Wendy felt no obligation to continue the conversation but made a mental note of Sarah Ann’s peculiar attitude. “I forget. Anyway, I’ve got another call incoming, so I need to take it. Bye for now.”

  * * *

  “I’m having trouble getting Aurelia’s death out of my head,” Charlotte was saying over the phone after Wendy had put the question of more bridge lessons to her. “You helped me realize that I probably shouldn’t feel guilty about that visit I had with her, and I thank you for that. But I still feel sad. I don’t think I’m well. Dealing with two suicides in one lifetime is not something I’d counted on. You’d have to have gone through it to truly understand.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Wendy said. “I’m sure we all feel bad for Aurelia, and if you don’t want to continue with the bridge lessons, that will be that. Sarah Ann wants to continue, but I’ve already told her that we need at least three—plus me, of course—to make a table.”

  There was a long pause—so long that Wendy thought the call had been dropped, or Charlotte had put her phone down and wandered off for a drink of water or to go to the bathroom. “Charlotte?”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte finally said, sounding as if she were about to burst into tears. “I’ve been so out of it lately, thinking about my Jimmy because of what happened. It just dredged it all up again. I’ve been considering going to a psychiatrist. Does Rosalie have one that you could recommend? I’m still so new here. I’d appreciate any help you could give me.”

  Wendy was as surprised by Charlotte’s emotional response as she had been by Sarah Ann’s strange, cavalier comments. “The only one around is Dr. Henshaw. He’s been practicing here for years. I could put in a good word for you, if you like. Along with my father, he helped me get over my mother’s death when I was a teenager. I’m sure he’s got a busy schedule considering all the crazy Rosa—” Wendy cut herself off as she realized she was veering into gossip.

  “Anyway, I could see what I can do to get an appointment for you. I might not be a doctor, but my referral might be just as good as one.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “But I do have something further to say to you. Bridge is not only a social game, it’s highly therapeutic. In the time since I’ve more or less mastered it, I’ve seen that it can take your mind off your problems, if only for a few short hours. But during that time, you are with friends who are happy to see you, have a bite to eat and drink with you while competing with you in a friendly competition. Believe me, I think you’ll feel better about yourself if you learn the game, and you’ll also save money, since psychiatrists don’t come cheap.”

  Charlotte sniffled and then exhaled. “Well, you know what? I believe you’ve talked me into it. I still want you to give that psychiatrist a call for me. But the next lesson is on Saturday at the RCC, then?”

  “If I can get Milton to come aboard, yes. I’ll get back with you and let you know one way or another.”

  “Good.” There was an awkward pause. “Wendy, tell me something. Do you think I’m an old fool acting the way I am?”

  “Certainly not. Your grief is real, and you shouldn’t ignore it. Don’t apologize for your feelings.”

  “Thank you, dear. I really am beginning to think that learning bridge will pull me out of my funk or whatever else is the matter with me.”

  When the call was ended, Wendy picked up a pen and started making notes. It was that inner sleuth of hers, nudging her, gnawing at her. She wrote in all caps:

  SARAH ANN—ON BOARD, CAVALIER ATTITUDE CHARLOTTE—ON BOARD, EMOTIONAL MESS

  She frowned when she read her own comments. What was she doing? And then she remembered what she had said to Merleece at the breakfast table. It was this hiding in plain sight business that Merleece had brought up. Were these two women genuine suspects, or was she overthinking it? She had been successful at solving crimes before by digging deeper and examining things from a different angle, and even though Lyndell had canceled the article on teaching the bridge newbies, she could not cancel Wendy’s interest in every aspect of this bizarre case.

  * * *

  “Guess where I am?” Milton said, after Wendy had said hello to him over the phone. “I’m at Party Palooza. Rex and Merrie wouldn’t give up on me, and they’ve finally made me an offer I can’t refuse to return to my singing telegram job. Apparently, they just can’t do without me, and they kept raising the ante until my eyes were filled with dollar signs. It took some doing, though, ’cause that vision really freaked me out but good, but Rex is even gonna go with me on the delivery tonight to show me there’s nothing to fear. I mean, he’s been delivering them in my absence for a few days, and nothing awful has happened to him. Maybe Aurelia Spangler’s vision died with her.”

  Wendy was amazed. All three of her newbies had totally surprised her with their unexpected attitudes and responses. “If you’re comfortable now, I’m happy for you.” Then she asked Milton if he would consider being the third newbie to continue the bridge lessons, and he didn’t hesitate to answer.

  “Well, I was having fun before all the cold readings, so my answer is an emphatic yes.” Then Wendy’s curiosity got the better of her. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you tell me if by any chance that telegram you’re delivering tonight is to a College of Rosalie professor?”

  There was a gasp at the other end of the call. “Matter a’ fact, yes. How did you know that?”

  “Never mind my sources.”

  “Are you gonna be the psychic now?”

  They both laughed, and Wendy said, “Hardly. I’ll just stick to my investigative reporting, thank you. Anyway, with you on board, our next bridge lesson will be at seven thirty Saturday out at the RCC. Charlotte Ruth, Sarah Ann O’Rourke, and myself will make up the table, since Vance Quimby has withdrawn.”

  There was a long pause. “So, the original five newbies are down to three, then.”

  “Afraid so.”

  Then Milton began an unsolicited monologue. “I just sort of lost it for a while when Aurelia shared her vision with me, but I’m back now, thinking straight, thanks to Rex and Merrie. The way I see it, Aurelia was an actress of the highest caliber, but Rex said that I just couldn’t allow myself to be taken in by her. She relied on hysterical reactions to build her reputation and get the word out on the street. I guess I’m a prime example of going overboard.”

  “Apparently so.”

  After Wendy hung up, she made a third newbie notation beneath the other two she had written earlier:

  MILTON BAGDAD—ON BOARD—DELIVERING

  ONCE AGAIN

  Then to wrap things up neatly, she added three more, even though one was not a member of the original five newbies:

  VANCE QUIMBY—NOT ON BOARD—PART OF

  THE ACT

  AURELIA SPANGLER—SUICIDE OR MURDER?

  DORA O’ROUKE—SCRIPTURE CRUSADER

  For the first time, Wendy began to wonder if Tommy Cantwell’s COD was going to end up standing after all. This case, she decided, was the most complex she had ever encountered in her brief career as the amateur female sleuth of Rosalie. Everything and everyone seemed out in the open. But therein lay the dilemma if what she and Merleece had discussed carried any weight at all.

  Hiding in plain sight, if done expertly, covered up the truth to perfection. It was the boldest of moves, full of risks, but with the ultimate payoff of getting away with murder. Literally. So what or who was she missing or overlooking? There was still a part of her that was making her terribly uneasy with the status quo. She simply could not let go of Aurelia’s sudden departure. Almost as important as the who was the why.

  Perhaps once she got some inkling of that, she would discover the truth.

  CHAPTER 10

  Milton was beginning to feel like his old self again as he drove through town to Professor Isaacson’s house on Wisteria Drive in one of the newer suburban developments outside Rosalie. Undoubtedly, one reason for that was due to Rex Boudreaux sitting in the front passenger seat as his faux bodyguard; at the moment, Rex was in the midst of a pep talk to end all pep talks.

  “We got so many calls from delighted customers after practically every one of your deliveries,” he was saying. “I’m afraid I ran a distant second to you in that department. I didn’t even try to sing on my deliveries because I think our customers would’ve run out of their own homes screaming. Reciting the words just doesn’t get the job done, you know. Let’s face it, Milt, I was dragging Party Palooza down without you. We need your talent and your youth to continue to be successful with our telegrams. You’ll put the singing part back. Thank goodness you changed your mind, and I hope that’s for good.”

  Milton let all the praise sink into him like a professional massage. Only it was his ego being stroked, not his muscles. He had been someone who was easily swayed one way or another all his young life, and this particular instance was doing the trick. “I’m not planning on getting any more cold readings anytime soon, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Good deal. I think you could prob’ly go the rest of your life without another one. I’m sure we’re all sorry about what happened to Aurelia Spangler, but we have to get on with our lives.”

  It was nearing eight forty-five in the evening, the fireflies were out, and the summertime light was fading drastically, but Milton didn’t have to bother with his GPS this time out because he already knew the way to Professor Isaacson’s house. Twice before, he had delivered anonymous telegrams to him. The first time, the man had been mildly amused and tipped him handsomely, even after getting no satisfactory answer to his question, “So you have no idea who sent this to me?”

  “The owners know,” Milton had said to him. “But when the customer wants to be anonymous, they don’t tell me.”

  The second time, Milton’s tip was not as hefty, and Professor Isaacson did not disguise his annoyance. “I guess you don’t know who sent me this one, either, right?” the man had said.

  Milton had answered with a somewhat sheepish, “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know, sir.”

  But even though this would be the third time he would be delivering an anonymous telegram to Professor Isaacson, Milton wasn’t particularly nervous. Rex Boudreaux would be with him this time—in a tuxedo outfit, no less—to field any questions about anonymity and the identity of the “secret admirer.”

  Surprisingly, however, Professor Isaacson did not do a double take or shoot an exaggerated frown at Milton and Rex when he answered the doorbell. Dressed smartly in a brown smoking jacket that matched nearly perfectly with his thick brown hair and mustache, he behaved cordially with a smile plastered across his strong features.

  “Come in, come in. I’ve given up resisting these musical outings. I know you guys won’t tell me, but I’m sure these are the work of some of my female students out at the college. I’m not naïve. I understand the teenage libido. But it’s also what I get for being stubbornly single.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Rex said. “I’m here just to lend moral support, but Milton here is gonna do the honors of your delivery.”

  “He was most melodious the first two times.”

  Once they had moved from the foyer into the well-appointed living room, which featured a large hearth, Persian rug on the floor, and chandelier overhead, Milton pulled the pitch pipe out of his tuxedo jacket and sounded a middle C. Then, as Rex and the professor watched with great interest, he got down on one knee with the widest smile he could manage affixed to his face and began singing to generic-sounding music:

  I have an English teacher with a history,

  He turns it into something more than mystery,

  He brings it all to life with every spoken word,

  And makes it the most lively stuff you’ve ever heard,

  In case you don’t know who this song is all about,

  I’m happy to inform you as I twist and shout,

  Professor Marvin Isaacson’s the cat’s meow,

  And how he really does it, I just don’t know how,

  It really doesn’t matter, just keep teaching me,

  I bet my final grade goes down in history.

  Then Milton spoke his signoff with a smile in his voice: “Or should I say ‘my grade goes up’? Signed, Your Secret Admirer.”

  Rex and Professor Isaacson applauded generously, and then Milton got to his feet and reached into his pocket, handing over the tuxedoed rag doll. “The usual souvenir,” Milton added. “You know the routine by now.”

  It was clear that the professor was making a mighty effort to maintain a sense of humor, and he said, “Now I’ve got three of these floppy things. I don’t have any idea what to do with them. I don’t have any nieces or nephews to give them to. Maybe I should donate them to Goodwill or something so someone can use them around Christmastime. Hey, it’s almost Christmas in July anyway.”

  Rex snapped his fingers. “I have an idea. Why don’t you harness all the frustration they’ve caused you and just rip ’em apart? And I have some good news for you, sir. If we get another one of these anonymous telegrams for you, we’ll just refuse to take it. We know what you’re up against with these fawning females, but enough is enough is enough.”

  Professor Isaacson’s handsome face lit up. “That’s a spectacular idea. I believe I’ll take you up on it.”

  He then excused himself, disappeared into another room, and quickly returned with two more of the rag dolls in his right hand, while in his left was a letter opener. Then he methodically and energetically plunged the letter opener into the front of each of the dolls, tearing open their tuxedoed shirts. Straw stuffing fell out all over the rug as Rex nodded his great approval.

  As for Milton, his eyes widened, as it suddenly all crashed down upon him, and he stabbed the air with his finger a couple of times. “That’s it,” he cried out. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?” Rex said.

  “The vision,” Milton added. “Don’t you see it? That’s what Aurelia Spangler said she saw. A knife being plunged into a tuxedo shirt. She somehow saw into the future, captured this exact moment in time, and scared the hell outta both of us. That’s just gotta be it.”

  Professor Isaacson gave him a quizzical look, but Rex said emphatically, “Well, I’ll be darned. I never even thought of that.”

  “Me too,” Milton said, still mesmerized by what had just happened. “She interpreted it as something dangerous and frightening happening, but it was . . . it was only this. And she got all upset, and I got all upset, and it was all for nothing—” He came to an abrupt halt, and his face was overcome with sadness. “Well, I don’t suppose you can call committing suicide nothing.”

  “I’m not going to ask what the two of you are talking about,” the professor said. “But I have to tell you, it felt good to rip into those dolls. I was a good sport about it tonight, but these anonymous telegrams weren’t much more than a nuisance to me. Students making goo-goo eyes at me are one thing, but these telegrams are a bit much. Maybe if I announced an engagement to all my classes, these female students of mine would hang it up and leave me alone.”

  “As I said, you don’t have to worry about that now,” Rex told him. “I’ll tell my wife not to accept any more of these anonymous telegrams to you. Your ordeal of extreme admiration is finally over.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” Now it was the professor’s turn to snap his fingers. Then he quickly turned to Milton. “Give me a second while I run to get my wallet. I thought this third rendition was maybe your best from a singing point of view, young man. In fact, all three telegrams were quite professionally sung. I have no quarrel with that part. You have a terrific voice.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Once he had left the room, Rex said, “See what I mean? They all love you. Merrie and I want you to continue to be the face and voice of Party Palooza. I’m afraid it’s just me and my croaking without you.”

  Milton proudly stuck out his tuxedoed chest. “I have to admit I feel like a million bucks now, especially since we’ve put that terrible vision to rest.”

  “I told you all along not to worry about it.”

  “Seems you were right.”

  Professor Isaacson entered the room briskly and promptly handed over a twenty- and a ten-dollar bill to Milton. “For your talent and your trouble. Perhaps someday I will see you in a theatrical production of some kind.”

  “Much appreciated, sir. And it’s my intention to try for the top. I’m sorry I won’t be delivering any more telegrams to you, though. That is, unless you get one from an admirer who’s willing to identify themselves.”

  “That’d be a nice touch for once, I’m sure.” He gestured toward his liquor cabinet against the wall across the way. “Can I interest either of you two gentlemen in a little nightcap before you leave? Just not enough to negate one of you being the designated driver, right?”

  Milton and Rex exchanged brief, wide-eyed glances and then nodded. “I think we can take you up on that,” Rex said. “We should drink a toast to all that got accomplished and resolved tonight.”

  * * *

  “We got Miz Aurelia’s autopsy report this afternoon,” Ross said to Wendy as he walked slightly hunched over into their kitchen after a lengthy detail that had kept him out late on the other end of town.

  Wendy rose from the table, where she had been nursing a glass of Rosalie muscadine wine, hugged him hard, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “And what was the final verdict?”

  “COD was definitely a cocaine overdose as Tommy Cantwell diagnosed. Nothing else of interest was in her system. Nada.”

  Wendy took the sentence in stride, but first things first. “Are you hungry? Did you eat tonight? I could warm up some of the chicken and wild rice I had earlier.”

  No thanks,” he said. “Pike and I grabbed a cheeseburger and some fries and had a ketchup-fest in the car. I think we may have gotten more on the seat than into our mouths.”