Authors: Sally J. Smith
"Well, honestly, no. Not yet. But we're still hopeful."
"Hmm, I see." He stood. "I've only just received new information from the private sleuth I hired to look into the background of the Elways and Cecile Powell Elway. I haven't even had a chance to take a look at it." He stood and offered his hand. "Would you care to join me in my study, Miss Hamilton? Who knows? It's quite possible the key to solving this mystery and having our dear Fabrizio released from that horrible place will be included in what I received."
We walked together back through the foyer to his study across from the main parlor. The walls were a rich British racing green with library prints of hunting scenes, a few illustrated maps, a huge oil painting of a brown and white foxhound—all the pieces along the wall were warmly lit by strategically placed brass art lights above each piece. Along one wall an overstuffed sofa and wing chair nestled around a serving chest with a tray of glasses and decanters. On the other side of the room, a custom-made built-in desk from the antebellum era dominated the room. It was positioned so it butted up next to a wall of bookcases and shelves. Two old-fashioned wooden office chairs positioned on either side of the two-sided kneehole told me that this wasn't only Harry's study, it was Fabrizio's study too. These two men cared so much for each other they obviously spent as much time together as they possibly could. They must both be suffering without the other.
Harry sat in one of the chairs and started to indicate I should sit opposite at what I supposed was Fabrizio's side of the desk, but then he hesitated, stood, and dragged a club chair from a corner. We both sat, and he pulled a large manila envelope from his top drawer, spilling its contents in front of him.
"My personal assistant printed all this out for me just a while ago from the attachment to an e-mail," Harry said. "Let's look at it together, shall we?"
There were copies of newspaper clippings and magazine articles, printouts of Theodore Elway's college transcripts, and articles relating to the history of his family's steel business.
Harry picked up a few sheets and handed them to me, and then he picked up the next one and began to give me a
Reader's Digest
version. "This is a short report relating to Cecile Elway née Powell of the Philadelphia Powells. She was eight years younger than Theodore and met him at a polo match about eight years after he lost his first wife. The two women could have been sisters, and Theodore was drawn to her right away. Theodore was Cecile's second husband. Her first marriage left her well-connected socially, but unfortunately penniless." Harry stroked his moustache and gave me a
c'est la vie
sort of look. "It was awfully convenient for her that Theodore was so well-heeled. Wasn't it? But, according to what my detective has learned, she was a good and faithful wife to him up until a year or two prior to his death." He scratched the end of his nose. "And then something happened. Something about…worms?"
I nodded. "Caterpillars. Alien caterpillars. I've heard they're endangered, but that remains to be seen."
He looked positively horrified. "Alien caterpillars? I can't imagine how hideous they must be."
"Oh, Mr. Villars, you have no idea." I had looked them up online several days earlier and recalled their tiny fuzzy green bodies, bulbous green heads, and creepy little faces. I shuddered.
Harry's mouth curled with distaste. "But what do caterpillars have to do with…?"
"It's a long story, Harry, but it's possible their champion, a man named Terrence Montague, could be the murderer. I just haven't been able to find any evidence to prove it yet."
I looked down at the papers Harry had handed to me and shuffled through them. "Oh," I said, "so this is what Theodore Elway looked like."
I was looking at what appeared to be a photo off some society page that had been taken at a charity ball or some such thing. A short man who looked exactly like Super Mario smiled from under a big round nose and huge moustache. Bushy eyebrows nearly obscured beady little eyes. His suit was finely made and looked to be custom, but then the man was so short and stout that anything he wore probably had to be tailored.
The woman who was with him was considerably younger, maybe in her early forties, sweetly plump and fresh-faced with soft, hazel eyes and shoulder-length brunette hair that curled in around her jaw. Theodore had his arm around her waist. She was looking up at Theodore and he down at her. Both looked to be positively crazy about each other. Who was this pretty young woman so in love she had eyes for no one else? She looked oddly familiar to me, but I couldn't place her. Didn't know her. Did I? It was probably just that she reminded me of someone I knew once, or someone I wished I'd known.
"When was this photo taken?" I handed it to Harry.
He flipped it over and read a note inscribed on the back. "Christmas, 1999. Children's Hospital Charity Gala. Theodore Elway and guest."
"Guest?" What the heck kind of detective names someone "guest?"
For the next half hour or so, we poured over the rest of the paperwork Harry's detective had sent, but it was mostly a rehash of what we already knew—except for the identity of Mr. Elway's guest at the 1999 Christmas bash. And for some reason, I couldn't get that off my mind.
Harry and I commiserated on how we were running out of time. Once formal charges were filed against Fabrizio, the Elway entourage would be free to return to Pennsylvania, and the murderer would waltz away like a contestant on
Dancing with the Stars.
If we were going to bag us a killer, we needed to boogie.
Harry let me take the copy of the photo of Elway and the mystery woman in case it turned out that I really did know her.
I returned the golf cart to the boathouse. Odeo wasn't around, so I left the keys and walked back to the main building.
Months ago Jack and Harry had booked Hans Ritter, the world famous magician from Dusseldorf, for the Chamber of Illusion, The Mansion's red room dedicated exclusively to all sorts of trickery and deceit.
Once the word got out, the show sold out so quickly, they decided to book a second midnight show, which also sold out.
Over the last two days, guests had arrived from all over the continent to ooh and aah about the unequalled sleight of hand of Hans Ritter, who hardly ever set foot out of his beloved motherland.
The idea had been all Jack, and the successful promotion of the event and the hotel being filled to capacity constituted a real feather in Jack's cap, and I knew he'd be there to make sure everything was ready to go.
It was awesome he was adapting so well to become exactly what this fish out of water resort needed to find its foothold in such a competitive business. Too bad the timing sucked.
I texted him to meet me outside the theater as soon as he could take a break, and then I texted Cat, who I knew had back-to-back readings all day. Under normal circumstances, I'd have been booked all day too, but seeing as how Harry knew I was doing my darnedest to prove Fabrizio innocent, my schedule had been wiped until Tuesday morning. My tip jar would be pretty anemic by the end of the week, and the restoration fund at St. Antoine's Parish would come up on the short end, but the way I looked at it, this was for a good cause too.
Jack walked out of the Chamber of Illusion at about ten after six. I was sitting at a table in the bar in front of the magicians' theater. It was a gorgeous custom-built oak minibar and backbar just outside the theater. The hope was that while waiting in line for the shows to begin, or during intermission, folks would queue up elbow to elbow along the marble-topped bar for a glass of wine or maybe a mint julep or Irish coffee to bring in a little extra pocket change to pay the pricey magicians Jack and Harry planned to bring to Mystic Isle.
The bar itself was an attraction—elaborately carved bar, backbar, and lighted bridge were oak. A polished brass rail was positioned just right for guests to prop up one foot, Old West–style. A dozen or so café tables were set around. The floors were hardwood, stained rich and dark. The lighting was dim except for directly over the bar, which was lit by canned lights on the bridge.
It was cozy and comfortable. I'd been there before for cocktails at a couple of other shows.
Jack wore—oh my
GQ
goodness—a tux and black tie with total aplomb, like he was born in one, displaying casual confidence the likes of Clooney. I hadn't changed from my skirt and blouse I'd worn to Harry's and felt a little dowdy in his dazzling presence.
Jack's smile was warm, his gaze warmer. "Mel." My one-syllable nickname sounded so sexy on his lips.
Cat showed up just then, so there wasn't time to bask in the spicy glow of Cap'n Jack's attention. I laid the photo of Theodore on the table, and they both leaned over for a look at it.
I explained the details Harry had given me.
"Hmm," Jack said, looking at it. "So that's Theodore. And who's the woman with him?"
"Well, that's the question, isn't it? I just have this itch that she's important somehow, but I just can't place her."
Cat stood up straight and stretched. "That's the psychic," she said, yawning.
It was like a bulb lit up over my head. Of course. I spun the photo around for a look at the woman's face. Add about forty pounds, a sour expression, a pair of heavy-framed eyeglasses, and chop off the hair—and there she was. Penny Devere, Cecile's psychic and Theodore's…what? From the heat evident in the look passing between them, she was more than his psychic adviser. What had Billy said? That Penny was Theodore's psychic adviser before she provided that service to Cecile? Hmm, Theodore and Penny? Who would've thought, and what would you call that, a psychic adviser with benefits?
I took another look. She certainly had changed. The woman in the photo was lovely and sweet and happy. Penny was frumpy and sullen and miserable. And, from all appearances, she was hot to trot for old Theodore "Super Mario" Elway.
"Holy crawdaddies," I said. "Could she? Would she? Did she?"
Cat nodded, her eyes blazing. Jack nodded, his mouth turned up in a half smile.
"Are you guys thinking what I'm thinking?" Cat said.
"If you're thinking there's more to Penny Devere than meets the eye…" Jack began.
And I finished, "Then, yeah. We're thinking exactly what you're thinking."
Jack pulled out a chair and held it for Cat then sat down himself. "So if we're all on the same page, maybe we ought to finish this book together."
* * *
A VIP ticket was delivered to Penny's room at six thirty, plenty of time for her to dress and be ready for the magic show—especially considering the way she dressed. It included a meet-and-greet champagne interlude with Hans himself. It was a very cool offering I might not even have been able to pass up, so we had high hopes Penny would show up for her special evening, which was scheduled to begin at seven thirty.
And, holy Sherlock Holmes, she did, all dolled up—well, sort of, with a sparkly barrette holding back her lifeless hair, pink lipstick you'd have expected to see on a thirteen-year-old, and I think it might have been the same dress she had on in that old photo. Regardless, she was ready-freddy for her magical connection.
Hans was a staunch supporter of anyone and everyone in the magical realm and was more than willing to help us if it meant a get out of jail free card for Fabrizio.
Hans, the Aryan boy wonder, was a tall man with pale skin and a head of blond hair more like a lion's mane than anything else. He met Penny at the stage door, his blue eyes and enormous white teeth flashing brightly. A la Elvis, he wore a black-and-gold leather jumpsuit. It fit so close to his skin it occurred to me his costume was part of his act—you know, get the audience to look anywhere and everywhere but your hands?
He swept one arm before him as he bowed low, holding her hand and then bringing it to his lips. She giggled like an adolescent at a One Direction concert. One arm snaked behind her to encircle her waist as he spoke to her in his exotic, clipped accent. "
Mein Liebling
, let me show you all the wonders of me."
Another titter from Penny as she nearly swooned.
Jack stepped beside Hans. "Miss Devere, we're so happy you could accept our invitation. We're pleased to be able to present the magic of Hans Ritter tonight."
Hans and Jack shook hands then Jack turned away. "Enjoy yourself, Miss Devere."
Hans and Penny went backstage. I couldn't help my curiosity as to exactly how showing her the "wonders" of him would be accomplished. But there was no time for that now.
Jack walked back to the table where Cat and I waited, his arms folded before him.
"Well?" I asked.
He beamed and opened his arms, revealing a cell phone in his hand.
"You got it!" I couldn't help it. I was squealing.
He activated the screen, and Cat and I leaned in to see.
The password screen popped open, and we all pretty much deflated. It was password locked.
Crappola.
But once more, it was Cat to the rescue. "Try T-H-E-O," she said.
Jack entered the corresponding letter/numbers. Lo and behold, the home screen opened.
I'm telling you, sometimes that girl scares me.
The first part of our plan had been to get Penny's phone, which Hans, that sly devil, had handily done while charming her.
Now that the phone was open, we could read any suspicious texts or e-mails, check her contacts and…
Crappola, again. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway.
"Ah, hell." Jack laid the phone on the table like it had burned him. He turned away and put a hand to his forehead. "I'll never be able to unsee that."
Cat and I looked at each other. I snatched up the phone to see what had him so upset.
It was probably one of the most unfortunate things I'd ever laid eyes on.
In her photo gallery were videos. The quality was poor, jerky, and I had the impression they were quite old, maybe even shot with a legit video camera and then transferred from a computer to her phone. Theodore Elway and a younger Penny Devere. The unfortunate part was their state of undress and Twister-like positions. One video after another, and each one more imaginative than the one before it.