Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!. Donna Andrews
usual.” Morty opened the canvas bag. “Let’s look at that tape.”
The intercom buzzed.
“Yes, Estelle?”
“Mr. Acerman.” Estelle spoke loudly, distinctly, and nasally. Serena’s eyes met Morty’s again. Usually Estelle mumbled. This could only mean two things: trouble, or that a good-looking man was in the waiting room.
“Mr. Acerman,” Estelle continued with a wounded, maddening slowness. “Detectives Ritter and Falcone from the Oceanview Police Department are here to see you about a matter which they won’t discuss with me.”
Morty zipped the bag and handed it back to Serena. He pressed the intercom button. “Very well, Estelle. I’m almost finished here. Why don’t you get the two detectives some coffee?”
“Now I know it’s dirty,” Morty said. “Keep everything with you, get out of town, and turn off your phone. I want to look at everything before the police do. Rendezvous at the Sand Dollar at 1800.”
Serena resisted the urge to salute. She shouldered the bag and walked slowly and casually out of Morty’s office. She approved of Estelle’s taste; one of the detectives was a very good-looking blond (wedding band) and the other was even better looking, with dangerous dark eyes and tousled black curls (no wedding band). Serena smiled slightly at them both and then hustled into the parking lot as Morty invited the detectives into his office. She popped into her car and decided to treat herself to some shopping. No reason a girl couldn’t enjoy eluding the police.
That evening, after lobster rolls at the Sand Dollar, Serena and Morty drove to her oceanfront condo.
Serena handed Morty a bottle of beer and booted up her PC. They watched in uncomfortable silence, which amused Serena, since as a former film student she found the technical aspects of filming sexier than she found her subjects, and Morty had probably seen more sex acts than a projectionist in an X-rated movie house. She found his discomfort endearing. Morty studiously kept his eyes on the screen, as if making eye contact would embarrass her.
“I called one of my contacts at the department,” he said. “The detectives showed up because an anonymous caller tipped them off that Mrs. Stanley had hired Acerman Security to follow her husband. I told the detectives that you’d be returning from out of town early tomorrow morning and you’d give them everything you had.”
Morty sipped. Serena nodded. Krystle shimmied on the screen.
“The Stanleys had only daytime help,” Morty continued. “The housekeeper left Mrs. Stanley last night around five. She was eating a left-over seafood casserole since her husband was”—he made air quotes—“‘at a meeting.’ The housekeeper says that Mrs. Stanley believed in a quiet evening and early bedtime on days before she made her public appearances. She began a tutoring program for inner-city kids and was in demand as a speaker to community groups. The housekeeper knew about the affair. She insists that Mrs. Stanley did not. The housekeeper’s the one who leaked the note to the TV station. The autopsy is tonight.”
As they watched, Serena pointed out several things that had puzzled her.
“With me, Morty?”
“Yeah, kid, we were set up.”
“Nobody’s using me as their alibi.” Serena shook her head. “I still don’t know how they noticed me.”
“I should have put Lenny on this one. You’re the type a man notices, especially a guy with a wandering eye. And more importantly, definitely the type a jealous woman notices.” He sipped his beer. “And you gotta work on your tailing. Remember—”
Serena chanted along with him. “Stay back, relax, keep subject in view. And above all, keep it simple.” Serena smiled at him sweetly.
Morty’s ears turned pink.
* * * *
Serena struggled out of bed at seven a.m. and blearily opened her closet door. Those detectives were cute. She toyed with the idea of meeting them at the door in her bathrobe. Down girl! She sagged against the door jamb. Was it her fault that she hadn’t had a date in over a year?
Serena virtuously chose a pair of slim-cut linen slacks and a silk blouse, then showered and dressed. Her years as a model made her movements efficient and quick, and she frowned only slightly at her rear view in the mirror. She took her breakfast (orange juice, multivitamin, cigarette) onto the patio and unfolded the newspaper.
A photo of Bunny, a heavy-set woman with the bull-dog sternness of a maximum-security prison matron, glowered from the front page. The text of the suicide note was included, the exclusive scoop to the TV station notwithstanding. The story offered no new developments, except for the difficulty of locating Mr. Stanley the morning after the death. The paper reported that Mr. Stanley had been “on an overnight business trip.” Serena guffawed, then turned to the obituaries. “Beatrice ‘Bunny’ Millard Stanley…only child of the founder of the Millard Department Stores chain…degree from Wellesley, cum laude…president of the Oceanview Library Circle…taught English literature at the Stonehaven School for Girls…started an innovative program to tutor at-risk inner-city students.”
Serena lifted her thick raven curls, letting the breeze dry the shower-damp tresses. In her work with Morty she’d seen her fill of older men taking up with young hootchies, tossing the wife on the dust heap of his mid-life crisis.
Serena rose and grasped the balcony railing. “I can’t go on Arthur. I can’t stand to see you unhappy. Once the gift of love belonged to you and I. Now I love you enough to set you free.” She shook her head and laughed. “Puhleeze, Bunny! Talk about B-movie dialogue!”
The breeze lifted the newspaper, and Serena scrambled to gather the wind-borne papers. She flattened them, reread the text of the suicide note, then flipped back to Bunny Stanley’s obituary. She slowly refolded the paper. “Bunny, they’re not getting away with it,” she muttered as the doorbell rang.
* * * *
Serena arrived at work disappointed. Two female detectives had picked up everything from Monday night and had questioned her, their disdain for her and her profession barely veiled. Hers was equally strong. She had never seen such badly put together outfits. She had given simple, minimal, entirely truthful answers to their questions. She kept her observations and suspicions to herself.
Serena asked Estelle for the Stanley file, pressed some numbers into her cell phone, then took a meeting with Morty over a box of Dunkin Donuts. When she left, she stopped at Estelle’s desk.
“Estelle, I have a favor to ask you.”
Estelle’s green-shadowed eyes narrowed.
* * * *
“Thanks for squeezing me in today,” Serena murmured as the middle-aged beautician deftly painted a coat of passion fruit lacquer on her nails.
“Not at all, hon. We’re not too busy this early in the week.”
“I have a job interview at Millard Department Store, and I want to look nice,” Serena lied.
“Oh, really, dear.” Anne Marie Curran, owner of Hair Today and Nails Too!, regarded her with watery blue eyes. “Worked there myself many years ago. In Foundations. My first husband is president of it now. And I just heard on the news that his wife killed herself. What a terrible thing.” She shook her head, setting dangle earrings swaying. Her heavily mascaraed eyes grew glossy with tears. “I wonder if I should call Artie?”
“Uh—”
“You’re right.” Anne Marie shrugged off the thought and briskly resumed her work. “I mean, it’s been years. We’re in the same town, but might as well be in different countries. Artie moved up in the world pretty quick with his second marriage.” She tsk-tsked. “What a thing, what a thing.”
“Were you and uh, Artie, married long?”
“No, just a couple of years. Artie, he liked expensive things.