Murder at the PTA Page 8

  “You, not me. I’m a trained investigator,” Maya called back.

  “Well, whoop dee doo,” Sandra huffed.

  “Did you actually just say that?” Maya said from inside the office.

  “Yes, I tend to trot out dorky phrases when I’m really nervous,” Sandra explained. She couldn’t resist peering back inside the office to see Maya standing close to Maisie Portman’s dangling corpse, eyeing her neck with the rope tied tightly around the center.

  Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, Sandra turned to see a ruggedly handsome man in a green shirt and brown jacket that accentuated his soulful brown eyes, running down the hallway toward her. He stopped when he reached her.

  “Detective Mateo Reyes,” he said.

  “Sandra Wallage.”

  Detective Reyes raised an eyebrow. “The senator’s wife?”

  “That would be me,” Sandra said.

  “Did you discover the body?”

  “Yes; well, no, technically she did,” Sandra said.

  “She? She who?” Reyes asked.

  “Her,” Sandra answered, pointing inside the office.

  He looked in the office and sighed. “Maya, would you come out here, please?”

  Maya stepped out into the hallway. “Oh, hi.”

  Detective Reyes looked at Maya, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was working on a case and came here to question Maisie Portman,” Maya said.

  “I assume that’s who is hanging from the ceiling right now,” Reyes said, jotting notes down on a small writing pad with a pen that he took from his breast pocket.

  “You would be correct in assuming that, yes,” Maya said.

  “And why did you need to question her?” Reyes asked.

  Sandra interrupted. “She’s been secretly running a website called Dirty Laundry, and she’s been posting all kinds of salacious rumors about people connected to this school online. Well, frankly, it’s caused quite a ruckus in the community, and I am still stunned that Maisie was behind it because I was so certain it was a disgruntled student.. . .”

  Detective Reyes nodded at Sandra, appreciative of the fact she was such a fountain of information. Then he turned back to Maya. “Who is your client?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that,” Maya said.

  Reyes gave her a withering look.

  “But I will,” Maya said. “My daughter. She wanted me to find out who was responsible for the site because she was afraid all the anger and finger-pointing was just going to get worse.”

  “And you called nine-one-one?” Reyes asked Maya.

  “Yes, right after I found the body.”

  “She wrote a suicide note. It’s pinned to her sweater. She explains everything, how the guilt became too much for her,” Sandra piped in excitedly. “I can only imagine how she must have felt after seeing the consequences of her vicious website.”

  “I don’t think she felt guilty about anything,” Maya remarked.

  Reyes looked at her curiously. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think this was a suicide.”

  “What? But the note . . . ,” Sandra said.

  Maya shrugged. “We don’t know for sure she wrote it.”

  More sirens were blaring outside the building now, and within seconds they heard a bunch of pounding footsteps. Soon the hallway was swarming with police officers, including the two cops who had earlier responded to the fistfight at the PTA meeting, along with a forensics team. Reyes waved the CSI guys into the office before turning back to Maya.

  “Are you suggesting this is a homicide?” Reyes asked, lowering his voice as he noticed a crowd of curious teachers and students down the hall being escorted out of the building by three uniformed police officers.

  “I’m not completely sure, but I noticed Maisie has a straight-line bruise on her neck. Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  Maya made a move to enter the office, but Detective Reyes grabbed her by the arm, halting her. “I can’t let you back in there.”

  Maya tried to shake free. “Oh, come on.”

  Reyes tightened his grip. “You’re not a cop anymore. You’re a civilian. Let the CSI guys do their job. You’ll have plenty of time to explain your theory to me later. Now I need you both to follow Officer Kaplan outside the building.”

  Maya and Sandra turned to find a friendly, baby-faced officer in his midtwenties, standing directly behind them.

  “This way, ladies.”

  Without saying another word, Maya and Sandra were led outside, where the local press was gathering, having heard the initial reports over their police scanners. The evacuated teachers and students were already huddled in small groups gossiping about the possible identity of the dead person inside the school, since Maisie Portman’s name had yet to be publicly announced.

  Sandra stepped closer to Maya, who was fuming. “Did that conversation with Detective Reyes strike you as slightly—?”

  “Misogynistic? Egotistic? Completely condescending? Yes! Take your pick,” Maya hissed.

  “I thought so too. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

  “And to think Frances tried to fix me up with that creep.”

  “Who’s Frances?”

  “My partner. In my PI business. She’s eight months pregnant, so she’s kind of sidelined when it comes to a lot of the legwork in our cases.”

  “Oh, how wonderful. Boy or girl?”

  “Boy. Man, you sure do ask a lot of nosy questions.”

  “It’s in my nature. I can’t help myself. So, anyway, what you said to the detective in there, about the straight line across Maisie’s neck, what did you mean by that?”

  “Usually when someone hangs himself, or herself, there is a V-shaped bruise on the neck, caused by the rope, but I noticed Maisie’s neck bruise went straight across, which indicates strangulation.”

  Sandra gasped. “Which means . . . ?”

  “Which means I think she was murdered.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “My sister did not commit suicide, and that’s that,” Chelsea Portman declared as she sat in Maya’s cramped, cluttered office.

  Maya couldn’t help but marvel at Chelsea’s regal, graceful demeanor, almost swanlike, as she floated into the room, fresh off a flight from New York, wearing an expensive-looking cinch-sleeve white-and-tan-striped blazer, a tight-fitting white top and designer jeans, although Maya hadn’t a clue who the designer was.

  When Chelsea called and requested an appointment, Maya had no idea she was calling from her Upper West Side apartment in New York and would have to feign an illness to get out of her evening performance playing Glinda the Good Witch in the Broadway production of Wicked in order to catch a puddle jumper from LaGuardia to the Portland International Jetport. Maya was somewhat surprised that the rather reserved, unobtrusive, and plain Maisie Portman had such a beautiful, tall, glamorous sister who was a successful actress in New York.

  Chelsea flipped her luxuriant, shimmering blond hair back and leaned forward, her ocean-blue eyes fixing on Maya. “I want to hire you to find out what really happened.”

  “The police closed the case a few days ago. They’re ruling Maisie’s death a suicide,” Maya said softly, a sympathetic look on her face.

  “I don’t care what the police believe. They’re wrong. I’ve known Maisie my entire life, and while we may have had our differences and gone in two totally different directions, we’ve remained very close. She would never, ever take her own life.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Maisie?”

  “The day she was found hanging in her office. I called her to invite her to New York to meet a new friend I had made, this up-and-coming playwright who is currently working on a new project for me to star in. I’m so ready to do something real and meaningful and not just the same old Broadway musical fluff I’ve been stuck in.”

  Maya wasn’t sure why she needed to know all this, but she chose to play along. “Wow. Good for you.” />
  “I offered to pay for her flight down to the city, but she said she had a lot going on with the new school year just getting under way.”

  “How did she sound when you talked to her?”

  “Fine. Normal. I didn’t pick up on anything unusual. She mentioned that one of her posts on her site was getting a lot of attention—”

  Maya cut her off. “So you knew about her Dirty Laundry website?”

  “Oh, yes. Maisie told me all about it. It was a nice little side project of hers. It allowed her to blow off some steam, get a few things off her chest, which was a good thing because, well, unfortunately, Maisie sometimes felt stuck in my shadow.”

  “That’s understandable,” Maya said. “It must not have been easy for Maisie to have a sister who is a gorgeous, successful Broadway actress.”

  No harm in buttering up a potential client.

  “Exactly!” Chelsea exclaimed, agreeing wholeheartedly with Maya’s flattering assessment.

  “Did Maisie run the Dirty Laundry site alone or did she have help?”

  “It was all hers, I think. Maisie had a lot of free time when she wasn’t working at the school, and she was always a bit of a computer nerd, so I’m sure she was capable of building the site on her own. I just didn’t know it was such a big secret or that what she wrote was so . . .”

  “Scandalous?”

  “Yes, it took a lot of guts to write the truth the way she did.”

  “Some would argue that a lot of what she posted were rumors and innuendo, maybe even outright lies . . .”

  “I’ve always believed that where there’s smoke there’s fire. Trust me, I’ve had a few horrible things written about me on Page Six of the Post, and when I contacted my lawyer to sue for libel, he had to remind me that you can’t sue if it’s true. My bad,” Chelsea admitted with a wry smile.

  Maya was starting to get a clearer picture of Maisie’s possible motive for starting Dirty Laundry. Maybe she was depressed that her sister was living such a fast-paced, flashy, fascinating life in the Big Apple while she was stuck adhering to the whims of the pompous Principal Hicks at a small high school in southern Maine. Dirty Laundry could have been her way of making herself feel more important. But she wasn’t about to share her theory with Maisie’s younger sister because if Chelsea wanted to know any further information from Maya, she was going to have to pay for it.

  “How did you find me?” Maya asked.

  “I googled private detectives in the area and your name came up. The fact you are a woman was just an added bonus.”

  Okay, Maya was liking her a little better.

  Maya’s phone buzzed on top of her desk. She glanced down to see a text from Frances. Still at the doctor appt. All good. Will call later.

  She had almost forgotten she had a partner, since Frances was hardly around anymore, but she kept telling herself Frances would have the baby and be back from maternity leave before the business went under. At least she hoped that would be the eventual outcome.

  But with the bills still piling up every day and no active clients . . .

  “Do you need to answer that?” Chelsea asked in a slightly irritated tone. She didn’t appreciate Maya’s focus drifting off her for even a few seconds.

  “No, not at all,” Maya said, smiling. “Is there anything else I need to know about Maisie? Was she dating anyone?”

  Chelsea burst out laughing. “God, no! That’s actually why I wanted her to come down to the city and meet this playwright. They are both boring bookish types, so I thought maybe they would hit it off and she would finally have a man in her life!”

  “Did the police question you?”

  “Briefly. Some detective with a sexy-sounding voice . . . Miguel or Manuel . . . ?”

  “Mateo?”

  “Yes! Mateo! He called me the day after it happened. I told him just what I told you. That Maisie would never kill herself. But he didn’t seem to care all that much about what I had to say. He was more interested in locating her phone, hoping it might provide some clues about what was going on with Maisie. It wasn’t on her, nor was it in the office where she was found, or in her car, or at home. Maisie always had her phone with her.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “So will you take my case?” Chelsea asked, her big crystal-blue eyes wide-open as her perfect lashes flapped up and down expectantly.

  Maya thought for a moment.

  It would be an uphill battle convincing the police of anything now that they had so quickly and efficiently closed the case, so getting her hands on the autopsy report would be nearly impossible.

  Plus there was the strong plausible argument that Maisie did feel guilty about the damage she had caused at the school with her irresponsible and gossipy website, enough for her to take such drastic action as to hang herself in her office.

  But then there was the nagging evidence Maya had spotted at the crime scene. The bruise on Maisie’s neck suggesting strangulation by an assailant. How could the cops have missed that? Or had they found more compelling evidence proving Maisie’s death was indeed a suicide that she didn’t know about? She could be totally wrong.

  Finding Maisie’s phone might lead to a treasure trove of useful information that could shed some light on Maisie’s situation, but if the police had failed to locate it, her own chances were probably slim to none.

  But as Maya’s eyes settled on Chelsea’s Fendi Runaway tote bag, which looked like one Vanessa had coveted once in a catalog and retailed at something like three grand, Maya had her answer.

  If Chelsea could shell out that kind of money for a purse, then she could more than likely pay Maya’s retainer and then some, and right now, she desperately needed a client with deep pockets.

  “Yes, Chelsea, I’ll take your case.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “What the hell are you doing in my sister’s place?” Chelsea screamed, as she charged into the one-bedroom apartment before Maya had a chance to stop her.

  The man jumped back, startled. He was big, well over six feet, his towering frame a mix of fat and muscle. He was in a red tank top, and he had shoulder-length hair, a bushy beard, and quite a bit of curly shoulder hair. The apartment looked cluttered enough to have been ransacked. Maya and Chelsea had come to Maisie’s apartment in search of clues and had already stumbled upon their first suspect.

  Chelsea took one look at the unsavory dude and the open drawers and Maisie’s clothing strewn about and quickly snatched her phone from her pocket. “I’m calling the cops!”

  “No, wait,” the man begged, taking a step forward.

  Maya grabbed her Glock 19 handgun out of her bag and aimed it squarely at the man’s chest. “Stay where you are!”

  “Holy sh—!” he cried, shooting his hands up in the air. “Wait, I’m not a robber! Look, I have a key!”

  He held up a hand, where a shiny key jangled off a scuffed rusted ring he held between two of his thick fingers.

  Maya glanced over at Chelsea, who was ready to punch the last 1 in 911. “Hold on a minute.”

  She looked back at the man, gun still drawn. “Who are you?”

  “Spencer. Spencer Jennings,” he stammered, his voice shaky. “I am . . . I mean, I was Maisie’s boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” Chelsea gasped. “That’s a lie! Maisie would have told me if she had a boyfriend!”

  “You must be Chelsea . . . ,” he muttered.

  “That’s right,” Chelsea said warily.

  “Yeah, she told me all about you,” he sneered, shaking his head, before realizing Maya’s gun was still trained on him and the fear of getting a bullet through his chest returned.

  “So what did she say?” Chelsea demanded to know.

  “How she didn’t want to tell you about me because I’m currently between jobs, and she was afraid you’d judge me and her for dating me, and that you would try to poison our relationship. Her words, not mine.”

  “What? I would never!” Chelsea wailed.

 
Maya was leaning toward believing Spencer at this point but kept mum as she slowly lowered her gun.

  “If you’re not here to rob the place, then you’re here looking for something. What is it?” Maya asked.

  “A necklace. Cost me two hundred bucks at Kay Jewelers. I spent every last cent I had to my name, but it was Maisie’s birthday a few weeks ago, and I wanted to get her something special.”

  “I’m sure she loved it,” Maya said, suppressing the urge to inject a tinge of sarcasm.

  “You bet she did. She was very impressed. She cried when I gave it to her. But then . . .” his voice trailed off.

  Maya guessed the rest. “She hung herself a few days later, or so the story goes, and you thought maybe you could come back here with the key she gave you and retrieve the necklace so you could return it to Kay and wouldn’t be out two hundred bucks.”

  “It’s not like she wanted to be buried with it,” he said defensively.

  “You’re right,” Chelsea said, mouth agape. “I am so totally judging you right now.”

  Maya looked around. “Did you find it?”

  Spencer shook his head. “No, I searched everywhere.”

  “How long were you and Maisie together?” Maya asked, keeping her gun close to her side in case she was wrong about Spencer and he wasn’t as harmless as he was coming across.

  “Six, maybe seven months. I didn’t exactly keep track. But we had a good time together, and she told me she was getting ready to tell her family about us,” he said, eyes narrowing as he glared at Chelsea.

  “I don’t believe you,” Chelsea spit out. “In fact, I think Maisie finally realized what a loser you were and broke it off, and when she refused to give back the necklace you bought her, you killed her and staged her death to look like a suicide to throw the cops off your scent!”

  “You’re crazy, lady!” Spencer yelled, eyes wide. He shot a look toward Maya, hoping she might come to his defense.

  But she didn’t.

  “I would never touch a hair on Maisie’s head, I swear! I’m a good guy!”

  Chelsea turned to Maya. “I still think we should call the cops.”