genuinely planned to live my life on the up-and-up, but this gaining entry while wearing a disguise, while technically totally illegal, was a bit of a rush. I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to be making a habit of it and that it seemed to be the only way to start trying to figure out who was trying to frame us for murder.

Of course, the offices were near the front of the establishment, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. First, the ladies’ room. I knew that would be a good spot to overhear gossip.

I was followed through the door by the giggling clump of women. As far as I could tell they were speculating about Braydon in ways that could have him blushing to death. Poor thing.

The conversation changed as two gray-haired women entered, both talking about Chadwick. Yes!

“Can’t believe it, really,” the shorter one said.

“Neither can I. It’s terrible. I mean, he looked so well the other day.”

While reapplying my hideous shade of coral lipstick in the vast gilt-framed mirror, I noticed the taller woman blink at her friend’s comment. Chadwick had, after all, been murdered, which didn’t really reflect on his state of well-being before that violent act.

The gigglers stopped and looked appropriately subdued.

“Which is more than you can say for poor Lisa,” the shorter one said, fluffing her pale reddish curls and frowning at her wrinkles. “She’s certainly having trouble holding things together.”

I noticed the gigglers making eye contact. One managed to let a loud snicker escape. Both older women fixed her with looks that could easily have killed. With a swirl of their expensive curly blowouts, the younger crowd departed.

Hmm.

“Well,” said the taller woman, “I hope she manages a bit better. The members are very upset, and people need reassurance. I thought Lisa had more spine, to tell the truth. What do we pay her for if not to be professional?”

Her friend was more sympathetic. “I always thought she carried a torch for Chadwick. Not that he ever seemed to reciprocate, but still, it must be heartbreaking for her.” I suspected she’d carried a torch or two in her own life.

“She’s flipping out, is what I heard,” her friend said, applying a thick layer of Dior lipstick, with hardly a glance in the mirror. “They say she’s unable to hold it together even in public.”

“People should be kinder. It will be devastating for the club if she leaves after this. I think she is the one who actually kept things going. Chadwick wasn’t much for the business side. Really.”

“Well, why would he be, with all that money coming to him? He just had to wait.”

Fat lot of good waiting did him, I thought. I managed to fuss with my frumpy blond hair, visit the dark mahogany stall, emerge, wash my hands again and straighten my suit, fiddling until all the women left the ladies’ room.

I headed off to see Poor Lisa, hoping she could hold things together long enough for me to get some information out of her.

*   *   *

THE PALE AND very pretty young woman with the halo of strawberry-blond curls tried everything to keep me from Lisa Hatton in the administration office. Her round china-blue eyes stared at me as she used her body to block the entrance to the office.

“Not sure if you understand,
perfectly
,” I said, narrowing my eyes grimly at her. “It’s a matter of complying with the letter of the law.” I was blowing hot air. “We cannot let this wait. If”—I glanced at my notepad—“Lisa Hatton is not available, I will need to see the chair of the board. This is a legal requirement, as I have already said and as I am sure you are aware.”

She stared at me, completely unaware of this—or any—legal requirement. That wasn’t a surprise to me, as I had made it up that second.

“It’s all right, Miranda,” a raspy voice said.

Miranda turned and squeaked.

Lisa Hatton had dark shoulder-length hair, cut in soft layers. I figured she was about thirty-five and quite curvy. Her navy suit was about a size too small, and the fuchsia satin blouse she wore was unbuttoned far enough to show a bit of cleavage. I couldn’t tell if that was the way she always dressed or if she was too rattled to do up the third button from the collar. On a good day, the flashing dark eyes, the
heart-shaped face and the wide mouth would have made her very attractive. I was betting there was always a hint of cleavage.

But now, with her swollen eyes, crimson nose and tear-tracked cheeks, this was looking like the worst day of her life. Angry splotches covered her face and neck. Some women were not made for weeping. Lisa was one of those.

“Kathryn Risley—” I started.

She shrugged. “Yes, yes. Come in and tell me what you want and why it can’t wait.”

Miranda bit her lip as I passed by.

“Spot audit,” I said as I sailed into the room, stiff curls high. But now I felt pretty low taking advantage of her misery to ferret around in the late Chadwick’s life and affairs. Inside her office the wall was covered with large photographs, each in distinctive sage-and-gold frames, apparently celebrating special moments for the Country Club and Spa. A few more on the dark wood console looked personal, during happier times for Poor Lisa.

I turned to her and said, “I understand that there has been a tragedy, and I am sorry to be here now. Would you like to take a couple of minutes to . . . ?” Platitudinous, yes. But I meant it. I was wishing I’d found a less emotionally intrusive way to get in here. But it’s funny how your moral compass can shift when you’re being framed for murder. Lisa was collateral damage. I was a jerk.

She nodded and seemed to choke back a sob.

“Take your time,” I said with what I hoped was an understanding smile.

She stared at me warily.

“I’ll wait here with Miranda,” I added, in case that was what she was worried about.

Miranda’s startlingly blue eyes grew wider. I guess I made her nervous.

Lisa nodded. “You can get our guest a cappuccino or
some jasmine tea, Miranda. Or fruit juice. We have mango nectar. Whatever she wants. I’ll be right back.” She left the room, wobbling unsteadily on her three-inch heels.

I smiled at Miranda. She in turn avoided my eyes and pretended to pay attention to her work. I pretended to glance at the photos with all the fake interest of a person who could not care less. “Hot tea would be lovely. Thank you, Miranda.”

She hesitated.

“Plain hot tea,” I added firmly. “Very hot.” That should take a few minutes. I wanted a bit of time alone in the office.

The man I now knew to be Chadwick presided over the events captured by most of the photos. But I wasn’t looking for him or for Lisa, Miranda or Braydon. I was looking for a glimpse of the dark and arrogant person who had presented himself as Chadwick. I was looking for the slender, pretty image of Lisa Troy. Or even the false butler, Thomas.

There appeared to be group photos of every tournament and awards ceremony in living memory. Lisa Hatton smiled out joyously in most of them, always Chadwick-adjacent. Sometimes, her hand seemed to reach out for him and stop short of his sleeve.

The other wall was given over to glamorous guests at the famous garden parties. Two new framed photos lay on the surface of the filing cabinet ready to be added to the available space on the wall. A small hammer and hooks were ready for the job. I spotted something in the second row of photos, when the door opened again and Lisa Hatton said, “Let’s get this over with.”

I turned and joined her by the desk. I would have done anything to slow down time, because I was pretty sure that I’d seen a glimpse of Lisa Troy in one of the group shots of a garden party.

I needed to buy some time.

“Before we start, I’ll need to see your hospitality expenditures for the past seven years.”

Lisa stared at me. “That’s not possible.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Some are stored off-site.”

“Start with the records you have here and make arrangements.” I was feeling lower by the second, making this grieving woman chase her tail. At this rate, soon I’d be lower than a snake.

Miranda appeared in the doorway, carrying a cup of tea that—unless I was wrong—had been steeped in resentment.

In my best auditor imitation, I said, “Perhaps your assistant, Miranda, would help you bring them.” Deep down I was feeling this was about to blow up in my face.

Lisa stared and then nodded. My karma “bill” was going to be through the roof this month. Miranda put the jasmine tea down slowly and followed Lisa from the room, her strawberry-blond curls bobbing with annoyance. I raced to the wall and checked. Sure enough, that was Lisa Troy in the first picture, on the second row of frames. I lifted the photo off the wall and substituted one from the filing cabinet. I opened my briefcase and dropped in the framed photo. I hurried to the door.

“Please tell Miss Hatton that I have been called back to the office unexpectedly,” I said to the first person I saw. “Tell her that the audit has been postponed indefinitely.” No point in letting the poor woman suffer any more.

I moved as quickly as I could toward the front door. I spotted Lisa and Miranda conferring with a man with a suit. He looked like security. There was quite a bit of gesturing and hand waving on Lisa’s part and a lot of nodding and curl bobbing from Miranda. I had a feeling “the jig was up,” as my uncles like to say. Even at that distance, I could see Lisa blowing her nose vigorously. Pivoting on my heel, I speed-walked down a corridor and into what turned out to be a huge kitchen. My uncles had always warned me never to break into a run until you had no choice.

“Spot check. Health department,” I said, pointing to the far corner. “Do I see droppings? I’ll be back with my citation tablet.” I believe I said that as if it were a real thing.

The startled kitchen staff turned to look at the nonexistent droppings, and I barreled through the door to the outside. I skirted the building and stuck my head around the corner to check for anyone who might recognize Kathryn Risley Rolland. I whipped off the stiff blond wig and stuffed it in the briefcase. I folded the jacket and squeezed that in too, followed by the glasses. With the photo, these new additions tested the hinges on the briefcase, but it held. I found an elastic in my pocket and pulled my hair back. With the dark ponytail and without the jacket and glasses, I headed for the parking lot, hoping no one would recognize me or “Kathryn.” My adrenaline was pumping. It wouldn’t do me any good to be caught here, for sure. What had I been thinking? I was a suspect, and I’d pulled a stunt at the workplace of the victim, unsettling his obviously grieving co-workers. Lisa was devastated, and I had made her life worse. Even though I’d found a useful line on Lisa Troy, I felt like a rat. A rat that needed a bath.

But before my ratty self could reach the Infiniti and drive off, I caught sight of something and ducked back behind the yew hedge by the side of the building. Detective Drea Castellano and Detective Stoddard were making their way up the front stairs. She was all business; he was languid as usual.