Shear Murder (10 page)

Across the water's emerald expanse, an enormous waterfall gushed into the lagoon. The roar of cascading water resounded along with the chatter of guests and the clink of glasses. She spotted an empty lifeguard chair shaded by an umbrella in the middle of a cobblestone bridge. Behind it looked to be a coral cave. Could Griff be in there?

She made her way over and peered inside. A bunch of nattily dressed folks sat on wood benches while balancing plates of food. No sign of Griff.
You'd think he'd be circulating and snapping pictures, unless he already finished his job here.

“Excuse me, have you seen a photographer around?” she asked a patron. “He works for
Boca Style Magazine.
”

The woman, surveying Marla's simple skirt and knit top, lifted her nose. “I saw him last by the beach, dear. Tell him I'd be happy to pose for a picture, will you?”

Marla didn't deign to answer. Instead, she strode toward a stretch of sandy beach facing the cool emerald lagoon fringed with palm trees and dotted with lampposts that looked like they came straight from Venice, painted a whimsical apricot and melon.

Some guests sat on lounge chairs, but Griff wasn't among them. Her gaze followed the pathway as it rimmed the pool, but she didn't spot his tall figure. She must have missed him.

Disappointed, Marla turned back while rustling her car keys from her purse. She'd have to drive to the Biltmore after all. When the keys slipped through her fingers, she crouched to retrieve them from the grass. Her gaze fell upon a partially hidden grotto through a stone archway covered by a leafy vine.

Stacked lounge chairs, pool cleaning tools, and a huge ceramic planter lay inside the gloomy interior . . . from which a man was stumbling toward her. She straightened quickly.

“Marla, is that you?”

Good God, it was Griff! He had a dazed look on his face as she rushed over.

“What happened?” She noted a nasty bruise on his temple.

“I dunno. Must have hit my head.” He touched the spot. “Ouch, that hurts.”

“Are you dizzy?”

“I'll be okay.”

“This arch is awfully low. Did you forget to duck?”

“Nope, I heard somebody call my name from inside. That's the last thing I remember, babe.” His face flooded with awareness. “My camera . . . do you see it?”

“Just a minute. It's too dark in there.” Withdrawing a penlight from her purse, Marla shone it around the grotto. “Here it is.” She pounced on a case lying in the corner.

Griff grabbed it from her and rummaged through the contents. “Yo, everything seems to be intact.” He patted his pocket. “My wallet is still here. Couldn't have been a thief.”

“Maybe the intent wasn't to steal anything.”

Brushing off his clothes, he regarded her intently. “No? What then? And why are you here?”

“I came early. Maybe this was a warning of sorts. Or your attacker was spooked by some nearby guests and didn't have time to finish the job.”

Griff stared at her. “I'm not even sure it was a
he.
”

“What about the voice?”

“No one I recognized, nor could I be clear on the gender.” His eyes, reflecting the lamplight, darkened. “Now that I think on it, the raspy tone sounded like a person who phoned me earlier.”

“Say again?”

“I got a call about covering another gig this afternoon. That was kinda weird, actually.”

“What do you mean?” Marla offered him a tissue and a squirt of hand sanitizer to clean his wound.

“Someone called to ask if my magazine would allow me to take photos at an event in Palm Beach tonight. When I said I was tied up, the person suggested I stop by if I was in the area. I replied that I couldn't; I'd be at the Venetian Pool in Coral Gables.”

Schlemiel, you told a perfect stranger where you were going.
Recognition dawned on his face while she studied him with a smirk.

“Shit, I screwed myself, didn't I?”

“If it were me, I'd be concerned about someone bonking me on the head, especially coming on the heels of Torrie's death.”

Ducking under the arch, they emerged from the grotto. The moon had come up, spraying the water with sparkles of light.

Griff didn't choose to comment on her remark. “I need a drink or two,” he growled. “Are you still up for the Biltmore?”

“If you can make it. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“No, thanks.”

“How about if I drive us to the hotel then? I'll give you a ride back here when we're done.”

“That'll work for me.”

She followed his instructions to Anastasia Avenue, where she spied the hotel's center tower rising above the trees. After parking in an adjacent lot, they entered the main building on the ground floor. Expensive furnishings graced the cool, refined interior. She heard the clacking noise of high heels on the marble floor along with the clash of silverware from a café overlooking the pool.

They veered left, past a clothing boutique and a gift shop, toward a bar with cozy armchairs and subdued lighting. The chatter of patrons competed with the
ding, ding, ding
for a bellboy from the front desk.

“Let's go upstairs,” Griff suggested. “There's a quieter lounge.”

Evidently, they'd been on the lower lobby level. She followed him up a flight of carpeted stairs into a cavernous hall with marble floors and columns, mahogany paneling, potted palms, a baby grand piano, and ornately decorated high ceilings.

Groupings of couches and armchairs ranged across the expanse. Glass cases held historical memorabilia such as postcards, porcelain china, old room keys, and silverware.

Here stands another monument to the 1920s, like Sugar Crest Plantation Resort on Florida's west coast,
Marla thought.

Once they were settled in an intimate lounge, she waited until they'd received their drinks before introducing the reason for her interview.

“Speaking of Torrie's tragic end,” she said to provide a link to their prior conversation, “I paid a condolence call on Scott yesterday.”

“So?” Griff gulped down his beer. Some of the foam dribbled onto his mustache. He wiped it off with his sleeve.

“I presume you guys had met before through Torrie's work? Scott said he'd been to a couple of business affairs with her.”

“Torrie didn't like to bring her husband. The man would sit stiff as a log and rarely joined in conversations.” Griff plowed a hand through his tousled hair, wincing when his fingers touched the congealed wound. “Bumped my head,” he explained to a passing waiter who gave him a sharp look.

“How did the two of you get along?” Marla sipped her chardonnay.

“We didn't. That cold fish didn't even get along with his own wife.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“Scott probably found out Torrie planned to leave him.” Griff cast her a pained glance. “Don't you know? That's why he murdered her.”

Marla rushed through her Thursday morning appointments so she could keep the date she'd made with Hally. Perhaps Griff's colleague could shed light on his passionate declaration the day before. Did he really believe that Scott killed his own wife? The photographer had refused to elaborate, claiming it wouldn't be in his best interest to stoke the fire, whatever that meant.

Bursting with impatience, she yearned to tell Dalton about her interview. She hadn't had time last night, between driving to his house, where she stayed most of the time now, taking out the dogs, and catching up on Brie's news while he worked late.

She'd e-mailed Hally Leeds just before going to bed and had been surprised to find a response this morning. Certainly, Hally would be happy to mention the grand opening of Marla's day spa in her column, especially in conjunction with their fund-raiser for Locks of Love, the group that provides wigs for financially disadvantaged children who have lost their hair because of a medical condition. She meant to fill Dalton in later. In between snipping and coloring her clients' hair, running over to the day spa to consult with the new massage therapist, and fielding a call from her mother about the wedding, Marla barely had time to breathe.

“I hope you can fix this,” her next customer said, plopping into the salon chair after a shampoo.

“What were you thinking?” Marla riffled through the woman's damp strands. Her ash-blond hair looked as though a weed whacker had attacked her head.

Lynn, a regular client, gave a sheepish grin. “The ends were getting long, so I thought I'd save time and trim them myself.”

Looks like it, too.
Marla fastened a drape around her. “I can do some layers, bring it up here, and that should complement your bone structure. It'll be flattering but shorter than your usual cut.”

“Go for it, hon. Whatever you do will be better than this.”

“At least you didn't dye your hair eggplant purple like my last client.” Marla grimaced. “People find that home remedies cost more in the long run because then they need to come in for corrective treatments.”

“I've learned my lesson.” Lynn gave her a smile fraught with curiosity. “How are your wedding plans coming?”

Marla picked up her comb and shears. “We still have so much to do.” Just thinking about her mental list made her shoulders sag. “We've got the basics covered, but the details are overwhelming. My mother and Dalton's mom keep adding people to the guest list.”

“It's late for that, isn't it? Didn't your invitations already go out?”

She separated a section of hair and fastened it aside with a clip. “Yes, but they figured most of the out-of-town relatives wouldn't come. They were wrong. Jill and Arnie didn't have so much grief.” Lynn frequented Arnie's deli next door.

“Didn't you find someone stabbed with a cake knife at his affair?”

Marla paused, hand in midair. “Where did you hear that?”

“I read it in the newspaper.”

“Oh, joy.” She'd made headlines again. Maybe that's why the phone kept ringing up front. Thank goodness Luis fielded all their calls, when he wasn't flirting with their clients.

“Hey, girlfriend, isn't that gal's funeral on Friday?” Nicole called, eavesdropping from the next station. Wearing a glove, she applied a relaxing solution to her customer's hair.

“It's been moved to Sunday at eleven.”

“You learn anything new from that photographer yesterday?”

Marla lifted a shank of hair, snipped at an angle, then let the strands fall back into place. “Griff made some interesting remarks about Torrie's husband.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe he wanted to throw you off track,” Nicole suggested. “You know, to take the heat off himself?”

“I doubt it. We met at the Venetian Pool in Coral Gables where he'd been assigned to cover an event. When I found him, Griff was injured. He'd been mugged, and his head wound was quite real.”

“Shut up.” Nicole stared at her. “Was he robbed?”

“No, and the peculiar thing is, he didn't seem that concerned. I offered to buy him a drink, so we went to the Biltmore afterward. He said Torrie planned to leave Scott, and that's why Scott killed her.”

“Holy guacamole, Marla.” Lynn caught her gaze in the mirror. “You're always in the thick of things. How do you do it?”

Marla grinned. “I wish I knew. So essentially, we have Griff saying Scott is to blame, and Scott saying Griff can't be trusted. Which one do I believe?”

“Unless Griff bashed himself on the head, you have to wonder why someone assaulted him.” Lynn looked thoughtful while Marla shaped her hair. “Didn't he make any guesses?”

“I don't think Griff wants to know, although I'm wondering what made him a target. If robbery wasn't the motive, could this have been an attempt to scare him off?”

“Good point,” Nicole contributed. “That means he knows something that's a threat to the killer. Maybe he snapped a picture of the guy with Torrie at the wedding.”

“So then why wasn't his camera bag stolen?”

“Because he'd already turned in the film for developing or uploaded his digital photos.”

“He wasn't the wedding photographer,” Marla reminded Nicole.

“Doesn't matter. He must have caught something significant on film. Ask his magazine editor if she has the pictures.”

“Hally might have seen them. She's the society reporter who works with him. I'm hoping she can shed more light on Griff's character, because he's an enigma to me. He'd seemed morose, talking about Torrie in the hotel lounge last night as though he cared. But when I overheard their conversation at the park, he threatened her.”

“About what?” Lynn asked.

“I don't know, but I'll find out.” Setting down her implements, Marla grabbed a blow dryer and switched it on.

Four hours later, she switched off the ignition on her Camry and emerged from her car at the magazine's address in Boca Raton. Entering the brick building, she faced a warren of cubicles beyond a wide reception desk. So much for privacy. Maybe Hally could step away for a cup of coffee.

The sleek redhead glanced up from a computer when Marla approached. “Hello, darling. Come to see me at my digs?” She waved a hand. “Hey, girls, this is Marla Shore. She operates a beauty salon in Palm Haven.”

Marla nodded her greeting. “Actually, I'm here to talk about my new day spa. You e-mailed me that you might be interested in covering our opening celebration. We're raising money for Locks of Love, donating ten percent from all our spa treatments that day.”

“Write me up a press release, and I'll see if I can get approval to cover the story.”

“Thanks, I'd be grateful.”

“Is that really why you came to see me?” Bending forward, Hally straightened a framed photo on her desk. It showed a pair of kittens playing. Marla glanced at a couple of other framed shots at her station. No people, she noted. Were these pets more important to Hally than her actual family members?

Marla's arm brushed against a potted plant at an adjacent cubicle. There wasn't an empty chair in sight. Noise from clacking computer keys and workers' subdued chatter competed for volume in the background. This was no place to hold a private conversation.

“Can we go somewhere else?” she asked Hally, who studied her with a speculative gleam. “I want to discuss a mutual acquaintance who was at the wedding.”