Makeup & Murder Page 6

  I wondered what solid lead the police were tracking, and if there was any way they’d share it with me. Fat chance of that, but maybe Eric had some information he could pass on. That was more likely. The reel cut back to the newsroom where the anchor provided additional information on the case, including the “breaking news” they’d just learned about a woman who was assaulted at the Siebold home earlier in the week. The police had yet to release the details of the attack, including the woman’s identity, but the anchor hoped to have further details for the five o’clock news.

  I felt sick. I hadn’t even considered the media. That’s all I needed—reporters knocking on my door, and the murderer knowing where I lived. Mrs. J. had better keep her mouth shut. There was no doubt in my mind that she watched the news every day. If there was a tip line, I was sure she’d be calling in to give out my information. Heck, she’d probably offer to drive them over to my place if it meant she could get on television. That sealed it. I needed to pay Mrs. J. a visit today, so I could stay on her good side and get her to keep quiet about all this.

  The next story cut to Detective Brandle, giving a statement about the recent break-ins. Three businesses had now been hit, with Cognac’s Cigar & Whiskey Bar being the latest. It wasn’t a formal statement, but the type you get when reporters hammer a person for details. The detective looked composed but exhausted, like he wanted to be anywhere else but there, answering the reporters’ questions. His face was starting to resemble a basset hound with his droopy eyes and saggy cheeks. Someone get that man some regenerating cream and a glass of water. Who knew how many free radicals he had floating around in his system with a face that dehydrated. I figured he must have been sustaining himself on coffee and cop fare. Definitely not healthy. I had no room to talk, but at least I worked out. Okay, I worked out sometimes. The detective didn’t have time for that. How he was assigned to more than one major case was beyond me. During the questions, Detective Brandle stated that they were following up with leads, and that if anyone had seen anything unusual, or if they saw anyone acting suspicious downtown, to call the police. Detective Brandle left it at that and excused himself to head inside the station.

  I pondered the information I’d just received from the news report. All the targeted businesses had one thing in common: they all catered to high-end clientele. No surprise there. After all, a true crook would hit up some place with valuable contents.

  I sympathized with Detective Brandle’s workload but found myself wishing he’d devote more time to the Siebold case; or better yet, assign someone else to it. I tried the detective’s phone again. This time, it went straight to voicemail. That sealed it. First stop was Mrs. J.’s and then I was off to talk with Eric. It was time for some answers.

  * * *

  The clock read a few minutes before one by the time I headed to Mrs. J.’s. She called two more times before I could make it out the front door. You’d think I knew who killed Kennedy the way she was on me for information. I knew I was in trouble when I pulled into her driveway and saw her sitting on the front porch, without a sweet treat waiting for me. Darn it. I was hungry too.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. J.,” I said.

  “Afternoon yourself, girl. Do you know how many beauty consultants are in my neighborhood? I could give all my business to someone else if you’re too busy to keep up with your clients.”

  I knew exactly who Mrs. J. was referring to. No way was I letting Justine steal Mrs. J. from me. Not that I thought she’d really leave me, but I wasn’t about to chance it.

  “Sorry, Mrs. J. You don’t have to wait another minute. Here you go.” I handed the gift bag over. Mrs. J. left it on the table without even opening it. That’s what I thought. She didn’t care one ounce about the lipstick. “Well, if that’s all you need, I should probably get going. I don’t want to keep any of my other clients waiting,” I said.

  “Well now, wait a second, sug’. I doubt your clients would mind one bit if you took a minute to catch up with old Mrs. J.”

  “I don’t know.” I eyed my truck, ready to hop in it and take off.

  “Just have a seat for a second. You wouldn’t believe what Patsy Ann told me this morning.” I had a feeling I knew exactly what the deputy’s wife had said. I sat and waited for Mrs. J. to continue.

  “So, is it true? Did you really find another dead body?” she asked. I thought about the best way to explain what had happened, but came up short. “Good heavens, that’s what I thought. Patsy Ann said you must be a mess by now, but I told her if anyone could trip over a couple dead bodies and come up smiling, it was you.”

  Technically, I didn’t trip over either dead body, but I knew what Mrs. J. was getting at. “Thanks, Mrs. J.,” I said.

  “I’m not sure if you’re really lucky, or unlucky, sweet girl,” she said.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure either. Hey listen, I know reporters would love to catch wind of my name, but can you do me a favor and keep what you know on the DL? The last thing I need is a bunch of reporters hounding me.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of saying anything.” Mrs. J. acted as if the thought otherwise never crossed her mind, but I knew better.

  “I’m serious. I want to lie low, at least until the case is solved. I don’t need the murderer knowing my name or where I live.”

  Mrs. J. looked at me for a long moment. The seriousness of this seemed to be sinking in. This wasn’t the usual town gossip I was asking her to withhold. “You have my word,” she said. For whatever reason, I knew she meant that.

  “Enough with all this murder business. I know what you need. Here, come inside. I’ve got a fresh batch of peach cobbler cooling on the counter. There’s plenty to share,” Mrs. J. said.

  I followed Mrs. J. inside and sat at the kitchen table, and let her fuss over me.

  “How’s Marion holding up?” she asked with her head in the freezer.

  The picture of Marion power walking around her front yard came to mind. I wondered what Mrs. J. would make of it. She’d probably consider it as good as a confession in her book. I kept that memory to myself. “She seems okay, keeping busy,” I said, which was the truth. “I haven’t talked to her in the last day though.”

  Mrs. J. joined me at the table, with two bowls of warm peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream.

  “Milk?” she asked. I couldn’t answer. Warm, sweet glaze and crumbly, cinnamon topping, blended with the cool ice cream to create heaven in my mouth.

  “It’s good, isn’t it, sug’?” Mrs. J. went back to the fridge and poured me a glass of milk.

  “You are too good to me.” I licked the back of the fork.

  “Hush now, honey. You deserve it. Besides, sometimes you need a lil’ something sweet to erase the sour,” she said. I couldn’t argue with that.

  Mrs. J. joined me back at the table. “Poor Marion. You know, that husband of hers was no good. She doesn’t deserve any of this.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. “What do you think happened?” I asked.

  “I tell you what, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but there’s more going on. That, I know.” Mrs. J. leaned forward over her bowl of cobbler and whispered, “You see, just last week, I caught Marion sneaking out of Dr. Michelson’s at the crack of dawn.”

  “Wait, what?!” I shook my head, trying to keep up. Where did that come from?

  “Mmm-hmm. You know Dr. Michelson,” Mrs. J. said.

  “Yeah, everyone knows Dr. Michelson. He’s like the Mister Rogers of Port Haven.” Seriously, the man exuded honesty and compassion. He wasn’t about to go off gallivanting with a married woman. I wasn’t buying it. He just wasn’t scandalous like that.

  “Well, let me tell you, Marion and your Mister Rogers have had the hots for each other for years. Years!” she insisted.

  “What? No way,” I said.

  “You better believe it,” she replied.

  “Mrs. J., seriously? How do you know something scandalous was even going on?”

  “O
h, honey, if you would’ve been there, you would’ve known it too,” she said.

  I eyed her, waiting for the story that I knew was about to follow.

  “Okay, so you know how Dr. Michelson’s office is next door to Sweet Thangs?” Mrs. J. asked.

  That was a rhetorical question. Come on. Me? Candy? Cookies? Anyone who knew me knew I loved Sweet Thangs. It was my favorite spot to indulge in a sugar rush.

  “Well, last week, I stopped by bright and early to drop off a fresh batch of my pralines. Lately, I can’t seem to make them fast enough. Last time, they sold out in two days. Lordy, can you imagine? Couldn’t disappoint the customers, now, could I? Anyhow, so there I was, waiting for them to open, and that’s when I saw them.”

  “Who?” I asked, covering my mouth while I talked.

  “Marion and Dr. Michelson! I could see right up into his window. Oh, honey girl, you should’ve seen them. His hand was brushing her cheek, and I know that look. They either just got done doing something, or were about to start.”

  “Seriously?” I grew silent, unsure of what to think. “There could still be a totally plausible explanation,” I said after a minute, even though, at that moment, I couldn’t think of one.

  “Sure, I’ll let you think about that one for a while,” Mrs. J. said with a smirk.

  “Okay, so let’s say Marion was hooking up with Dr. Michelson. So what? Are you saying Dr. Michelson killed Roger?”

  “Oh, good heavens, no,” she said.

  Well, that was at least one thing we could agree on.

  “He might be after a little hanky panky, but he’s not about to kill someone over it,” Mrs. J. said.

  Oh my. “Mrs. J.!”

  “Well, I’m just saying…,” Mrs. J. trailed off before adding, “Listen, I actually don’t know what’s going on with Marion, Dr. Michelson, this, that, or whatever other girlfriend of Roger’s. But, what I do know is, if there’s one person who would’ve really liked to see Roger Siebold dead, it would be his son.”

  Mrs. J. was just full of bombshells this afternoon.

  “Wait, what son?” I asked. I had lived in Port Haven my whole life and never knew Marion and Roger had a son. I was positive Marion never mentioned having children. I had just assumed she and Roger married later in life, and kids hadn’t been an option.

  “Doesn’t surprise me you don’t know him. Philip’s a bit older than you. And it’s been what, fifteen years I’m guessing, since he’s stepped on this side of the Mason-Dixon,” replied Mrs. J.

  “Really? How come?” I asked.

  “Well, I don’t like to gossip,” Mrs. J. said.

  Since when? I thought.

  “But rumor has it, it had something to do with Roger’s business. Heard his daddy cut him right out of it. I don’t know the details, but whatever happened sent Philip straight to New York, and I don’t think he’s been back since. Not like the two ever got along to begin with, mind you. Marion was always in the middle, trying to make peace, but Lord knows it never worked.”

  “That’s sad,” I said. “It must’ve been something really nasty to keep him away for that long.” I couldn’t think of anything that would keep me away from my parents for fifteen years, especially from my dad. I was a daddy’s girl through and through.

  “Let me tell you, Roger was rotten to that boy his whole life. Don’t know what he had against him. He seemed like a sweet kid to me, but I guess the business mess was the final blow.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said.

  “You know, people can only handle so much, and I’m guessing Philip just had enough.”

  Mrs. J. gave me plenty to think about, and I now had even more information to share with Detective Brandle. That was, if he ever called me back. Mrs. J. might be convinced of Philip’s guilt; but to me, he was just another suspect to add to the list, along with Dr. Michelson … if I could believe it.

  On that note, I wrapped up my beauty business with Mrs. J., thanked her for the peach cobbler, and headed out to track down my next source. I was really hoping Eric was at his office. If not, I had no idea how to get a hold of him.

  7

  “SIS,” a woman said in a tart voice.

  “Hi, is Eric Pérez available?” I asked.

  “No, he’s not,” the woman replied.

  I hung on the line waiting for further explanation, but that was all I got. Nice, huh?

  “Okay, can I leave him a message then?” I asked.

  “You can, but I don’t know when he’ll get it,” she replied.

  Silence again. Was this woman the receptionist or not?

  “Does he have voicemail?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Of course, not.

  “Okay … I don’t suppose you could give me his cell number?” Even I could hear the hopeful tone in my voice. I knew it was a long shot, but the woman actually snorted at me. What a witch. It took every ounce of patience for me not to snap at her.

  “Never mind then. I’ll reach him later,” I huffed.

  “You do that,” she replied and hung up, just like that.

  I was beyond ticked and was thinking I had liked it better when no one had answered the phone. I had no idea what that woman’s problem was, but I wasn’t in the mood to be messed with. I wanted to talk to Eric and see what he had to say, and that woman was the only one standing in my way. I wondered if she would be as rude in person? There was only one way to find out. Besides, she didn’t say he wasn’t in, just that he wasn’t available. Maybe I’d get lucky and catch him in the office.

  Just over an hour later, my car approached the South Carolina/Georgia border. I didn’t need to read the state marker or see the Talmadge Bridge in the distance to know the city was close. The sight of five gentlemen’s clubs in a quarter-mile-span, was evidence enough. By day, the pink stucco buildings with their gravel-dirt parking lots and dusty windows, looked like something straight out of a horror flick; but by night, the same parking lots were filled with flashy sports cars and custom motorcycles. The blinking lights drew the men in like mosquitoes to a bug zapper. Of course, I was instantly reminded of Ann Marie and wondered which club she had worked at. Since I’m here, I should stop and ask around, maybe come back at night when the girls come in. Heck, I could even drop off a few catalogs. Now there was a way to perk up business. I bet they went through a ton of makeup. Of course, I’d wear rubber gloves when collecting payment. That thought gave new meaning to the phrase “dirty money.”

  I had never been to Siebold Investment Securities before, but downtown Savannah’s city squares weren’t hard to navigate. After all, they were the heart of the city, and I had the address. The flow of traffic led me straight into the city. Swamp oaks, cement Civil War statues with brass nameplates, gothic architecture, and trolley tours fought for my attention. An eclectic group of people called downtown Savannah, home. For every attraction, there was a person who was just as fascinating. They’d tell you their story if you asked, or if you stood still long enough. I knew that firsthand from one late night I had spent in the city. Somehow, I had ended up talking politics with a homeless man for half an hour. I have no idea how the conversation even started. And it wouldn’t be Savannah without the voodoo, ghost stories, and cemeteries. They were tourist attractions in their own right.

  A gold-plated address told me I was in the 700th block. Roger and Eric’s office should be two blocks ahead. I followed the squares up and scanned the buildings. To my left, the initials SIS caught my attention. The ten-inch tall, black letters with gold outline were etched onto the front window of a two-story, red brick building across the street. That has to be it. A metered spot was opening in front of me. Perfect timing. I waited for the vintage VW Bug to back out, and I attempted to parallel park the pickup. Good thing I had skills, because the spot was tight.

  Thirty minutes were left on the meter, enough time to hopefully talk to Eric and come back without getting a ticket. I cut across the center square and admired the surrounding atmosphere. Like
the rest of downtown Savannah, the outside of SIS was accented with a low, wrought-iron gate that had been overgrown with honeysuckles. Parts of the neighborhood were residential. Boutiques, businesses, condos, and houses blended together. Gas-lit sconces, gated front gardens, wrought-iron arbors, and white ceramic birdbaths equally accented the architecture.

  It appeared that the investment firm only rented out the lower left side of the building. The other side housed a cigar shop, with a hat boutique upstairs. From the top window, it looked like headquarters for Mardi Gras. Bursts of red-and-silver sequined hats with purple-and-gold feathered accents glimmered in the sunlight, reminding me of Aria’s and my trip to New Orleans a few years back. Downstairs, the cigar shop’s perched-open door let the sweet smell of tobacco roll out and mix with the scent of honeysuckles outside. Now that was a scent they should bottle.

  I resisted the urge to go inside the boutique, and reached for the opposite door. Like the window, the initials SIS had been etched onto the door’s beveled glass. Below the initials, in the same gold lettering, were the words Solid Investment Securities. I had to look twice to make sure I read it right. Roger must have changed the word Siebold to Solid after Eric came on board. I made a mental note and cataloged the scent in case I ever developed my own beauty line.

  A brass bell fastened to a leather strap clanked twice against the top of the door when I walked in. The receptionist looked just as tart in person, with her designer summer suit, black-rimmed glasses, and blunt blond bob. She glanced up at my appearance and dismissed me just as quickly. This woman needed an attitude adjustment.

  Eric’s voice came from the door to my left, and I was thrilled that he was in. My hunch had paid off. I turned and found him in his office, looking as charming as ever. He was standing over an impressive desk with the phone in one hand and the receiver in the other, looking as if he’d stepped off the pages of a men’s fashion magazine. His suit was dark and his shoes were shiny. I had no idea where he’d learned to dress, but I was impressed.