The Tell-Tale Tarte Read online

  Val watched a car creep toward Granddad. He paid no attention to it. He staggered. Then he disappeared as if a trap door in a stage had swallowed him. The car jerked to a stop.

  Her heart raced. Granddad had fallen, or the car had knocked him down.

  She dashed across the lanes of the parking lot, evading drivers cruising for empty spaces. A pickup truck backing out of a space nearly hit her. By the time she reached the place where she’d last seen Granddad, a crowd had gathered.

  A middle-aged woman on the fringe of the group wrung her hands. “He just dropped on the ground in front of my car. I called 911.”

  As Val edged her way into the crowd, she spotted a tweed driving cap and tinted glasses on the pavement. Granddad’s new purchases. Her eyes burned with tears.

  Three people bent over him, blocking her view of his face. She saw only his dark trousers and shoes. Black loafers with metal hardware.

  Granddad never wore loafers! And those shoes would be way too small for him.

  Dizzy with relief, she wiped away her tears, craned her neck, and glimpsed the face of the man on the ground.

  A day ago she wouldn’t have seen any resemblance between him and her grandfather. But now, after an extreme makeover, Granddad had a similar haircut and beard, as well as the identical hat and glasses.

  A burly teenager bending over the stricken man said, “I can’t feel his pulse.”

  Val shivered, chilled to the core. Granddad was a dead ringer for a dead man.

  Chapter 2

  Val’s heart pounded as she peered at the ashen face of the man now receiving CPR. Where was her grandfather while his double lay motionless on the ground? If she knew, she would rush to him and hug him tightly enough to feel his heart pulsing.

  Bethany sidled up next to her. “I couldn’t keep up with you in these.” She pointed toward her boots with chunky high heels. Then she peered over Val’s shoulder at the man on the ground. “Poor guy. He reminds me of someone, but not your grandfather.”

  “Granddad just got his hair and beard trimmed exactly like that man’s.”

  “Your grandfather cut his hair? I loved his white curls.” Bethany sounded shocked and hurt, like a freshman returning from college to find her room at home redecorated.

  The burly young man giving CPR looked up, beads of sweat on his forehead. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right. Anyone else want to try?”

  The teenager looked distraught. Like Val, he’d probably done chest compressions only on a dummy. Her recent CPR refresher gave her confidence. “I can spell you.”

  She switched places with him as sirens sounded. Mouthing the words to “Stayin’ Alive,” the recommended song to set the beat for CPR, Val kept up the compressions until the EMTs arrived and took over.

  How long had it been since the man collapsed? She’d lost all sense of time. Chest compressions alone had a minute chance of reviving him, but CPR plus defibrillation within five minutes of cardiac arrest would give him a better chance of survival.

  Val joined Bethany on the sidelines. “I hope he makes it.”

  “You did all you could,” Bethany said. “When did you learn CPR?”

  “I took a training course after I moved in with Granddad. I’d never forgive myself if he had a heart attack and I stood by helplessly.” Val reached into her shoulder bag for her phone. “I’m calling him.” She’d feel calmer once she heard his voice.

  He didn’t answer the landline or his cell phone. She was disappointed, but not alarmed. He must have gone out without his cell phone or forgotten to recharge it.

  She marched toward the row of stores lining the parking lot. “Let’s go find you a dress.”

  Bethany limped behind her. “Slow down. I think I got a blister from trying to run in these boots. You flew off in a panic just because you saw a man with a coat and hat like your grandfather’s.”

  Val shifted her pace from fast forward to slow-mo. “Not only the clothes, his hair and beard too. Granddad just got those trimmed this morning.”

  “Simple explanation. When he went for a haircut, he saw that man in the shop and asked the stylist to trim his hair and beard the same way. He could have bought a similar hat and coat because he liked the guy’s style.”

  “You can explain away the hair and the clothes, but not Granddad’s new eyeglasses. They were like the ones on the ground where that man fell—rimless with tinted lenses.” Val stood aside for a family of shoppers strolling abreast on the sidewalk. With the family past them, she and Bethany resumed walking. “You can buy sunglasses and reading glasses from a rack in a drugstore, but where do you find glasses like that on the spur of the moment?”

  “That does sound eerie, like a horror story—the Stepford grandfathers.”

  Val laughed. “I can’t imagine Granddad as docile as a Stepford wife.” But he’d submit to a makeover if a client stroked his ego and paid him enough.

  They went into the shop with the forty-percent-off sign.

  Bethany zeroed in on a ribbon-trimmed lilac dress with puffy sleeves and a tiered skirt. “Do you think this will work on me?”

  Maybe for a square dance. “You’d look more sophisticated in a simpler style.”

  Bethany checked the label. “Uh-oh. A size too small. I could probably squeeze into it if I began dieting today, but I can’t. I have to start my new diet when the moon is full, and I just missed it for this month.”

  Val rolled her eyes. Her friend’s latest fad diet sounded even wackier than the others she’d tried. “What does the moon have to do with your diet?”

  “It’s the werewolf diet. You fast on the first day of the full moon. There are other rules too.”

  “Like running around the woods and howling?”

  “Not funny, Val.” Bethany hung up the lilac dress.

  “Give me a heads-up when you go on the vampire diet so I stay away from you after sundown.” Val had an idea how to get Bethany to try on something that would flatter her more than her usual outfits. “You asked for my advice about a dress. Will you let me pick one out for you?”

  “As long as I get a veto.”

  Giving her veto power would just prolong this shopping jaunt. Val wanted to get home in time to catch Granddad before he left for the evening. “How about if I pick out two dresses and you choose between them?”

  Bethany folded her arms. “I’ll do it, if you let me pick out a dress for you.”

  “You’re the one going to a wedding, not me. I don’t need a dress.”

  “Duh. You don’t need a wedding to wear a new dress. For a change, put on something with more pizzazz.”

  Val suppressed a laugh. Until now she hadn’t realized her tastes in clothes offended Bethany. Ironic that they were both trying to give each other’s wardrobes a makeover. “I wear comfortable clothes in classic styles.”

  “You mean slacks and sweaters in navy, black, and tan. The next time you go out with Gunnar, wear something clingy and edgy in a bright color. It might add a spark to your stalled romance.”

  “People burned by previous romances are wary of sparks.” Val went over to the sales rack and sorted through dresses in Bethany’s size. “And stalled is the wrong word. We’re still moving along.”

  “Slowly.”

  “We both have a lot going on. He’s working on the Treadwell Players’ upcoming play. I’m busy with the three Cs—café, catering, and cookbook.”

  “Be careful you don’t drift apart.” Bethany studied the dresses in Val’s size. “The same rules apply for both of us. I select two dresses for you. You buy the one you like best.”

  Or disliked the least. Val rejected the fire engine red dress Bethany chose and agreed to buy a clingy electric blue dress. The color worked well with her hair. Bethany rejected a cream-colored dress as dull, and then hemmed and hawed over a teal dress. Yes, the princess cut flattered her curves without emphasizing them, but wasn’t the dress too plain for a wedding? Val solved the problem by finding a multicolor scarf to jazz it u
p.

  Back at home, she was disappointed not to find Granddad. She called his cell phone and heard it ring in the front hall where he’d left it to charge. Her check of online local news gave her no information about the man who’d left the mall parking lot on a stretcher.

  She decided against wearing her new dress to dinner with Gunnar. She would save it for when she could give him her undivided attention. Tonight, she’d have a hard time thinking about anything except the man in the mall and his similarity to Granddad.

  Gunnar also had something on his mind. He arrived uncharacteristically late to pick her up and without the smile that usually turned his face from less than handsome to almost attractive.

  Once they were seated at the restaurant, he talked about the travails of installing new software on his computer, which had taken him most of the day.

  She sympathized. “I can see how that would make you cranky.”

  He didn’t object to being called cranky. She wasn’t even sure he’d heard her. He barely looked at the menu.

  She pored over it. “I’m going to order the seafood risotto. The last time I tried it here, it tasted good but the portion was small. I see they’ve added grilled scallops to it. That should make it more filling.”

  “I’ll have the same and a green salad.”

  Val opted for a more exotic salad with fennel, Belgian endive, and watercress. Once they ordered, she tackled the issue of his mood head on. “You seem preoccupied. Is everything okay?”

  “When I was about to leave the house to pick you up, I got a text message.” He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. “One of the guys in our theater group died suddenly.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” The death explained his somber mood. Since joining the Treadwell Players, he’d spent so much time with the troupe that they were like the Chesapeake Bay branch of his family. Val wondered if the dead man could be the one who’d collapsed at the mall this afternoon. “How did he die?”

  “The message didn’t say. I called a few people but no one had any details.”

  The actor’s name wouldn’t mean anything to her, but she might have seen him on stage. “Was he in the Noel Coward play the Treadwell Players put on last fall?”

  Gunnar nodded. “Private Lives. He was the male lead.”

  Val remembered the debonair man with dark, wavy hair. Definitely not the old guy she’d given CPR this afternoon. “I thought he was a good actor.”

  Gunnar fiddled with a breadstick. “A good actor. That sums up Emmett Flint.”

  The tone of his comment verged on speaking ill of the dead, but what did Gunnar mean by it? That Emmett Flint could have been a great actor, but was merely a good one? That he had no other skills besides his acting ability? That he was always performing, not just on the stage? “You didn’t like him.”

  “And the feeling was mutual.” Gunnar snapped his breadstick in half.

  The waiter arrived with the wine. While he went through the ritual of displaying the label, opening the bottle, and filling their glasses, Val’s curiosity about Emmett Flint increased. What could have provoked the hostility between him and Gunnar? She’d never seen Gunnar pick a fight, though he’d come close three months ago, when her former fiancé showed up in Bayport.

  “What was the issue between you and Emmett?” she said when the waiter left.

  “Talking about that guy is a sure way to ruin dinner.” Gunnar drummed his fingers on the table. “Are you all set for your catering gig tomorrow?”

  “I made the onion soup and braised the beef for the daube Provençal. Tomorrow I’ll add the vegetables. While I was frying the onions, Granddad walked in, totally transformed.” She described her grandfather’s altered appearance. “He has a client for his new business who footed the bill for the makeover. Granddad wouldn’t tell me what kind of work he’s doing or who the client is.”

  “Here’s to your grandfather.” Gunnar raised his wineglass and clinked it with hers. “When I’m his age, I hope I can reinvent myself every six months . . . and have a granddaughter who backs me up.”

  He wanted a granddaughter? He’d never before mentioned a desire for children, something they should discuss . . . but not tonight.

  While they ate their salads, she told him about the man in the mall parking lot and his resemblance to Granddad.

  Gunnar sat up straighter and seemed, for the first time this evening, to listen intently. “Did anything else strike you about the man besides his resemblance to your grandfather?”

  “His small feet. He wore shoes Granddad would never wear. Loafers, expensive leather, with horsebit buckles.”

  “Ferragamo shoes, as the man with the small feet once told me. You performed CPR on Emmett Flint.”

  Val shook her head, her wineglass halfway between the table and her mouth. “The man in the parking lot was older than the actor in Private Lives and mostly bald with a gray beard.”

  “Emmett was mostly bald. He wore a wig in that play. He shaved off his beard for the role and grew it again once the show was over. His natural hair color was more pepper than salt, but he knew how to turn it gray or white. If you want to look older, you apply a temporary dye to your hair with a toothbrush.”

  Val speared salad with her fork. “How old was he really?” Surely nowhere near Granddad’s age.

  “Late fifties. He could have added decades to his face by using a wrinkle stipple on it.”

  “An actor would do that to play a role. Why would he age himself to go to a mall?” A disturbing thought hit her. “Maybe the same person who paid for Granddad’s makeover paid Emmett to make himself look older and dress in a similar way. Does that sound farfetched?”

  “It sounds remotely possible. Emmett wouldn’t have done anything unless he benefited somehow from it.” Gunnar fiddled with his salad fork. “In a way, I benefit from his death. I’m the understudy for the role he had in our upcoming production.”

  Her jaw dropped. Why had he kept this news to himself until now? Maybe because stepping into the shoes of a dead man made him uncomfortable. “That’s great. Is it a big part, like the one he had in the last show, or a minor role?”

  “There aren’t any minor roles in The Glass Mendacity. It’s an ensemble comedy, a mash-up of three Tennessee Williams plays, with characters from The Glass Menagerie, A Streetcar Named Desire, and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I play Big Daddy from Cat, the patriarch who’s dying. I’ll wear stage makeup and padding to look three decades older.”

  She expected him to be more pumped about snagging a major role. Maybe he was having a touch of stage fright. “Are you worried about your debut? Or does it bother you that your break is the result of someone’s death?”

  “A little of both.” Gunnar gulped his wine as if it were much-needed liquid courage. “Something else is bothering me, though I think you would have mentioned it if it was an issue. When you saw Emmett in the mall, did it occur to you he might not have died of natural causes?”

  Chapter 3

  Val stared at Gunnar across a table as their dinners arrived. He must have a reason to think his fellow actor met a violent end. An image of the stricken man sprang into her mind.

  When the waiter left, she said, “Emmett’s clothes didn’t have any obvious bullet holes. He wasn’t bleeding that I could see. His head had a scrape on it, possibly from when he fell over.” She couldn’t tell from Gunnar’s impassive expression if he welcomed this news. He had a poker face that a card shark would die for. “Did you ask that question because of my talent for attracting murder victims?”

  A ghost of a smile enlivened Gunnar’s grim face. “No, I asked it because of Emmett’s talent for making enemies. I heard he squeezed his wife financially when she wanted a divorce. He demanded a neighbor remove a bush that encroached on his property. A few days ago, I caught him harassing a woman in the cast.”

  Val speared a scallop. “Why did the Treadwell Players keep giving him roles, if he was so obnoxious?”

  “He hid his ma
lice behind a charming façade . . . most of the time. And he had acting talent.” Gunnar took a bite of risotto.

  Though he didn’t look as if he was enjoying his food, Val took a moment to savor her scallop. It was cooked to perfection and went well with the creamy risotto. “Did Emmett have a day job?”

  “He got occasional roles on stage, did audio recordings, and even tried writing plays. He created a successful one-man show, portraying Edgar Allan Poe. One of the other cast members told me that a lot of actors dress up as Poe and give dramatic readings of his works. Emmett called his play Après Poe.”

  “You may not know this, coming from the Midwest, but Poe is very big around here, especially in Baltimore. Granddad recently went on a tour with a senior group to the Poe house and grave there. Was Emmett originally from this part of Maryland?”

  Gunnar shrugged. “He inherited a house in Bayport. He’s in a theater group in Easton and the one in Treadwell. I don’t know anything else about him.”

  Val took that as an end to the conversation about the dead actor. “You don’t have much time to memorize your lines before the show opens.”

  “I know them pretty well from watching the rehearsals. My Southern drawl might need a lot of work.”

  “Let me hear you say something in Southern.”

  He recited a few lines from the play. “What do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me, but what do I know? I grew up on naval bases and spent a decade in New York City.”

  With him anxious to go over the role he’d inherited and Val determined to talk to her grandfather, they didn’t linger over dinner. When Gunnar dropped her off, she saw Granddad’s Buick at the curb and hurried into the house. He’d left the hall light on for her. The snoring she heard from his bedroom at the back of the downstairs hall meant she’d have to wait until tomorrow to tell him about his look-alike.

  The next morning, she put off leaving for the café for as long as possible, but when he still hadn’t emerged from his bedroom by seven, she gave up. The café at the Bayport Racket and Fitness Club opened at eight, but before then, she had to bake muffins and make breakfast energy bars. The early birds who started exercising at seven would be anxious to replenish the calories they’d just worked off. She left her grandfather a note on the kitchen table, asking him to stop by the café because she had important news for him.