Next odd incident—the alleged theft of the five manuscripts and their discovery under the mattress in Winston Eagleton’s suite. When Marcella and Eugene first arrived at Eagleton’s party, they went immediately to the bathroom. The bedroom was only a few feet away, and one of them could easily have placed the manuscripts where they would quickly be found after Eugene reported the theft. I recalled the large handbag Eugene carried. He had not carried one in his role as his grandmother before, as far as I could remember.
What about the phone call reporting the theft? Didn’t it occur around the time of the party when Eugene would have been at the hotel?
Easily resolved—a cell phone call from the car or even from the lobby of the hotel before Eugene and Marcella came upstairs.
My excitement built as I put the pieces of the crime together.
What about the theft, however? Why had Eugene set it up? Had he seriously thought he could implicate Winston Eagleton in the murder? Or had he simply wanted to make everything more complicated in hopes that the authorities would be too confused to see the truth?
That was the likeliest answer—intentional confusion. It had certainly worked, up to a point. Eugene had even set it up by coming to me with his story of Eagleton’s threats against Mrs. Cartwright over the right to publish the manuscripts.
What about Yancy Thigpen? I felt chagrined that I had forgotten about the agent until this moment. Had Eugene killed her because she somehow stumbled into the middle of all this?
I could only hope she was alive and unharmed, perhaps being hidden as a prisoner of Eugene and Marcella. Like the real Mrs. Cartwright. The Marters had a large house, with more than enough space to lock two women away upstairs and out of sight.
What was at the root of the deception in the first place? That was a significant question, and one I should have considered earlier.
The quick answer to that was money. The Marters were desperate for cash, and thought they could make some quick bucks by hawking the manuscripts and collecting fees from fans like Gordon Betts willing to pay outrageous sums to get a signature. A spurious signature, that is.
I thought about those manuscripts. I would love to get my hands on them. It would be wonderful to see them in print, along with the original Veronica Thane books.
An appalling idea brought me up short, however.
What if they were spurious as well?
THIRTY-EIGHT
I hated the idea that the five manuscripts might be fakes, but there were more important things to consider.
First, though, I had to call Kanesha. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number.
After two rings her voice growled in my ear. “This better be good.”
“Did I wake you up?” I felt bad about that, considering how tired she had looked this morning. But this couldn’t wait.
She ignored my question. “Why did you call?”
“I know who the murderer is.” I paused for a reaction. None came right away. I plunged ahead. “Mrs. Cartwright is an impostor. It’s her grandson, Eugene, pretending to be her. He killed Carrie Taylor because I’m pretty sure she had evidence in her files that would have exposed him.” I paused again.
Kanesha snorted in my ear. “If I didn’t know you better by now, I’d swear you were drunk out of your mind to come up with a far-out tale like this.”
I decided the wiser course would be not to respond to that sally and wait for her to continue.
“But I do know you better. You wouldn’t make such an outrageous claim if you weren’t sure you could prove it somehow.”
“I believe I can,” I said, vastly relieved. “It would be easier to show you, though. I can’t really do it over the phone.”
“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be there. That okay?” She sounded more alert, less aggravated.
“That’ll be fine.” I ended the call and immediately started agitating over the best way to present my evidence. I grabbed the pad of paper I was using earlier to make notes from my research, found a blank page, and started outlining.
Diesel must have sensed my mental turmoil. He sat up and prodded at my leg, then butted it with his head until I noticed him. “Everything is fine, boy.” I scratched his head with my left hand while I continued to jot things down with my right. He calmed after a minute or so of attention, and I could concentrate completely on my task at hand.
By the time Kanesha arrived, I felt confident that I had put together a reasoned, coherent case against Eugene Marter. I offered to make coffee, and when she declined, I mentioned other beverages. She shook her head. She wanted to hear what I had to say, obviously. She did take a moment to say hello to Diesel, however, and I appreciated the gesture.
I recounted my fruitless search through the newsletters, but I did suggest that they all needed to be examined carefully in case there was further evidence in them. She leafed through the scrapbook while I talked, and when she found the picture of Marietta Dubois with Mrs. Cartwright, I explained how I’d verified the actress’s height.
“That sounds convincing.” She nodded at the picture. “Tell me the rest of it.”
I took her through each of the strange incidents and offered my explanations for each. She seemed particularly interested in my theory about the planting of the manuscripts in Winston Eagleton’s hotel suite.
“I couldn’t figure out why he would do something that was so obviously stupid,” she said. “But I had to charge him, given the evidence. Eugene Marter has a record—mostly petty crime, but he’s a shifty devil. Not as bright as he thinks he is, either.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.” I recounted the story of my one meeting with him—as his real self, that is. “He did admit to me he’d had trouble with the law in the past.”
Kanesha nodded. “For most of his adult life. I felt sorry for his mother when I checked his record. Never did meet the grandmother, though I got the impression it was her money that bailed him out.”
“No doubt it was. Tell me, do you think she’s still alive?”
“Hard to say. You didn’t find her listed in the death index. We’ll have to contact Social Security to find out whether they’re still sending her checks. That doesn’t mean she’s living, but it will be another charge against the Marters for fraud.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “What if she’s alive but not in any condition to make decisions for herself?”
“If one of them has the right power of attorney, they’re okay.” Kanesha examined the scrapbook photo again. “The problem is, I’m not sure I can convince a judge to give me a search warrant. I’d like to go in that house and see just who’s there, and in what condition.”
“I think Yancy Thigpen is there, too. Alive, I hope, like Mrs. Cartwright.” I shuddered. “If they’re not, what will you do?”
Kanesha’s answered chilled me further, though it wasn’t unexpected. “Start looking for evidence of digging on their property.”
“If only there were a way to unmask Eugene in public. That would do it, wouldn’t it?”
“It would certainly get the ball rolling,” Kanesha said. “But I’m not going to go up to Mrs. Cartwright and accuse her of being Eugene in drag. Too risky.”
An idea had occurred to me, but I wasn’t sure whether Kanesha would go for it. It was corny and clichéd, but it had worked in the past. “How about this? We get Eugene, as Mrs. Cartwright, to come to the library tomorrow with Marcella. Maybe I can ask Teresa to call them and say that we want to discuss further the idea of paying Mrs. Cartwright to appear at the library. I could ask them questions, see if Eugene squirms, and if all else fails, I could try to get the wig off.”