CHAPTER 24

I needed a shower.

No, wait. A shower wouldn’t be enough. I needed to scrub my brain clean of the image of Mom and Ted Tremaine having hot, sweaty jungle sex—somehow.

Yeah, okay, I was all grown up, a mature adult, but this whole thing sent me into major, middle school gross-out mode.

Mom. Having sex—actual sex.

No child should have to face that.

I hurried from the day room, anxious to get out of the nursing home, into my car, onto the freeway, perhaps never to return to Pasadena in my entire life.

Oh my God, how was I ever going to look at my mom again without thinking about this?

I banged through the double doors, my vision laser sharp on the exit across the lobby.

Then it hit me—I hadn’t solved the problem. I hadn’t found a way to end the scandal. I couldn’t leave.

Crap.

I stopped and drew in several breaths. I waited for my heart rate and breathing to slow to normal. A moment passed, then another.

Nothing returned to normal.

Oh my God, did that mean I was never going to get over this?

I darted to the reception desk.

“I need to speak with the director.” I might have said that kind of loud.

The woman behind the counter whipped around

“Now!” I’m sure I said that loud. Really loud.

Her eyebrows disappeared under her bangs, her eyes bugged out.

“Or there’s going to be a lawsuit so huge it will bury this place!” Yeah, I screamed that.

She grabbed the telephone—hopefully she wasn’t calling security—and murmured something that included my name and Ted Tremaine’s, then hung up.

“The director will see you now.” She pointed to the double doors. “Turn right, halfway down the corridor on your left.”

I headed that way—thank goodness I didn’t have to walk past the day room—and found the office. A nameplate was positioned next to the open door that read: JOSEPHINE RAMSEY, DIRECTOR.

Inside was a small seating area and a desk occupied by a receptionist, a middle-aged woman with red hair who gave off a weary don’t-bother-because-I’ve-already-seen-it-all vibe.

“Go on in,” she said, and nodded toward the connecting office.

Josephine Ramsey rose from behind her desk when I walked in. Yikes! She was tall—taller than me, easily over six feet with heels. To be generous, I’ll say she looked sturdy in a Michael Kors business suit, with a helmet of jet-black hair, full-on makeup, and her nails done.

She introduced herself and pointed to the chair in front of her desk. “Tell me what’s wrong, Ms. Randolph.”

As soon as we sat down, I blasted her with the scandalous online story that had been posted by Crown Girl, which, really, was not the best way to handle the situation. But, come on, I was still completely rattled and she was the director—who else could I take it out on?

“This incident was meant to embarrass, humiliate, and ruin Mr. Tremaine’s sterling reputation in the community,” I said. “Crown Girl took advantage of his diminished mental capacity and exploited it for her own gain. She used inside knowledge that should be confidential, and abused her position of trust in this care facility.”

“So this woman who calls herself Crown Girl, how do you know she works here?” Josephine asked.

Crown Girl had to be an employee. I was sure of it.

Ted Tremaine’s wife was dead, his kids lived out of state, and likely all his friends were as old as he was and not in any better health, so no way would they visit him here—and even if they had and he’d blabbed about what happened at the pageant, no way would they have posted it online.

Plus, I’d seen the sign-in log at the receptionist’s desk.

“He hasn’t had a visitor in three months. The story was posted online a week ago. Who else could have done it?” I said.

She didn’t say anything, so I went on.

“This situation is inexcusable. It’s elder abuse.”

She knew without me saying it that elder abuse was code for lawsuit.

And once word got out that Golden Years Care Center was embroiled in legal trouble stemming from an employee and claims of elder abuse, the place would be out of business in no time; Pasadena wasn’t exactly short on nursing homes.

Josephine drew herself up and a look of determination came over her face that was—yikes!—kind of scary.

“I will not have this facility’s reputation ruined under any circumstances. I, and everyone else on staff, have worked long and hard to ensure high standards and a quality environment, and to provide the best possible care of our residents,” Josephine said. “This situation will not be tolerated. I simply won’t allow it. Not after all the hard work that’s gone into it.”

She sounded like a woman on a mission.

“Rest assured, this Crown Girl’s identity will be discovered and that post will be taken down immediately.” Josephine stood up and leaned toward the receptionist in the adjoining office. “Helen! Get legal on the phone. I want HR in my office immediately. And call a staff meeting.”

I figured my work there was done. I rose from my chair.

“My door is always open,” Josephine said. “If there are other problems, please come to me.”

It was nice of her to say that, but, really, no way was I ever coming back here again.

“Thank you,” I said.

I left the care facility totally exhausted and still partially grossed out. There was nothing to do, of course, but head to Starbucks.

I drove to the closest one, which, luckily, was only a few blocks away. Instead of going through the drive-through, I went inside, got my Frappie, and found a table in the back corner. Only two other people were there, one of them on a laptop and the other reading a newspaper. I was glad for the quiet.

Honestly, I’d been impressed with Josephine Ramsey. She’d knocked it out of the park, as far as I was concerned, in her efforts to squelch Crown Girl’s post and put an end to this sort of thing ever happening again. Obviously, she knew the importance of her facility’s reputation. Once it was tarnished, once the public got the idea in their collective heads that there were problems at Golden Years Care Center, turning that around could be almost impossible.

Josephine wasn’t playing around. She meant business. She wasn’t going down without a fight. I liked that.

Thinking about Josephine zapped my brain, sending my thoughts in a different direction, kind of.

Had Carrie felt that strongly about her bakery? Had she been so mad, so upset, so outraged by the review on the Exposer site that had crippled her business that she’d killed Asha?

Of course, several months had passed between the time of the review and the murder. If Carrie was protective enough of her bakery to kill Asha, wouldn’t she have done it sooner?

Then it hit me—maybe not.

What if Asha had come to Carrie demanding she take out an advertisement on her Exposer website? What if she’d threatened to write another scathing review if she didn’t?

I sat straight up in my chair. Oh my God, that was what had happened. It had to be.

Images and possibilities filled my head, spinning out the whole story.

Carrie was friendly with the craft store owner, Dena, who owned a gun. What if Carrie had somehow gotten it from her? What if she’d arranged a meeting with Asha under the guise of taking out an ad on her site?

Oh my God, Carrie had lured Asha to the rear of the store and shot her. It made perfect sense.

Fishing my cell phone out of my handbag, I grabbed my Frappie and hurried out of Starbucks as I punched in Shuman’s number.

“I know who killed Asha,” I announced when he picked up.

“Is that so?”

He didn’t sound nearly as amped up as I felt. Why wasn’t he shouting, cheering, maybe laying the phone aside to turn a cartwheel?

“Yes,” I said, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. “It was Carrie. The owner of the bakery.”

Shuman didn’t say anything.

“Asha nearly ruined her business—the thing that meant the most to her in the world,” I said. “There’s nothing people care more about than the reputation of their shop or store—you know that’s true.”

Shuman was quiet for a few seconds, then asked, “Did you come up with some evidence?”

Okay, now he was getting kind of picky, but I rolled with it.

“No—but you did,” I insisted.

He didn’t ask what it was.

Jeez, what was the matter with Shuman? I’d made a major breakthrough here. I’d solved the case. Why wasn’t he all over this?

I slurped the last of my Frappie and said, “You talked to George, the guy who owned Wright’s Auto Works, remember? Asha forced him to take out an advertisement to prevent her from ruining his business with a stinky review. That’s extortion. Plain and simple.”

Shuman didn’t comment.

“I’ll bet Asha tried to do the same thing with Carrie and her bakery,” I told him. “She pressured her to take out an ad. Carrie already knew how detrimental a bad review could be, so no way could she not go along with it. She had to agree to buy the ad.”

“We looked,” Shuman said. “There was no ad on the Exposer site from Cakes By Carrie.”

“Yes, but I’ll bet Asha had a list of potential advertising customers somewhere in her files,” I told him. “You have her laptop. Check it out. I know you’ll find something. It’s the connection we’ve been missing. I’m sure of it.”

“What about a murder weapon?” he asked.

Now he was being really picky, but I was ready.

“Carrie is friends with Dena. Dena’s shop is next door to the bakery. Maybe Dena keeps the gun at her craft store? She has a license to carry concealed, remember? Maybe Carrie knew about it? Maybe she sneaked in there and got it, and killed Asha?”

“I’m hearing a lot of maybes.”

Oh my God, Shuman was totally not on board with my stunning solution to Asha’s murder. What was the matter with him?

I walked to the trash can and dropped my cup in.

“Look,” I said, “just think about it. It makes perfect sense. Get your computer guys to check out Asha’s laptop. There’s a list of advertisers there and Carrie is one of them, I just know it.”

Shuman was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Okay. I’ll interview Carrie again.”

Visions of SWAT rolling up to the bakery, hot guys loaded down with weapons rappelling from hovering helicopters blooming in my head.

No way did I want to miss that.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll meet you there in less than an hour.”

“Tomorrow,” Shuman said. “It will have to be tomorrow.”

Crap.

“Okay, but let me know when you get there,” I said.

“I will,” Shuman said, and ended the call.

Huh. Not exactly the stunning “Yeah, you did it!” I’d expected—or thought I deserved—but still, I was happy.

Just to keep the good thoughts rolling, I was considering treating myself to yet another Frappuccino when my brain was slammed with the image of Mom and Ted doing the humpty-bump back in the day.

Gross.

I walked to one of the umbrella tables and dropped into a chair.

No way was I ever—ever—going to get over this.

Then something else hit me.

Mom had sex with the pageant judge—and she’d placed second. Second. How humiliating was that?

Then, suddenly, a bright spot flashed in this darkest moment in my life and I perked up.

Second, huh?

Did that mean I was finally better at something than my mom?

Oh, yeah.