Murder at the Falls by Stefanie Matteson Page B

boring chronicle of dates. It could simply be a sharing of her wisdom, knowledge, and experiences. Put this way, it didn’t sound quite so daunting. And, as her friends had died, her movies had crumbled into dust, and the studio system disappeared, she had also come to realize that, like the Falls View, she was a slice of the past, with a history that was worth preserving.
    Tom’s fellow campaigner in this crusade was Charlotte’s personal secretary, Vivian Smith, who had made it her mission to keep a portable tape recorder within Charlotte’s reach at all times in case she should suddenly be overcome by the need to record a particular memory. So far, Vivian’s ploy hadn’t worked: the mere sight of a tape recorder was enough to send Charlotte out the door and hurtling across the countryside.
    One of the half dozen or so recorders that Vivian had purchased and scattered around the house was now resting on Charlotte’s bedside table, where it had been for the last several weeks. Never one to give into defeat, Vivian had set up this morning’s tableau—breakfast tray with flower vase and silver tea service, scrapbooks from Charlotte’s early career on the side—in hopes that it would inspire her to take the first step.
    Cradling the telephone against her ear, Charlotte removed the breakfast tray to the bedside table, and rearranged her pillows so that she could sit up straight against the headboard.
    It was definitely murder, Voorhees said. Toxicology had found large amounts of cocaine in Randy’s organs, but the cocaine wasn’t what had killed him. He had still been alive when he was dumped in the river. Probably unconscious—it was hard to say whether he’d come to or not—but definitely still alive. The medical examiner had found microscopic algae in his organs, which meant that he’d still been breathing when he was thrown in the water.
    With her free hand, Charlotte closed the scrapbook on her lap, and moved it over to the other bedside table. “What about the possibility of suicide?”
    “It would have been impossible for him to have tied himself up in that way,” said the deep voice on the other end of the line. Voorhees explained: “That wasn’t a sheet he was wrapped up in; it was aprons.”
    “Aprons!” she exclaimed.
    “Two of them. Long, white, restaurant-type aprons. The first was worn in the usual way, except that the belt was used to bind the upper legs together. The other was worn upside down, with neckband wrapped around the feet and the belt tied around the upper arms.”
    Charlotte shuddered at the thought of awakening from a drug-induced stupor to find oneself floating in a river, unable to move one’s arms or legs. “Do you have a time of death?” she asked.
    “Between twelve and two A.M . on Sunday, September ninth.”
    “The night of the opening reception.”
    “Right. Which makes you and Plummer among the last people to have seen Goslau alive. And which is why I’d like you both to come down to headquarters. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
    “Certainly. When would you like us to come?”
    “Plummer said he could come right away.” (Not too eager, Charlotte thought.) “He also said he thought you could probably come with him, but he suggested I check with you. How does that sound?”
    Charlotte thought for a millisecond. Apart from reliving her life, which she had no desire to do, she didn’t have anything planned for that day. A little shopping and a few errands, but they could wait.
    “Sounds fine,” she said as she stuck her tongue out at the tape recorder.
    They were to meet Voorhees at police headquarters, which was located not far from the historic district, in a new public safety complex. “You can’t miss it,” Voorhees had said. Well, they could, and they did. But getting lost had its advantages in that it gave them a better sense of the city. The first thing to strike Charlotte was that it hadn’t changed since she’d last been there. The