“I can’t stop thinking about that barrette,” I said. “It’s so similar to the craftwork on Sheila Rossetti’s picture frames.”
“So you’ve told me three times tonight.” Dylan caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. “And for the third time, I’m saying I believe you. But that doesn’t mean there’s a connection between the two women. Give it a rest, babe. Lean back and enjoy our post-Precipice glow.”
“You’re right.”
It was Saturday night and we were driving home from eating an outstanding meal at the Precipice, a spectacular ultramodern restaurant built on a rise high above a lake. But ever since I’d spotted Hattie Fein’s barrette, my mind had refused to stop thinking about its similarity to Sheila Rossetti’s picture frames. Tenuous though it might be, this was the only link I knew of that connected Sheila’s husband’s murder twenty years ago and Ilana’s. And I wanted Dylan to agree with me.
“Sure, thousands of people make crafts and there’s always a possibility that two or more craftspeople will create similar items, but what are the odds of this so-called coincidence occurring between interested parties close to a murder investigation?”
Dylan released a humph of exasperation. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of a stretch—considering Hattie Fein a serial killer? Who knows where she got the barrette? She could have bought it at a craft show years ago. It could have been a gift.”
“I think she was lying about not remembering where she got the barrette,” I said. “That in itself is suspicious.”
“So what do you suggest? Tell John what you’re thinking so he can bring Hattie in for questioning?”
“Bad idea. She’ll close up like a clam.”
Dylan exhaled loudly. “So? Any ideas?”
I shot him a smile of pure innocence. “A few, but I have no intention of sharing them with a doubting Thomas.”
It was time to do some research, research I should have done weeks ago. I waited until Dylan was gently snoring, then headed to my office and turned on my computer. There were several Hattie Feins listed, but I quickly found the hair and makeup artist I knew listed in IMDb—the Internet Movie Database. The basics were there, but I needed more. I struck gold when I found an article about Hattie in one of the movie industry magazines.
Hattie Greenfield Fein had grown up in a small Michigan town outside Detroit. Her parents divorced when she was four and her sister was seven. Her mother, Pamela, decided to follow her dream of becoming an actress and moved the girls to Hollywood. Pamela managed to get a few small roles in movies and commercials.
Hattie, who often hung around the set when her mother was working, was drawn to the hair and makeup side of the industry. Since she was amiable and eager to learn, the crew allowed her to help out when there was a time crunch. A well-known makeup artist noticed her talents and took Hattie under her wing. All this stopped when Hattie married Jerry Fein, a lighting technician, at eighteen. They had a child who died in an accident at age three. Hattie and Jerry divorced shortly after.
Hattie resumed her career in the movie and TV industries as a hair and makeup artist. She worked on the sets of some prominent movies. Five years ago she’d suffered a heart attack. These past few years she had worked for indie movie companies, mostly Firestone Productions.
I closed the computer and stretched my arms overhead. All very interesting, but I didn’t feel I knew Hattie any better than I had before reading about her. No recent spouses or lovers. No indication that she might have spent time in or near Clover Ridge years ago, or that she’d ever crossed paths with Patricia Harper aka Sheila Rossetti.
I wanted to research the others involved in the movie: Charlie, Ronnie Rodriguez, Ralph the sound engineer. Even Tom, my mother’s husband. But I was too tired. Yawning, I padded back to bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
Monday morning Billy called me at the library to say he was picking up his mother the following afternoon at the train station. “She said she’d love to see you and Dylan while she’s in town. Any chance of the four of us getting together?”
“She really wants to get together with Dylan and me?”
I must have sounded surprised, because Billy felt the need to explain. “She feels she wasn’t as hospitable as she should have been when you guys drove all that way for my sake.”
“Please tell her not to be concerned in the least. I understand how difficult it must have been, dealing with two strangers connected to her past. But since she’s so inclined, I’d love to have you both come to dinner while she’s here.” I quickly ran through my schedule for the week. “How does Wednesday night sound?”
“That should be fine,” Billy said. “The only set plan we have so far is the reading at the library on Saturday night.”
“Your mom knew my Aunt Harriet. I’ll invite her and Uncle Bosco to join us. And ask Dylan to try not to work late that night.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Billy said. “My mother will be delighted.”
“Don’t tell her Aunt Harriet’s coming. Let it be a surprise.”
“All right.”
“Are you aware of anything she can’t or won’t eat?” I asked.
“No, but I’ll ask to make sure and let you know if there is.”
“And of course you have an ulterior motive regarding this dinner,” Evelyn said a moment later. She’d materialized as I ended my call.
I exhaled a lungful of air. “I give Sheila credit for gathering the courage to return to Clover Ridge, where both her husband and daughter were murdered. Not to mention facing the son she abandoned to trumped-up charges that landed him in prison. But finally telling the police what she’s been hiding all these years might prove more difficult than she realizes. Since Sheila already knows me, I figure she might be more comfortable first talking to me about whatever it is that traumatized her.”
Evelyn shot me a look of admiration. “Carrie, that’s very thoughtful of you.”
I smiled. “And I thought I’d mention Hattie’s barrette.”
She grimaced. “That again. You can ask Pattie if she knew Hattie Fein all those years ago, but I doubt there’s a connection. The similarities between the picture frames and that woman’s barrette could simply be a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I said, as Evelyn faded from view.
I called Dylan. He promised to be home in plenty of time to make dinner at six thirty Wednesday evening. And Aunt Harriet was thrilled when I invited her and Uncle Bosco to join us.
“I’m so glad Pattie has remarried and that she’s coming here to see her son.”
“Billy told John she’s coming. I’m hoping that means she’s finally willing to give him an official statement of what she’s been holding back all these years. I have a feeling she knows who killed Daphne and Ilana as well as her husband all those years ago.”
“Carrie, I hope you’re not setting too much store on that poor woman’s secrets,” my aunt chided me. “Even if she comes up with a name, that doesn’t mean John can charge that person with three counts of murder.”
“Yes, Aunt Harriet,” I said meekly, secretly marveling at how savvy she’d gotten regarding homicides and the law this past year.
“I’ll bring two desserts, so don’t you go fussing with that,” she said before she hung up.
I was so busy the rest of the day, I didn’t even have time to go out for lunch with Angela. Instead, I asked her to bring me back a sandwich. Between phone calls and making sure all programs were running smoothly, Trish and I worked on the August-September newsletter. At three thirty I stretched my arms overhead and headed for the library’s coffee shop for a much-needed break.
I treated myself to a cappuccino. The coffee shop was empty for a change, and I was content to sit quietly in a place that wasn’t my office. I sipped my drink and mentally ran through the upcoming events that required my attention. Dinner for six on Wednesday night was no biggie. I’d buy a few barbecued chickens and make a salad and veggies. I could stop at the supermarket after work today. Dylan would supply the wine and Aunt Harriet the desserts. Saturday night was the reading of The Cocktail Hour. I’d introduce the actors, then sit back and enjoy the show along with the others.
The following Saturday would be our Adopt-a-Pet fair—to be held outside in front of the library if the weather was good. Inside if it rained. Angela’s shower, for which I was largely responsible, was the weekend after that. I sighed. I loved running all these activities, but each required time and attention. When was I going to have a few hours to myself, maybe take a yoga class at the gym?
Smoky Joe accompanied me as I walked back to my office. Thinking about the gym got me thinking about Billy, which reminded me of my intention to Google the other movie people when I had a free moment. I found Susan drawing at her desk. I glanced over her shoulder to see what she was working on.
“Fantastic!” I said. She’d turned the Green with the buildings surrounding it into a summer playground—a small sandy area where people sunbathed, a playground with a seesaw and swings, and a picnic area with people barbecuing and eating on blankets. “This is much too nice for the newsletter.”
Susan beamed. “Thanks, Carrie. I told Martha what I was drawing, and she said to make a large version of it in oils and she’d put it in the gallery’s window.”
“That should bring in some big bucks,” I said.
Susan’s smile grew wider. “So we’re hoping. Ron and Martha want to have a show of my work six months from now.”
“How wonderful, Susan!” I hugged her. “I’m so proud of you.”
She looked pensive. “Martha wants me to do at least four more big pieces and several smaller ones. I might have to take time off from work to get everything done.”
“Don’t you worry about it,” I said. “Starting in September, Trish’s kids will all be going to school full-time, so maybe she can work more hours. Or I’ll hire someone.”
“Temporarily, please,” Susan said vehemently. “I don’t want to give up this job. I love working here—with you.”
“Thank you, Susan. I feel the same way.” I hugged her again, then went over to my desk. “What’s this?” I asked, lifting the manila envelope beside my computer.
“I found it lying outside the door when I arrived,” she said. “It says it’s for you.”
“So I see.”
My name was printed in the center of the envelope. A tremor ran down my spine as I opened the metal fastener and pulled out the sheet of drawing paper. I stared at the message. Susan must have sensed my anxiety, because she came to stand beside me.
“Stop prying or you’re next,” she read aloud. “Carrie, this is awful.”
“Did you see anyone leaving when you came into the library?” I asked.
She thought a bit. “A woman—can’t think of her name, but she often comes in with her mother. Oh, and the mayor. He was talking to Sally.”
My racing heart pumped even faster. “Really? The mayor? He rarely comes to the library.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “Carrie! You can’t think Mayor Tripp sent you this.”
“I don’t know what to think, but I’m calling Lieutenant Mathers.”