Wound Up In Murder (23 page)

“There you are,” Lucinda said as I rushed up to the table. The dining hall was full and the conversations loud because most people had finished eating their breakfast and were lingering over their coffee.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” I said to her and to the table of retreaters. I think Lucinda was the only one who paid attention to my apology; everyone else seemed to be involved with their knitting or talking.

Lucinda had gotten my breakfast and had covered the plate with a metal dome to keep it warm. A to-go box sat in front of it, and when I lifted it, I realized it was already filled. “I told them you were very, very hungry and got you an extra portion,” she said with a knowing smile.

I slid into my chair, still in the process of waking up. After the long day I'd had, it wasn't really a surprise that I had slept through the alarm and Julius sitting on my chest. It was only when he began to lick my cheek with his rough
tongue that I finally woke up. I had showered and thrown on clothes in record time.

“I'll get you a fresh cup,” Lucinda said, reaching for the full cup in front of me. But I shook my head and picked it up despite her protests that it was lukewarm. The temperature was actually a benefit. I was able to drink it down in a few mouthfuls and the caffeine hit my brain. Like magic, my eyes opened wider and I was alert and present. The group at the table came into focus and I noticed that they all had their projects with them.

“Look at mine,” Bree said. She held up her worry doll. “I'm making it into a worry bear.” It was amazing how much knitters could accomplish when they had blocks of time to work. Bree had finished the basic body and stuffed it. The head of the doll was squarish and she had shaped the top corners into ears. Some of the others showed off their projects. It was exciting to see how different each scarf was even though they'd been using the same pattern. There were more worry dolls and they all looked different, too.

“I'm making mine into a worry cat,” the woman with sayings on her T-shirts said as if she'd just invented sliced bread.

“That's silly,” the woman next to her said. “Everybody knows cats don't worry.”

“Worry dolls, bears and cats. They were all okay with me,” I said brightly. Then I turned to Lucinda. “And I would like to gather them all up and hand them my troubles. I think it would take a whole gang of them to handle my worries.” My friend looked concerned as I continued. “I have to figure out this thing with Sammy soon.” I told her about the previous night and all my visitors while I was baking. “No worries for the restaurant, though; the cheesecake turned out great.” I threw in Tag's desire to sneak into the movie at Vista Del Mar.

“That's sweet,” she said. “But I'm glad he didn't. He needs
to understand that absence makes the heart grow fonder—and makes it easier to deal with his idiosyncrasies. Of course, if he had come, Lieutenant Borgnine wouldn't have reached him with that ridiculous story.” She went over what I'd said. “And why is it Dane stopped by?”

“I'm not sure. Frank said I shouldn't trust Dane. But then he didn't blow the whistle on Sammy.”

“Are you sure Dane saw him?” Lucinda asked.

“I didn't consider that, but now that you mention it, he probably didn't,” I said, thinking back over the situation. “Sammy would have said something if Dane had opened the pantry door.” I looked at my friend, feeling confused. “But if you went into the kitchen of the Blue Door and you were looking for a place to hide, wouldn't you check out the pantry?”

Lucinda nodded. “I see what you mean. It does seem odd that he didn't look in there. Still, I see Frank's point about not trusting him. Dane is a cop and they are looking for Sammy.”

“I suppose all that stuff about giving him another chance for a date is just to cover why he really keeps showing up.”

Lucinda laughed at my disappointed expression. “From everything you've been saying, that should be a relief for you. You keep saying it isn't a good idea for the two of you to get involved.”

“True, but I guess I wanted it to be my decision.” I leaned closer to her and dropped my voice even lower. “The worst is, I was beginning to think maybe he was right and we should try another dinner.”

Our conversation abruptly ended with the arrival of Kevin St. John. He had his usual placid expression on his moon-shaped face, and I wondered what was really going on in his mind. Was he reeling from the information I was pretty sure Lieutenant Borgnine had given him the previous night, or was his calm exterior genuine because he had known all
along who she was and dealt with the information? By “dealt with,” I meant that he was the one who'd strangled her.

He directed his comments to me and my tablemates. “I wanted to remind you that you are all welcome to attend the dance that I arranged as part of the My Favorite Year retreat. There is one caveat. They would appreciate it if you would wear something from no later than 1963.” He paused as someone passed by. “And as a bonus, you can come and watch the softball game Jimmie Phelps and I have arranged for the 1963 group this afternoon at the park by the lighthouse.” He started to leave and turned back. “You can wear whatever you want to the game,” he said, cracking a smile.

By the time he'd spread the news to all of our tables, the dining hall was beginning to clear out. Our group didn't want any free time after breakfast and they headed en masse to our meeting room. Lucinda went on with them, but I made a detour to my place with Sammy's breakfast. Fog had begun to drift in, softening the edges of everything. I hoped it would act as a veil, making it harder for anyone watching to see me head across the street.

I went around to the window that was only visible from my yard. Sammy answered almost before I'd finished knocking and threw open the window. He took the food container and looked at me with his eyes drawn in worry. “Case, I've been thinking about it. I think I'm going to have to make a run for it. Lieutenant Borgnine is just like Javert, the cop in
Les Misérables
. He's not going to give up hunting me down.”

“Just give me a little more time,” I said.

Sammy sighed. “I hate the thought of leaving. But just remember, we'll always have Paris.”

“Huh?” I said. I looked past him and saw that the TV was on. “You do realize you're using the cop from
Les Misérables
as a reference but spouting lines from
Casablanca
.”

Sammy blinked a few times as if to clear his head. “Geez. You're right. That's what comes from being stuck in here with nothing to do but watch movie marathons.”

“I'm just curious about last night,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Lucinda. “Did Dane open the pantry door?”

Sammy shrugged. “No. I saw the handle begin to turn, and I was trying not to make any noise, but my elbow hit a can of baking powder and it hit the floor. I was kind of surprised when I heard all the other cabinets being opened after that, but not the pantry.” Sammy set the food down and straightened. “I mean it about leaving. How about if you haven't found the real killer by midnight, I'll be gone by dawn.”

I tried to argue, but he was insistent. He reached out of the window to hug me. “So then this could be good-bye.” He let go, and as I stepped away, he said, “Here's looking at you, Case,” in his best Humphrey Bogart voice. Impressions were definitely not his thing.

The fog was getting thicker as I crossed back to Vista Del Mar. Sammy couldn't really be serious about going on the lam. I couldn't let it happen.

I thought of my aunt Joan and her acting ability. I hoped there was some of it in my genes as I pushed all of what Sammy had said onto the far back burner of my mind and tried to become the confident retreat leader as I walked into our meeting room.

The group was already in full knitting mode. Wanda and Crystal walked in together and seemed surprised to see everyone already there. Madeleine was close behind.

“Nobody told me we were starting early,” the Delacorte sister said as she went to her seat.

Unlike the rest of them, Madeleine and I had left our projects in the room. Their worry dolls and scarves were all
well on the way; mine was still just a flat rectangle. Her work was about the same. I picked mine up and began to knit quickly as if there was a chance I could catch up. I had to laugh when she did the same.

“I've brought more things for the worry dolls, er, and animals,” Crystal said, seeing Bree's creation. She laid out some additional lengths of bulky black yarn and explained she'd show them how to use them to attach the “hair,” along with how to do the face. She held up another handful of crochet hooks and said she'd brought them in case anyone still needed one to make the doll's dress.

Wanda made a few harumph sounds and said she hadn't brought any more supplies because her group had everything they needed in their bags.

“We're all invited to the dance tonight,” the woman who wore the T-shirts with the clever sayings said.

“Yes, but we have to dress up in old stuff,” the woman with the topknot added.

There was a rumble of grumbles and I stepped in, still trying to keep to the part of confident retreat leader. “I was thinking we could take what Kevin St. John said literally. He said
something
and we could take it as some thing, like one thing from 1963 or before.”

“And I can help,” Madeleine interjected in an excited voice. “Cora and I have all kinds of old stuff.”

The group brightened at the prospect. We agreed that Lucinda and I would go with Madeleine to the Delacorte house and bring back a box of things the retreaters could use.

The workshop session time ended, Wanda and Crystal left, but the group didn't move. They happily knitted on and talked about the softball game. They planned to work on squares for Olivia during the game.

After a few minutes, I stood up. “I hate to leave you without a leader, but if we're going to get the things for the dance, now's a good time.”

Madeleine and Lucinda got their things and went to the door.

“We're grown women—I mean people,” the woman with the topknot said, glancing at Scott. “We can find our way to lunch and to the softball game if we have directions.”

She'd barely finished when Scott stood up and addressed the group. “I know where the park is. How about we meet outside the Lodge after lunch.” Bree and Olivia volunteered their services as well and I promised we'd meet them at the park.

It felt like a whole new day when we walked outside. The fog had melted and the sun was making an appearance. It was like someone had turned on the lights. Our group was the only one prolonging their workshop. The 1963 people all had free time and we had to thread through groups of them as Lucinda, Madeleine and I went down the sloping narrow road toward what I called the heart of Vista Del Mar.

I saw there was a crowd of people on the deck outside the Lodge. As we got closer, I saw Jimmie Phelps in the group. When he looked up and saw me, he waved me over.

“I'll be back in a minute,” I said, leaving the two women on the path. I got a better view of what was going on when I went up the stairs to the large deck and realized they were getting things ready for the softball game. Dotty Night was gathering up pom-poms for a cheering squad, Bobbie Listorie was putting catcher's mitts in a canvas bag. Sally Winston hovered over a large red cooler, adding cans of the energy drink. She picked up one and popped open the lid before handing it to Norman Rathman. He wiped his brow and took a drink and went back to attending to the bats.

I was surprised to see Scarlett helping her husband with boxes of T-shirts for the players and realized she'd skipped our morning workshop. Jimmie Phelps was in the middle of it all.

I'd barely gotten out a greeting, when Jimmie's face clouded. “About the other day. You said if I thought of anything else—I'd like to explain something.” I nodded in recognition and stepped closer in anticipation, but Kevin St. John showed up carrying a box of baseball caps and literally stepped between Jimmie and me.

“Ms. Feldstein, I don't think you want to keep Madeleine Delacorte waiting, do you?”

Jimmie apparently recognized the last name and understood the power that was connected to it. “I don't want to hold you up. We can talk later. Better yet, I'll leave you a message.” He gestured toward the inside of the building in the direction where the corkboard stood.

It didn't seem like I had a choice.

“I can't wait to see what Madeleine's house is like,” Lucinda said. We were in my Mini Cooper following Madeleine's golf cart as it slowly maneuvered through the streets of Cadbury. When I say slowly, I mean almost creeping. I was basically driving with my foot hovering over the brake. I didn't realize how slowly the golf cart really went, as when I'd ridden in it with Madeleine, it seemed like she was a fast driver. It had been Madeleine's suggestion that we follow her instead of driving with her because there would be no room for us and the box of vintage pieces.

Madeleine pulled the golf cart into the driveway and I parked at the curb. I'd seen the Delacorte place before, but never gone inside. The imposing Victorian-style house was painted lavender and had fish scale siding. I was sure you could see out into the ocean from the second-floor balcony. They had a lawn and a border of flowers that wrapped around the front of the house.

She led us up to the small porch and inside. The first thing I noticed was that the entrance hall was so big it had its own fireplace. I only got a glimpse of the living room and saw that it had a bay window and ornate furniture.

Madeleine took us up the grand staircase. There was a window on the landing before it turned and went up the rest of the way to the second floor.

Once upstairs, she took us directly to her room. “This is so much fun, like having girlfriends over,” she said. “Mother would never let us have company in our rooms or have sleepovers.” She turned back to us. “Maybe we could do that sometime.” Then she apologized for her silliness, saying she'd gotten carried away with the idea of doing all the things she'd missed.

“What about Cora?” I said, glancing around apprehensively. “I hope she won't mind that you're lending us things for the dance.”

“Don't worry about her. She's gone to a meeting all day.” She directed us to the seating area in the bay window before excusing herself to get the goods. She came back a few minutes later pulling a box heaped with clothing items. I noticed the box had
1963
written on the side. She set it down and began to go through it. We quickly separated scarves, hats and some tops to bring to our group, while Madeleine left to get another box. Leave it to Lucinda to find an Oleg Cassini beige silk dress to wear.

“Look what I have,” Madeleine said when she came back. She picked up an old cigar box from the pile of clothes. She opened it and started taking out the contents. She had the ticket stub from the concert her brother had taken her to, the menu from their dinner and stubs from other attractions they'd gone to. All of it reminded me of Edmund's heir.

“Remember that hunt I was on,” I said to Lucinda. It took
her a moment and then she understood. “I've officially given it up.”

Madeleine was too engrossed in the contents of the box to pay attention to what I'd said. “It's still here,” she said with delight as she pulled out a champagne flute with a residue of the drink dried in the bottom. “Did I tell you we drank champagne backstage with Bobbie? I took Bobbie's glass as a souvenir. Do you suppose I should bring it and offer it to him?”

Lucinda looked horrified and urged her to put it back in the box before she turned to me.

“Sometimes you have to protect people from themselves,” she said.

It was getting late, and as we packed what we were taking back into the boxes, Madeleine held up an apricot-colored dress. “It's a copy of one Jackie Kennedy wore. Why don't you wear it?”

It was beautiful and like nothing I'd ever worn. I accepted and she added a pair of long white gloves and sling-back heels.

As we drove back, I took the opportunity to tell Lucinda about Sammy's plan. “I feel terribly guilty spending time picking out dress-up clothes when he's ready to do something that will ruin his life,” I said with a sigh. “If he goes, there's no turning back. He'll have to slip across the border to somewhere. I'll probably never see him again.”

Lucinda stared at me. “Are you so sure you have no romantic feelings for him? You sound a little hysterical.”

“He's a friend—a really good friend. I'd miss him if he was gone.” I tried to shake off the feeling. “It's very hard to investigate when nobody is supposed to know what you're doing.” I told her about Jimmie Phelps's wanting to tell me something and how I had to walk away before I heard it because of Kevin St. John's arrival. “Jimmie probably realized how bad what he
said about the underage thing sounded and wanted to explain it away.”

We pulled in next to Madeleine's golf cart in the small parking lot at Vista Del Mar. By now lunch was over, but the ground still seemed deserted. I figured everybody had left for the softball game. It was nice that the sun had stayed out.

The three of us dragged the boxes of things to our meeting room. We were all going to walk to the game, but I remember what Jimmie Phelps had said. “I might as well see if he left me a message on the board,” I said, making a detour to the Lodge.

I crossed the desolate interior to the large corkboard parked near the door to the gift shop.

By now it was covered with papers with messages. I checked the alphabetical area where any message to me would be. I saw my name finally, but when I took down the note, it was only a scrap of paper and the message seemed to have been torn away. All I saw was a curve, a dot and another curve that must have been the tops of some letters.

“Somebody probably grabbed the wrong message,” Lucinda said when I came outside. “You can talk to Jimmie at the game.”

I was sure my friend was right, even though seeing the paper ripped like that gave me a little chill. The three of us left the hotel and conference center and walked the few blocks to the small park near the lighthouse. The whole way there, Madeleine went on about how excited she was about the dance.

“Everything we went to was always formal and no fun. I've never been to a real dance.” I didn't want to bust her bubble, but I thought she might be expecting too much.

“Look, Bobbie Listorie is singing the National Anthem,”
Madeleine said, rushing ahead as we got close to the park. He got to the last note just as we reached the group. Everyone applauded and then sat down in the bleachers. The singer ran off the field as the two teams came out. Dotty Night and Sally Winston started waving poms to get the crowd excited. Kevin St. John had added a baseball cap to his suit and came out in center field. He yelled, “Play ball,” and the game began.

Lucinda and Madeleine went to the bleachers, and I went along the fence to the sidelines, looking for Jimmie Phelps in the cluster of people up ahead. Before I reached the group, I saw Scarlett separate herself from them. “Somebody call 911.” Beyond I saw Jimmie Phelps leaning forward holding his chest. Even from the distance I saw that he looked white as a ghost.

The game came to an abrupt stop just as it started and stayed on hold until the ambulance arrived. One of EMTs got Jimmie onto a gurney while the other one asked questions.

“He was drinking this,” Scarlett said, handing the uniformed woman the can of Boost Up from the bench. The EMT read over the ingredients and then poured the remainder of the drink in a cup apparently to ascertain how much he had drunk. I had gotten close enough to be in the middle of the action and looked into the cup as the EMT did. There was no mistaking hunks of white stuff.

“It looks like somebody spiked his drink with something,” I said.

“Just a guess,” the EMT said, “but could be he wanted to boost up his Boost Up and added more caffeine. We've been having trouble with kids adding powdered caffeine to their drinks. A guy like him would be more old school and probably use something like NoNap, or Revive tablets.”

“Is he going to be all right?” I asked.

“We've had them go both ways,” she said. “A guy his age?” she said with a shrug. “I shouldn't say anything. Let's hope for the best.”

She took the cup and the can and joined her partner. Jimmie had already been loaded into the fluorescent green vehicle and a moment later the siren wailed as it pulled away.

Kevin St. John and Norman Rathman did their best to get the softball game going again, but without Jimmie, everyone seemed bummed out and they gave up after a couple of innings.

I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a connection between Jimmie wanting to tell me something, the torn message and his apparent caffeine overdose.

By the time we were walking back to Vista Del Mar, the fog was rolling in again. Fingers of it were gathering between the trees and filling the space with gauzy whiteness. The lower light went along with everyone's mood. I felt bad for Jimmie and bad for me, well, really Sammy, as I thought there might have been a chance that whatever Jimmie had to say would have helped clear my magician ex.

Our group headed en masse to our meeting room. There was no coffee and tea setup, and I regretted that I hadn't baked cookies even once for this group. If ever they all needed a lift, it was now. Instead of sitting down at the tables with the rest of the group, Lucinda pulled me aside and offered to see if she could get the café to do something for us. With her restaurant experience, I was sure she would come up with something.

Scarlett and her friend Alys came in just as the group was settling into working on their projects. Everyone seemed grateful to have their knitting to focus on, and for once, no one was talking.

The door opened and I expected it to be Lucinda, but it was Kevin St. John in his dark suit without the baseball cap.
He stepped inside and everyone turned in his direction. “I wanted to let you know that Jimmie Phelps is in intensive care, but it looks like he's going to be okay.”

A collective sigh of relief went through the group. Then it became apparent that he wasn't alone as Lieutenant Borgnine stepped next to him. He glanced around the room and his gaze stopped on me for a moment and then moved on to Scarlett. “I wonder if I could speak to you two,” he said, quickly adding that it was just part of a routine investigation after what had happened to the baseball player. The three of us stepped outside. I expected him to separate us, but he just said, “I understand the two of you were close to Mr. Phelps when the incident happened.” We both nodded and he asked about Jimmie's drink.

All of Scarlett's usual outgoing nature seemed to have evaporated and the dual retreat woman looked worried. “I handed him the open can when we first started setting up,” she began. “I think he took a slug and set it down on the bench.”

“So then you didn't see him add anything to the drink?” Scarlett answered with a vehement shaking of her head along with mentioning that there was a lot going on. The lieutenant excused her with a wave of his hand.

He was doing his best to keep a benign cop face when he turned to me, but it was still obvious he wasn't happy with the encounter. Before he could ask me anything, I explained that I was going to talk to Jimmie and had just gotten there when he slumped over. “So I really didn't see anything,” I said. I mentioned what the EMT had said, that caffeine pills might have been what was added to the drink and looked to him for confirmation.

He didn't hassle me about asking a question this time; he merely ignored it. “Why were you going to talk to Mr. Phelps?” Lucinda, Wanda and Crystal went past us and on into the
meeting room while I tried to decide what to say. Because of the situation with Sammy, I was trying to keep a very low profile with the cop and didn't want to give away that I was investigating. But at the same time I thought he should know that the silver-haired baseball player might have been about to disclose some information regarding Diana Rathman's death. Information that someone might not have wanted him to say.

If I said nothing and something more happened to Jimmie Phelps while he was in the hospital, I would never forgive myself. I swallowed hard and proceeded.

“I think you should consider that someone spiked his drink.” I hesitated, wondering what else I should say, seeing that he'd already begun to massage his temple.

“Why would anybody want to hurt Jimmie Phelps?” he began. “The guy is a legend, a baseball hero. Everybody loves him. I even have an old baseball card of his.”

“You do know about his connection to Diana Rathman,” I said.

“And that is?” he asked, being cagey.

“He said her father brought her to all the games and that he'd watched her grow up. He implied there was something between them, but told me that he'd lost touch with her.” I debated mentioning the offhand comment Jimmie had made about there being nothing between them when she was underage and decided to leave it out.

“Jimmie didn't tell me any of that. All I got was that her father was their announcer and he might have seen her occasionally at games.” The lieutenant seemed upset that he'd admitted to not getting information that I had. “There's more, isn't there?”