Death of A High Maintenance Blonde (Jubilant Falls Series Book 5) (5 page)

The news went crazy with coverage, making Charisma Prentiss the poster child for traumatic brain injury.

For a while, the woman I sought suffered from aphasia, an inability to use certain words, as a result of her head wounds. There were stories, photos and news clips as she found her way back to speech, first English and then French, the language of her late husband, then the Arabic and Farsi she’d famously used to cultivate her sources. But never any pictures of Prentiss herself. Had she been that disfigured?

There were daily updates on her condition and, when they couldn’t get that information, battlefield correspondents talked of nothing else except the hardship they faced, embedded with the troops. Then, thankfully, it all died down.

A year went by before her byline began to appear again, from the usual hotspots. Then came that one badly sourced story that brought it all crumbling down and she was gone.

What should I ask her?
Where have you been? Why come here? Why now?
Those were just the basics.
What made you go back, especially when, in hindsight, you clearly weren’t ready? Where did you go? And will you ever come back?

I picked up my cell phone from beside me on the bed. One phone call couldn’t hurt, could it?

I found the number for the
Journal-Gazette
and dialed it, asking the disembodied female who answered to connect me to her extension. The call went straight to voice mail: “Hello, you’ve reached the desk of staff writer Charisma Lemarnier. I’m unable to take your call right now but if you leave a message at the sound of the tone, I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

The phone beeped in my ear and I began to speak: “Hi, this is Dr. Leland Huffinger of Fitzgerald University. I’m looking to get in touch with Charisma Prentiss. If she could give me a call, I’d sure appreciate it.”

I hung up. The ball was in her court now. Let’s see if she calls me back.

Chapter 8: Addison

“So how was your day?”

Duncan was setting the table for dinner when I walked in the door Monday night. Our daughter, Isabella, was standing in front of the stove, over a skillet of frying pork chops. Potato wedges and green beans simmered in another pan. Of the three of us, she was the better cook and the older she got, the more we relied on her for evening meals.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I said, dumping my purse on a kitchen chair.

“What’s that mean?”

“Remember Eve Dahlgren? She was a year ahead of us in high school.”

“Wasn’t she the head cheerleader? A bit of a snot, if I remember your assessment,” Duncan said.

“Yeah. She showed up at the office Friday—I don’t think I told you. Turns out she met Earlene at that fancy private girl’s boarding school in Columbus after the tornado. Earlene went there all through high school, but Eve only attended those last few months of her senior year.”

“There’s boarding schools in Ohio?” Isabella was incredulous.

“Yes. After the 1974 tornado destroyed the school, a lot of us were bused into the next county to finish the school year. Some parents used that opportunity to send their kids to fancier schools than what we had there.”

Isabella wrinkled her nose in hometown school pride.

“Seeing her brought back all those shitty high school memories of Jimmy Lyle and her,” I said. “The one they found after the tornado with the post hole digger in his chest.”

“Eewww!” Isabella turned from the stove and stared.

“Today, in between Earlene’s idiot ideas for something called National Newspaper Day, I got to hear how the two of them went out this weekend and tore up the town.” I began pulling silverware from a drawer, helping Duncan to set the table. “Earlene apparently thinks I was good friends with this woman in high school because she felt the need to confide in me everything they did and that the evening didn’t end well. They apparently ended up arguing.”

“I’m sure you were sympathetic.” Duncan smiled, arching an eyebrow.

I rolled my eyes, seating myself as Isabella brought dinner to the table.

“It was an Academy Award-winning performance, I’ll say that much.”

Before I could say any more, or even take the first bite of my pork chop, my cell phone rang.

It was Gary.

“Penny,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home—”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. What’s up?”

“We found Eve Dahlgren stabbed in her car.”

“What?” Like most every one else who stuck around Jubilant Falls, Gary and I went to high school together; we both knew Eve Dahlgren. She was Gary’s homecoming date our sophomore year, until she disappeared after the third dance with my date, the basketball team’s star center.

“What happened? Is she OK?”

“She’s dead, Penny. Eve’s dead.”

“Oh my god.”

“Earlene Whitelaw has been arrested for her murder.”

I swallowed hard.

“What? You’re kidding me, right?”

“I wish I were.”

“Does her dad know?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll call Charisma and make sure she gets in touch with you tonight, so we can get the story.”

“She can’t make it, Penny. That’s why I called you.”

“What do you mean she can’t make it?”

“I just left her—there’s a bed and breakfast downtown that’s on fire. She’s covering that.”

“Is it a bad one?”

“It’s pretty significant. All the guests are displaced.”

“It never rains but it pours.” I tossed my napkin on my dinner plate. I’d have to eat later.

Since Charisma came on board, I felt pretty confident at night about turning my police scanner off. As a single parent, Graham Kinnon couldn’t catch the late night calls like he used to, but Charisma had been more than competent covering those. It was wonderful to be able to finally know I really could leave the office behind most nights. Tonight would be the first time in a long time I hadn’t finished a meal because I needed to go chase a story.

“OK. Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m back at the scene. We’re in Shanahan Park downtown.”

“Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you there.”

*****

Yellow crime scene tape stretched from each rearview window of Eve’s Lincoln to the closest trees, enclosing the shiny black car in a triangle from which city cops, detectives and coroner’s staff stepped in and out of.

I got a shot with my cell phone of Gary lifting the yellow crime scene tape up as Eve’s corpse, enclosed in a blue plastic body bag, was rolled on a gurney toward the coroner’s van.

God, I hope that’s in focus,
I thought to myself.

Driving in, I saw the fire truck’s flashing lights deep in the historic district as they fought the fire at the bed and breakfast. I would check in with Charisma after I was done here.

I parked my Taurus next to Gary’s unmarked Crown Victoria, among in a phalanx of official vehicles. He waved when he saw me, and walked toward me. With a brick-sized radio clasped in his hand, he leaned his elbows on the roof of my car until I was able to pull my cigarettes, lighter, notebook and pen from my purse.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

“An off-duty officer found Eve in her car about an hour ago.”

“I wonder why Charisma didn’t hear it on the scanner?” I wondered.

Gary shrugged. “Charisma probably didn’t hear it because she’s at the fire. From what detectives found, Eve has been stabbed multiple times. It looked like there’d been a fight of some kind while she was sitting in the passenger seat. See the crack in the windshield? We think she might have kicked it while struggling with her killer. She had a lot of defensive wounds, but it was a wound to her side that Dr. Bovir said was the fatal one.”

Dr. Bovir was Plummer County’s Pakistani-born coroner.

I looked up from my notebook. “You got a time of death yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I talked to Earlene today at work. She told me the two of them went out and they argued, but I made the assumption that the two of them were out on Saturday night. That doesn’t mean Earlene killed her, though.”

“What did they argue about?”

I shrugged. “Honestly Gary, I tune out about half of what she tells me on a daily basis. I don’t know why she felt the need to confide in me all of a sudden. I really didn’t listen. If I remember, though, I’ll sure tell you. Had Eve been drinking or anything?”

Gary shrugged. “We don’t know any of that right now. The autopsy will tell us more. Bovir said he’d have the results to us tomorrow, but the toxicology screen will take a few weeks.”

I didn’t like Earlene, not by a long shot: she made my days a living hell with her cockamamie promotions and idiot story ideas. What I told her about the news business slid in one diamond-studded ear and out the other on a daily basis. Her sky-high stilettos and her age-inappropriate clothing made her look like a cougar on the prowl.

“I can’t see her as a killer, Gary. I really can’t.”

“Was Earlene at work all afternoon?”

“Oh hell no. She’s never at the office past three,” I said vehemently. I stopped and covered my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God.”

Gary nodded. “We found her fingerprints on the steering wheel, Penny,” he said. “We picked Earlene up at home after we got results. Earlene was in the car with her.”

“Why were her prints in the system? She’s never been convicted of anything.”

“Apparently, she was accused by an ex-husband in Fort Worth of vandalism during their divorce. She was on her way back to Jubilant Falls when it happened and this big Texas divorce lawyer tracked her down. She came in and gave us a set of prints at that time and we still had them on file. They exonerated her in that mess, but they hung her on this one. She’ll be arraigned in the morning.”

“I can’t believe this.” I shook my head.

“I hate to say it, but it looks like this one is pretty cut and dried,” he said.

It didn’t look good: an argument that Earlene admitted to, her fingerprints on the steering wheel of the vehicle where the body was found. I couldn’t argue with him.

“I can’t imagine her going down without a fight, if she’s innocent.”

“The damnedest things can happen, Penny. You oughta know that.”

“I’m going to go over to the old man’s house and see if he knows. I would imagine he’s already heard from her and got a lawyer hired.”

One of the police officers lay on the ground, reaching deep into a storm sewer grate as another held a flashlight.

“We got a murder weapon!” The prone officer pulled out a long kitchen knife, wet from the sewer, its serrated edge covered in blood. He dropped it into a brown paper bag, held by the other officer.

Gary looked at me knowingly.

He was right. This didn’t look good for Earlene. I turned to leave; Gary started to walk back toward the crime scene but stopped.

“As much as we both hated Eve Dahlgren in high school, she sure didn’t deserve to die like this,” he said.

*****

J. Watterson Whitelaw looked even older and even more infirm when he came to the door of his expensive country club house. He waved me inside wordlessly, and showed me to his study, just off the front door. He sank into one of the worn leather Morris chairs that, like him, had been retired from his office at the
Journal-Gazette
.

“This can’t be happening, Penny, it just can’t be happening!” he said, his old eyes wet with tears. His fat, spotted hands trembled. “She’s all I’ve got!”

“Has she got an attorney yet?”
Whitelaw nodded. “She’s not going to be released on bail, not on a murder charge, so my lawyer will be there in the morning for her arraignment. I suppose you need a quote for your story.”

“Unfortunately, yes. It’s probably going to be our lead tomorrow.”

Whitelaw sighed again and hung his head, thinking. After a moment he sat up straight and looked me in the eye. “Here it is: ‘There is no doubt in my mind that my daughter is innocent. Our family’s attorneys will provide a thorough and vigorous defense to see that Earlene Whitelaw is exonerated. She did not and could not commit this crime.’ How’s that?”

I read it back to him and he nodded.

“Off the record, what do you think happened?” I asked.

Whitelaw arched a bushy eyebrow. “I have no idea. I never liked Eve Dahlgren from the day I met her when Earlene was in high school. That girl was a problem, plain and simple, and I always had a feeling that she would get Earlene in trouble one day. I just knew it.”

Yes, but this time, Eve is the one’s that’s dead,
I thought.

Chapter 9: Charisma

Everyone was gone for the day by the time I came out of the morgue. I sighed in relief as I walked back to my desk, holding old bound copies of newspapers in my arms. Studying the dead editions from long ago was going to pay off.

I felt like I could write a story that not only told about the victim and how he died, but also brought back memories of Jubilant Falls as it used to be. That might be the key to spurring someone’s memory that would bring about the one clue that solved this crime.

The voicemail light on my phone flashed on and off. Maybe it was the former fire chief, Hiram Warder returning my call and I could finish up the story on the drowned man for tomorrow’s paper. I punched in my code. The message began, a man’s voice with words I wasn’t ready to hear:

“Hi, this is Dr. Leland Huffinger of Fitzgerald University. I’m looking to get in touch with Charisma Prentiss. If she could give me a call, I’d sure appreciate it.”

He started to leave a number, but I pounced like Monsieur Le Chat and hit the phone’s delete button. I clutched at my chest and sank back into my chair, terrified.

The message was gone. I was safe.

I took a deep breath and unclenched my hands.
It’s OK,
I told myself.
Erasing the message wasn’t wrong—you’re just not ready. If he calls again, just tell him you’re not the Charisma Prentiss he’s looking for. He’ll go away. He’ll go look someplace else. Then your secret will still be safe.

I exhaled, rocking back and forth as I tried to calm myself down.
It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK.

Across the newsroom, the scanner crackled: “Engine 422, rescue 421, ladder 420, 735 East Second Street, two story building, the Jubilant Country Inn bed and breakfast. Flames are visible through the roof and second story. No entrapment—all the guests have been evacuated and accounted for.”

I grabbed the camera from my desk drawer and a notebook from beneath the old bound volumes. This is what I needed—breaking news would take my mind off that message. Second Street was two blocks from the J-G. I could get there on foot in five minutes or less.

This is how you ended up in the mess you’re in, by avoiding what scares you.
I stopped in my tracks. The words rang like an accusatory shot through my mind.
I slipped my camera’s strap around my neck defiantly.

So what?
I fired back mentally.
I’ve got a fire to cover.

I slipped out the back pressroom door and dashed through the employee parking lot toward the flashing lights and smoke that I could see two blocks away.

There were three fire trucks and two ambulances on scene by the time I stepped onto the inn’s wide front yard. I was breathing heavily and had a stitch in my side. Stopping to catch my breath, I snapped the lens cover off the camera and began taking pictures: A group of people huddled under a tree across the street, two firefighters holding a large hose as the water shot into a flame-filled second-story window, a woman, presumably the owner, pressing her hands to her face in horror as the blaze reflected in the lenses of her glasses.

I pulled out my notebook and began searching for the incident commander, the fireman in charge of the scene. This evening, it was Battalion Chief Jones.

“Looks like it was electrical in nature,” he began as I stepped up with my notebook in hand. “It began in the kitchen and spread up through the walls to the second floor and then into the roof. These old Victorians can burn quick.”