In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [58]
“Oh, but of course. You men are so wonderful, so brave, and what exciting jobs. Always putting your lives on the line for others.”
Camelia heard Mel’s choked laugh and he coughed, embarrassed. “That’s only on TV, ma’am. In fact, we live pretty quiet lives.” It wasn’t exactly true, but he wasn’t a man to take credit where it wasn’t due. He heard Mel giggle again and said quickly, “This is my assistant, Ms. Melba Merrydew.”
Remembering her new role, Mel stuck her hands in her pockets and assumed what she hoped was a detective’s-assistant stance: back straight, chin up, eyes steely, expression stern.
This time Camelia laughed. With her short skirt and long legs, she looked more like a show-girl than a worthy member of the force.
“Merrydew?” the woman said thoughtfully. “I remember a Merrydew Oaks, from when I was a girl, in Georgia. A wonderful place it was. I don’t suppose you’re from the south, my dear?”
Mel’s eyes widened. “I certainly am,” she said, astonished at what a small world it was. “And Merrydew Oaks was my family’s old place. Until the hard times came upon us.”
She sounded so like Scarlett that Camelia cracked another grin, and she shot him a glare.
“Well, my dear, how lovely to meet you. And I’m sorry to hear about your hard times. But didn’t that happen to all of us? The good Confederate families from the old days? Now, better introduce myself.” She bustled from behind her elegant antique desk. “Rhianna Fairland.” She shook hands warmly and offered them a seat. “How can little old me possibly be of any help to the New York Police Department?”
She beamed expectantly at them, and Mel found herself automatically beaming back. She knew this woman. She was exactly like her mother, southern to the core and smart as all get-out under that sugary smile.
“You run a lovely place here, Ms. Fairland,” Camelia said, laying on the compliments before getting down to business, softening her up so she would be more forthcoming. “And that’s quite a view. It must cost families quite a bit to place their loved ones here.”
“Of course it does.” She smiled back at him, fluffing her cloud of gray hair and adjusting her sixties’–John Lennon round wire-rimmed glasses. “There are some families who have managed to hang on to their money, y’know. And quite a few more who’ve made recent fortunes.” Her sugary laugh tinkled merrily through the sun-lit, Persian-carpeted office. “We welcome them all here, of course, old money or new. Can’t afford to be snobbish. After all, I am running a business.”
Her face softened and her eyes had a faraway look as she said, “It wasn’t always like this, y’know. Who would have thought that I, Rhianna Fairland, born to genteel southerners, and a true flower child of the sixties, would have ended up running a home for the aged. I was at Woodstock, y’know,” she added proudly. “Body-painted, free love, Acapulco Gold, and all. Ooops, maybe I shouldn’t be admitting this to the police, but it was all so long ago. Everybody was doing it then. Anyhow”—her smile was bright again—“how can I help you, Detective?”
“Mamzelle Dorothea Jefferson Duval is one of your guests?”
“Mamzelle D? Well, of course she is.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “But what can Dorothea possibly have been up to that could involve the NYPD Blue?”
Mel stifled a giggle, and Camelia ignored her. “She telephoned my department, Miss Fairland. In homicide,” he added quietly, and heard her little gasp.
“Homicide? Oh, no . . . How can that possibly be? I mean, Dorothea didn’t kill anyone. She hasn’t left the place in years.”
“No one is accusing her of anything, ma’am.” He soothed her down quickly. “But Mamzelle Dorothea did telephone my department.”
“She telephoned? But how could she? None of the guests—we call them all guests here, though, strictly speaking, many are patients and under medical care. None of our guests has access to a telephone without supervision.” She