Bad Reputation, A (6 page)

“Whatcha got for me, Madeline?”

“Good news,” I said. “I investigated the problem and found out Austin is only interested in Kennedy because of the Wow System. He told me so himself.”

“You didn't mention me, I hope.”

“Not at all.”

She nodded as if mulling over this information. “Well, that's what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Thanks, Madeline.”

“My pleasure. And it didn't take as much time as I planned, so I owe you a refund.” I handed her three dollars back.

“Okay.” She solemnly shook my hand. “What are the chances of Jerry buying a Wow?”

“I'll have to ask him.”

“Because if Jerry has one here, then Austin won't go to Kennedy's.”

“If Jerry has one what?” He walked out in time to hear.

“A Wow System,” Denisha said.

“Depends on how much it costs.”

She handed him the three dollars. “Here's a start.”

He laughed. “I'm not going to take your money. Mac and I are going to Millersberg this afternoon. I'll check on the prices.”

“It's important,” she said. “If you have one, then Austin will stop hanging around Kennedy so much.”

“I will definitely look into it.”

She thanked him and rode off.

“Denisha's a good name,” Jerry said. “Not as forceful as Hortensia, though.”

Hortensia was the name he'd given our non-existent daughter. “Where did that come from?”

“I looked up some names on the Internet. I was trying to find Honor. She used to have a website.”

“Scam Artists dot com?”

“Fly By Night dot com.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. You put it out front so people can't say they weren't warned. But it's not there anymore. She either changed it, or moved on.”

“Well, let's move on and see if we can find her. I'll drive.”

***

On the way to Millersberg, Jerry went down a long list of baby names.

“How about Adelaide?”

“Too old-fashioned.”

“Ambrosia?”

“Isn't that some kind of coconut dessert?”

“Cephorah?”

“Too Biblical.”

“Dauphine?”

“Sounds like a cough medicine.”

“Guess it's Hortensia, then,” he said.

“Why are you naming a baby that might not ever be?”

“You said you'd think about it.”

“That's a long way from having one.”

He looked at my expression, folded the list, and put it in his pocket. “How was lunch with Baby Flo?”

“Interesting. According to Flora, Wendall left Larissa because she didn't understand or appreciate his ambitions. Flora left her husband for the same reasons. Apparently, he was a slacker, and she had more expensive tastes. She's quite dazzling, but my experienced pageant eye noticed a lot of her glamour is store-bought.”

“Such as?”

“Besides the fake eyelashes and fingernails, she had very realistic hair extensions and loads of makeup, but she's one of those women who can carry off this look. No wonder the other women hate her. But I like her. I think she's a really sweet person who's caught in the middle of a highly charged emotional situation.”

“Was Wendall there?”

“He'd gone to Parkland to find a curator. Flora and I agreed it would be better if he chose someone from Celosia.”

He grinned. “Like you, for instance?”

“Oh, no. Don't go there. I was thinking of someone like Pamela Finch. At least she's had experience running a business.”

“Does Pamela want to do it?”

“She acts all flustered and modest, but I believe she's been dreaming of an opportunity like this.”

“Is her work any good?”

“It's not too bad. Larissa made some very disparaging remarks about it, though.”

“So if Pamela ran the gallery she could display her work and thumb her nose at Larissa.”

“I'm sure that's occurred to her.”

“What about the other members of the Guild?” Jerry asked. “Suppose Wendall chooses Pamela? Won't there be intense in-fighting over whose work goes where?”

“I'm sure that's going to happen no matter who Wendall chooses. Here's something else I found out. Larissa, Pamela, and Bea were all on the high school soccer team, and from the picture, you'd have to believe at one time they liked each other. And since all three were very attractive girls, I think Wendall played the field.”

“The entire soccer field.”

“I wouldn't put it past him. I think he broke Bea's teenaged heart, and she has yet to forgive him.”

“That's the secret grudge she's holding?”

“According to Nell, Bea married a fellow from Raleigh and the marriage didn't work out. Maybe that guy was Mr. Rebound.”

“It's a good theory.”

“Never underestimate the power of teen angst. But let's take care of your problem first.”

I rarely see Jerry look grim. Even his choice of ties for the trip was serious: little white skulls and bones on black.

“Believe me, I'm ready,” he said.

Chapter Seven

Millersberg wasn't much more than a suburb of Parkland, a bedroom community with its own post office and strip malls. Even though it was small, I thought we might have some difficulty locating Mrs. Forest. I had underestimated Jerry's network. We parked at a gas station, and he called someone named Peedee, who knew everyone in town and gave him an address.

“I think you'd better let me handle this,” I said as we drove to Denby Forest's house. “If you're wrong, and this woman really is Denby Forest, then you shouldn't confront her. We could get in even deeper legal trouble.”

“Mac, I'm telling you, this has to be a con.”

“Just let me go in first and talk to her.”

He stewed a while then relented. “Okay. Honor Perkins is a large woman. When I last saw her, she weighed close to two hundred pounds, but she could've lost weight. She has dark hair and dark eyes, which she could disguise with a wig and contact lenses. She also has a slight lisp, but you have to listen hard to catch it.”

“All right.”

“You have to have some excuse for visiting Mrs. Forest. What are you going to say?”

“I'm going to tell her you conned me, too.”

He looked impressed. “That's very good. I am so proud.”

***

Unfortunately, Denby Forest was a tiny elderly woman with gray hair piled in a bun, little granny glasses, and no trace of a speech impediment. She looked exactly like a woman who would be easily taken in.

I introduced myself as Madeline Maclin and asked her if she'd ever had a séance with someone named Jerry Fairweather.

“My goodness, yes, I have,” she said. “Are you from the police?”

“I've also had a séance with Mr. Fairweather.” Which was true. “A séance which did not turn out very well for me. I'm trying to find Mr. Fairweather. Would you mind if I asked you some questions about your experience?”

“Not at all, not at all. Come in.”

We sat down in her dark little living room. “Mrs. Forest, could you tell me what happened?”

“Well, I heard from some friends of mine in town about this young man who was an accomplished medium and could speak to those who'd passed on. I was in desperate need of some financial advice, and the only one I trusted was my dear departed uncle. Mr. Fairweather was able to contact him through a séance we held right here in this very room. He put a candle on the table and my uncle spoke right through him! At the time, I found it all astonishing. I know now it was all a dreadful lie. Through Mr. Fairweather, my uncle advised me to put all my savings into Double Delite Doughnuts, so I did. The company failed, and I lost everything.”

“When was this?”

“This past August, August 15.”

“Could you describe this man?”

“Oh, my, yes. He was very handsome, very charming.”

My heart sank. “Do you remember anything else?”

“He had light brown hair.”

Oh, dear.

“And the most beautiful gray eyes. You don't see that very often these days.”

Oh, brother. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Mrs. Forest?”

“Well, aren't all con men supposed to be good-looking? It's part of their performance. I still can't believe I was so taken in. So sad, isn't it, that a young man like that has to resort to cheating old ladies?”

“Oh, I agree.” Believe me, I agree.

“What did he take you for, dear?”

“Practically everything I had.”

“Well, dearie, I've done something about it, and you should, too. I got a lawyer, and I'm suing that young man.”

“How did your lawyer know where to find him?”

“I was so lucky to have a dear friend in Celosia who said she'd heard that name before. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be the same man!”

“I would like to speak to your friend.” Boy, would I.

“Oh, I'm sorry to say she's passed on just last week.”

I thought of a better idea. “Mrs. Forest, what if I found this man for you? Would you be willing to sit down with him and have some face-to-face negotiations and settle out of court? If you've lost your life's savings, paying a lawyer and court costs might be difficult for you.”

“Would you be able to find him?”

“I'm pretty sure I can. I'm a private investigator, and I'd do this free of charge for you. Or if you prefer, you can get a mediator or an arbiter, but I believe that would cost you some fees, as well.”

She looked daunted. “Well, that's awfully generous of you. Let me think about it.”

I gave her one of my cards. “Please call me when you decide. Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Forest.”

“You're welcome,” she said. “Can you see yourself out? My leg's acting up today.”

When I got back in the car, Jerry took one look at my face and said in disbelief, “It wasn't her?”

“Denby Forest is a wizened little grandma who remembers you quite well and wants every drop of your blood.”

He started to get out of the car, but I caught his arm. “Jerry, no. Not yet. I told her I'd find you, and the two of you can settle this out of court. I don't want you bursting in on her.”

“Mac, I never use my real name! I have never been in this town!”

“Maybe you forgot. Maybe you've been run out of so many towns, they all look alike.”

He slumped back in his seat. “Come on,” I coaxed. “We'll have some Baxter's barbecue and talk about this. She didn't look like she could afford a lawyer.”

“She can if she gets a million dollars.”

“Not if we don't have a million dollars.”

***

Usually a trip to our favorite barbecue restaurant can calm any storm, but neither the juicy sandwich nor the crunchy fries helped Jerry settle down.

“I was so sure this was some scheme of Honor's.” He squeezed the ketchup bottle with unnecessary force. “I still think she's got a hand in this somewhere. Maybe she hired a little old lady to play Mrs. Forest.”

That seemed way too elaborate for me. “Just relax. She has a dear friend in Celosia who's just passed away.”

“How's that going to help?”

“All you have to do is light a candle and call her up.”

He gave me a very ornery look and then his scowl faded into a reluctant grin. “Okay. I deserved that.”

“We'll take care of this, Jerry.” My phone beeped and I checked it. “A message from Pamela,” I said. “Uh, oh. Looks like more trouble with the Art Guild. Her text message says, ‘Disaster! New curator chosen! Call me!!' Double exclamation marks.”

“Then you'd better call her.”

I punched in Pamela's number and barely said hello before she started in.

“Madeline, you would not believe what Wendall's done! He's hired some woman from the Silver Gallery in Parkland, a complete stranger, and the two of them have final say on whose work is good enough to be displayed. He's invited the Art Guild to meet her tomorrow, and I know this meeting is going to be a total disaster!”

“Have the members of the Guild told Wendall about their concerns?”

“He said he'd answer all our questions at the meeting, but he's not going to listen to us! He's got his mind already set on what he wants.”

“I know this is going to be difficult,” I said, “but why don't you wait and see what really happens? You might like this new curator. She might be open to your suggestions.”

Pamela would not be comforted. “I don't know how that's possible. She's not from here. She doesn't know us.”

When we moved to Celosia, Jerry and I had run into this same small-town mindset. If I hadn't solved several murders, we'd still be outsiders. “Then she'll be able to have unbiased opinions about your work, right?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, as if Pamela hadn't considered this. “I don't know. I just have bad feelings about all of this. Can you come to the meeting? You're not an official member of the Guild, but you're an artist and we need your support.”

There was no way to get out of this. “All right.”

“Tomorrow at two at the gallery,” Pamela said and hung up.

“Pamela's just like you,” I told Jerry. “All in a wad about something you can't control.”

“I take it from your conversation that Wendall has brought in some snooty curator from New York City.”

“Close. She's from the Silver Gallery in Parkland. That's snooty enough to send the Guild into a tailspin. I'll find out tomorrow at two.”

“I've got your next murder case for you,” he said. “I predict someone's going to take Wendall out.”

“I hope not. He's just trying to do something for the town. Want another order of fries?”

“No, thanks.”

Things were serious when Jerry didn't want seconds. “Let's head on to Billie's, then. You might be able to use your powers for good.”

***

Billie's house was at the end of Pumpkin Lane in a neighborhood only a few streets over from my mother's. Knowing Billie's early taste for all things gaudy, I expected the house to be different. It was a brick Colonial with a circular drive and boxwoods. Billie's appearance, however, more than made up for her bland surroundings. She had put on a little more than fifty pounds, but she was still the loud, flashy girl I remembered. Her sequined top had a butterfly design that spread its wings over her ample chest, and she had a ring on every finger. Billie's mother had always insisted her daughter's hair be the poofiest in the pageant. Now Billie's hair was closely cropped to her head with a fringe of bangs. Huge earrings dangled from her ears, and in honor of my visit, she was wearing one of her many crowns.

Her laugh bounced off the walls. “There she is! Madeline Maclin! The moment we've all been waiting for! Grand Supreme Pixie Dust Winner!”

I gave her a hug. “Good grief, how do you remember that?”

“Because that crown should have been mine, of course! My singing was better than your awful violin playing any day.” She turned to greet Jerry. “And this must be Jerry, con man extraordinaire, or you'd better be, to help solve this mystery.”

He shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Billie. So what happened?”

“Come inside and I'll tell you all about it.”

The living room, like Billie, was extravagant and bedazzled, with zebra-patterned furniture and huge china cabinets filled with her crowns, ribbons, and sashes.

I peered in one cabinet at a photograph of Billie as Little Miss Acme Carpets. “Why in the world did you keep all this stuff?”

“Oh, I think it's hilarious. Don't you have yours?”

“My mother has a shrine.”

Billie took off her crown and placed it on a side table. “Let me get you a drink. You want iced tea or something stronger?”

“Tea would be fine, thanks.”

While she was gone, Jerry looked in the cabinets. “Here's one of you, Mac.”

There was eight-year-old me standing in my rigid pageant pose. I had on my best fixed smile, a pink dress that probably cost my mother twelve thousand dollars, and a hairstyle that could withstand hurricane-force winds.

“I don't know why you didn't like doing this,” Jerry said. “You look so happy.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Billie looks happy, too.”

Billie, standing beside me, had an equally glazed expression. “She's annoyed because I placed higher than she did in that pageant, but she has to keep smiling. We all did.”

Billie returned with a tray and glasses of tea. She set the tray on the zebra-striped coffee table and handed us each a glass. “Now, let me tell you my tale of woe. Last week, my husband and I got a letter in the mail saying we'd won a night out to the Parkland Dinner Theater's gala. Of course, we were skeptical, so I called the number on the letter and was assured there was no catch. We'd been chosen from a mailing list, and we assumed it was the theater's list, because we're theater supporters. Gala night, a limo came to the house, and the driver told us not to worry, everything had been paid for. We went to the gala and had a fabulous time.”

“Let me guess,” Jerry said. “When you got home, a few things were missing.”

“A few! Practically everything! Our wide-screen TV, our computers, my jewelry box, Harold's golf clubs, and all of our best wine.
You
tell
me
what happened.”

“A week or so before the letter came, did someone come to your house, maybe asking you to take part in a survey, or someone asking about a house for sale on your street, anything like that?”

Billie's mouth hung open a moment. “A woman came by who said she was from the neighborhood improvement committee.”

“Did you invite her in? Even for just a few minutes?”

“We stood in the foyer and talked. She wanted to make sure I knew about the revised garbage pickup schedule and the proposed club house renovations. Oh, my God, Jerry! Was she casing the joint?”

“That's one way of putting it. She got a good look so she could decide if the investment of a gala ticket was worth a burglary.”

“This is unbelievable. She bought us a night out?”

“She and her partner or partners paid for your evening, probably as an anonymous donation, and the theater sent you a perfectly legitimate letter. The bad guys knew exactly when you'd be away from your home and when you'd be getting back.”

“But we have a security system!”

“Are the controls near the door?”

“Yes, that little panel right there.”

“Your neighborhood committee woman got a good look at that, too. These are pros. They know how to disarm all kinds of alarm systems.”

“Is there any way to catch these crooks?”

“Probably not. Your stuff's insured, right?”

“Yes, but still, I really hate that they got away with it. Does it sound like a gang you know? The Gala Gang, maybe?”