Chapter Twelve #2
“Keep going,” I called out to Mateo. A few minutes later, I asked him to freeze the screen again, as Julie Clifford arrived at the studio.
“Okay, she’s not wearing a sweater,” Caceras said. “Intriguing, but not conclusive.”
“Can we jump ahead to when people are leaving?” I asked Mateo.
The screen went black, then resumed as the contestants started out. I called, “Stop,” when Julie Clifford walked through the gate.
“Sweater,” Caceras said. “Keep going.”
We watched as the rest of the contestants, including us, left, and the camera caught the moment I’d discovered its location and stared into the lens.
“Cheeky, Jessica,” Caceras said.
Then the staff started to emerge. “Stop!” Caceras called, and there was Sandi Flores leaving with no sweater.
“Believe me?” I asked.
“I always believe you. Still not sure that would be enough to convince a jury though. So let me get this straight. Sandi Flores was supplying the answers in advance to this Julie Clifford. Why?”
“The prize money springs to mind,” I said. “Julie Clifford was in tough financial straits, and from what Sandi Flores told me, she’s been struggling since the divorce.”
“I can almost see it,” Caceras said. “How do they hook up, though? Does Sandi Flores just happen to offer the answers to the one contestant desperate enough to pay for them? Or does Julie Clifford go up to one of the writers at random, introduce herself, and offer a cash payout?”
“That’s something that bothers me as well,” I said. “Two strangers would be unlikely to trust each other to commit a crime together. Seems more like something out of Alfred Hitchcock.”
“Now for the hundred-thousand-dollar question: For sake of argument,” Caceras said, “let’s assume they somehow did cook up this cheating thing together, does it have anything to do with the homicide?”
“If Ray found out…” I started. “If it’s the thing he overheard that got him killed…”
“Does that seem like a strong enough motive to take someone’s life?
” Caceras tented his fingers in front of his mouth and stared at the image on the screen.
“I’m wondering if I even have enough to bring them in for questioning.
Maybe after the show tomorrow. We can see if they try the old sweater switcheroo again. ”
“So you’re just going to let them cheat?” Maureen asked.
Caceras winced.
“Lieutenant,” I said, “if I may, I have an idea.”
“This ought to be good.” He leaned back against the sofa. “What do you have in mind?”
* * *
I found sleep difficult that night. Even Marco’s manuscript failed to bring on slumber.
Considering Marco was also a stuntman, I had expected him to attempt some kind of spy thriller or crime story, rife with explosions and car chases and danger.
Instead, to my surprise, he had penned a sweet holiday romance that might be perfect for one of the cable networks that specialize in that sort of thing.
And it was well written, not that I was the best judge.
I’d have to ask my agent if he could recommend someone who repped that genre.
I had just turned off the light and was attempting sleep again when I heard a scraping sound.
I lay still, listening intently. For a moment, I could almost hear whispering, but I wasn’t sure if it was a human voice or perhaps just wind whistling through an uncaulked crack in the house.
Or maybe a coyote in the yard. And then it stopped.
After another few minutes of tossing and turning, I flipped on the light, pulled on my bathrobe, and stuck my feet into my slippers.
A middle-of-the-night cup of tea was becoming a habit, and for some reason, my brain chose that moment to remind me that there was a piece of pie in the refrigerator with my name quite literally on it.
On my way to the kitchen, I spied light coming from the sitting room where the picture of Danielle with her prized pet hung, and I stopped to see who else might be awake.
I found Maureen reclining on the sofa, her empty dessert box on the table in front of her as she leafed through Danielle’s scrapbook. She startled when I entered.
“Sorry to scare you,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep. I was on my way for a cup of tea and saw the light.”
“Common malady tonight,” she said. “The kettle might still be hot.” She lifted a cup she’d set on a coaster.
I went to the kitchen, wondering if the noises I’d heard earlier were just Maureen making her snack.
I put the teakettle back on to reheat while I dug my pie out of the refrigerator and located the drawer with the forks.
The kettle whistled a moment later, but I doubted I could have mistaken it for voices whispering.
I had no sooner rejoined Maureen in the sitting room when Victoria wandered in. “Is this the insomniac’s club?” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I’d like to join.”
“You’re much too young for that,” I said. “But since you’re up, the water in the kettle is hot.”
As she wandered off, I sank my fork into a lovely piece of peach pie and took a bite. “Mmm.”
“I know,” Maureen said. “It’s yummy, isn’t it? What a nice thing for some total stranger to do. Is that what it’s like to have fans? If so, why aren’t you fat?”
“Well, no, there’s not usually pie, but when there is, they baked it themselves, and I can’t help wondering how clean they keep their kitchen, like whether or not they had to chase one of a dozen cats out of the pie plate before baking.
Of course, I thank them sincerely. Crafting a pie is a lot of work, and it’s a wonderful gesture, but I can never quite bring myself to actually consume them, so no calories are involved. They do smell nice in my hotel room.”
“Aha!” Maureen said. “So that’s your secret. You could market that: J. B. Fletcher’s pie-sniffing diet.”
Victoria rejoined us and took the spot on the sofa next to me, curling her legs underneath her. “I see you’re back in Danielle’s scrapbook, Maureen.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “She really lived such an interesting life. I was reading an article about how she came to own Quimby. He appeared in a film she was working on, and she says he was such a big teddy bear that she just fell in love on the spot and had to have him. She bought him from the owner and then hired his trainer full time to come take care of him. There’s a picture of them here.
” Maureen handed over the scrapbook, pointing to a clipping that showed a young, glamorous Danielle clad in a swimsuit, lounging on an outdoor chaise, watching while Quimby and a broad-chested black man cavorted on the lawn beside her.
I chuckled. “Just playing with the family cat.” I handed the book back to Maureen.
“And there’s something else in here that I’m wondering about,” she said.
“The treasure?” Victoria asked.
“What treasure?” I set my pie on the coffee table to prolong the experience and picked up my teacup.
“There’s a fan magazine interview where Danielle vaguely mentions some kind of treasure in the house.
” Maureen leafed through the scrapbook. “Here it is. The interviewer asks her what she thinks about a few larger, more expensive homes being built up around her, and she said, ‘Why would it bother me? I’m happy for their success, and I don’t feel the need to flaunt mine on the outside. Real treasure is on the inside.’ ”
“That could mean anything,” I said. “A clear conscience. Humility. A sense of humor.”
Maureen held up an index finger. “The reporter asked what she meant, but she declined to answer. There was another interview later and a different reporter questioned her about it again, and the article said she just gave him, and I quote, ‘an enigmatic smile and no comment.’ ”
“I asked her about it myself,” Victoria said. “She told me the treasure was lost to her and she didn’t want to talk about it. It seemed to genuinely upset her, so I haven’t brought it up again.”
“Do you actually believe,” I said, “that there might be some kind of tangible treasure lost somewhere in the house?”
“I’m not a hundred percent convinced,” Maureen said, “but apparently others are.” She picked up her phone.
“I found a discussion on Reddit. It’s a couple of years old, but someone quoted the old article and asked if the treasure had ever been found.
Not a lot of people participated, but enough to know there’s a little conspiracy theory out there that says there’s something valuable still hidden in this house. ”
“When we listed the property,” Victoria said, “a few people did inquire if they could come see it on their own.”
“Did you let them?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Victoria said. “I wasn’t aware of any conspiracy theory at the time, but we don’t generally let folks tour our clients’ homes unescorted. Some have tried to take advantage of the homeowner’s absence and use viewing appointments for…tête-à-têtes.”
“Ah,” I said.
“But I was thinking,” Maureen said, “what if the odd sounds and the missing jewelry are the result of someone looking for the treasure?”
“Breaking into the house?” Victoria crossed her arms, as if warding off a sudden shiver. I felt it too. It was a chilling idea, and I think I much rather favored the coyote hypothesis.
“Or maybe even someone who already has access to the house,” Maureen said. “You have a cook, a gardener, Danielle’s aide, and all the contractors for the renovation.”
“And there will be more once you open it as a B&B.” I set my teacup on the table.
“Victoria, I know that you and Howard don’t like to ask for help, and I do admire your independence, but I’d feel better if you’d allow me to help pay for the new security system.
Even if it’s just a loan. Or, if it helps, consider it an investment in your business. ”
“Oh, Aunt Jess.” Victoria sighed. “I suppose you have a point. I’ll talk with Howard.”