The Fruit of Lies: A Chautauqua Murder Mystery: Mimi Goldman Chautauqua Mysteries, #6

By Deb Pines

The Fruit of Lies is the sixth book in Deb Pines' traditional whodunit Chautauqua Mysteries featuring the wise and witty reporter sleuth of a certain age Mimi Goldman.

"An Agatha Christie for the text-message age," IndieReader calls the series.

When tyrannical billionaire Thomas C. Whistler drowns in a Japanese soaking tub in his Chautauqua McMansion in July 2018, was it an accident?

The police aren't sure. A note from the dead energy-bar magnate and phony TED Talk speaker says, "Don't let my killer get away with it."

So reporter and relentless snoop Mimi Goldman digs in. She questions Whistler's guilty-looking heirs, his seven glib and greedy kids, including: an ambitious actor, a building contractor, a Shakespearean scholar, a socialite and daughter with Down syndrome.

Assisted by her computer-savvy son Jake and her 92-year-old sidekick (and wheelman) Sylvia Pritchard, Mimi even leaves Chautauqua this time to poke around nearby pawnshops and Lily Dale, a spooky spiritualist community.

Mimi feels like she's getting nowhere -- until someone runs Sylvia's car off the road, landing the pair of persistent gumshoes in a ditch.

Battered but hopeful, Mimi reexamines old clues and lies until she realizes the sad truth of this case -- in time to say "I do" to her devoted beau Walt.

Fans of Agatha Christie, Louise Penny, Elly Griffiths and "Only Murders in the Building" will enjoy this twist-filled mystery Kirkus Reviews calls, "A breezy distraction that will keep readers guessing." 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deb Pines
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201718206

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

KATRINA WHISTLER ALWAYS had to talk herself into stopping at her dad’s house. So, in that respect, making herself stop there that unforgettable July morning wasn’t any different.

It was, again, the right thing.

So when Kat was cut loose early from Children’s School, where she worked as a bus mom chaperoning 3- and 4-year-olds, she took Pratt to Prospect to North Lake, to nearly the northernmost point in the Institution.

There she sometimes paused to admire her dad’s McMansion, done in the style of Chautauqua’s original Victorian cottages. But supersized. And dropped in a neighborhood of suburban ranch-style and modern homes.

Other times, like that morning, its extravagance stuck in Kat’s craw. How much did her dad, the so-called Energy Bar King who had just sold his business to Kellogg’s for $1.8 billion, spend on his show-offy porches and columns and turrets and stained glass? And not on—?

Not helpful.

Remembering to act as if she were being watched, because she probably was, Kat took a deep breath. Shoulders squared, she marched up the flagstone walkway onto the first-floor wraparound porch.

She knocked on the front door and yelled the way she normally might.

Hello? Dad? Hello?

When no one answered, she let herself in. She paused in the entryway where dozens of running shoes sat below hooks with raincoats, umbrellas and seat cushions for the Amp.

This is where Kat usually smelled his coffee. And heard his booming voice, often berating someone on the phone, between his morning run and the 10:45 A.M. lecture he tried to catch at the Amp.

Playing the good daughter, Kat rounded the bend. She saw no one. No breakfast dishes in the sink. When she heard music playing upstairs, she ran for the stairs.

Taking them two at a time, she was breathless by the second floor.

Hey, dad! she yelled. Hey. Are you up here?

After she noticed the unslept-in bed, she raced to the master bathroom and knocked on the door.

Are you in there, dad? You okay?

When she got no answer, she yelled, I’m coming in! It’s Kat!

In the doorway, she froze. Her dad was floating facedown in his Japanese soaking tub, his long gray hair swirling like serpents around his head.

One minute, Kat stood there, staring. The next, she was thigh-deep in the tub, looking for a way to drain it, get her dad covered and seated upright and dial 911.

She made the call. But much of the back and forth was a blur.

For sure, Kat gave her full name: Katrina Whistler. And her dad’s name: Thomas C. Whistler Senior. His age: 66. His address: 94 North Lake Drive. She must have said the front door was unlocked and they were in the second-floor master bathroom.

Ma’am, is your dad conscious and breathing?

Did Kat answer that one? She didn’t think so.

Do you want to try to start CPR? I could walk you through the steps? Ma’am?

That question just hung there until the shriek of sirens was followed by slamming doors and stomping footsteps that flooded her with guilt and relief.

CHAPTER TWO

A FAVOR.

The subject line intrigued Mimi Goldman, The Chautauquan Daily’s veteran sports editor, also known as Chautauqua’s premier amateur sleuth, or busybody, depending on whom you asked. So, while multi-tasking her way through the Daily’s Friday morning staff meeting, Mimi read the body of the e-mail.

Can we talk after the meeting?

And I’ll give you the deets.

Mimi said yes to Holly Tamberlin, a friend of Betsy McLaughlin’s, a young Daily photographer who was Mimi’s friend.

As the meeting droned on, Mimi cut-and-pasted round-robin tennis results from the Chautauqua Tennis Center into a brief for the next day’s paper. She wrote a caption for a great photo of the MOMS’ center fielder crushing a walk-off home run against the Hot Chauts, the reigning women’s softball champs.

Mimi was RSVPing yes to her own wedding dress fitting and menu tasting, both on Sunday, when the meeting broke up. And Holly approached.

Thanks for agreeing to talk, Holly said. Betsy said you’re the best person to ask about these kinds of things and …

Hope I can live up to the hype, Mimi said. What do you need?

Holly, a tall, skinny girl with blond ringlets and big, long-lashed doe eyes, looked like a Disney princess.

But not one in mortal danger or distress.

So Mimi relaxed.

My bike was stolen yesterday, Holly said. So I’m stuck, living in Wahmeda, having to get to assignments.

Mimi, who had never mastered her poker face, must have looked relieved.

I know you usually do more serious stuff. But Betsy thought you’d have some ideas about—

I’m glad to help, Mimi said. First, let me ask the obvious: Have you called the Chautauqua police? They keep a list of bikes that turn up around the Grounds.

I did. And they didn’t have it.

Got a photo of your bike?

Yes, Holly said as she pulled out her phone and found the photo. I posted it on Insta and Twitter to see if anyone saw it anywhere.

Mimi smiled.

The girl had taken sensible steps. And her bike, thank goodness, was distinctive: a rusty old-ladyish cruiser with a wicker basket on the front handlebars. Not your typical kid’s bike with hand brakes and gears.

When did you see it last?

Def after the concert. So 10:30ish. I stopped by the office to answer Ryan’s questions on a story. Parked out front. Came back out after midnight and my bike was gone.

Mimi wished she could snap her fingers and have the bike magically reappear in The Daily’s cluttered newsroom. Instead, she proposed three places for Holly to look. If your bike’s not at any of them, you’ll just have to wait for it to turn up.

You don’t think someone took it off the Grounds?

I don’t, Mimi said. No offense, but it doesn’t strike me as the kind of bike your average bike thief would want to own.

Agreed.

The time frame also makes me think it was a crime of opportunity. I picture a kid getting dropped off at the Main Gate after a night of drinking. Walking on Vincent or Center. Seeing your bike and, feeling lazy, taking it wherever they were going next.

Which is where?

Mimi listed her three top guesses: the College Club near the Bell Tower; the YAC (Youth Activities Center) near Boys’ and Girls’ Club; and the wooded area and ravine between Boys’ and Girls’ Club and the Overlook where teenagers go at night to do what teenagers everywhere go to do at night (drink, smoke, screw around).

Know where those places are? Mimi asked.

No worries. I’ve got a map on my phone.

Excellent, Mimi said, pleased again. Good luck, and tell me or Betsy how it works out.

When Holly left, Mimi was starting to refocus on her own work when her phone rang. It was Betsy.

Thanks for helping my friend, she said.

No problem.

Sorry to pile on but … I have a favor to ask, too.

Of course.

You know how this summer I’m staying at my Aunt Maddie’s?

The lawyer on Center Street? Mimi asked.

Exactly. Anyway, my aunt had a client in Chautauqua who died last night in his bathtub.

What happened?

Not clear, Betsy said. His kids are getting together tonight to remember him. And Maddie wondered if you could come by, watch and share your impressions with her after? We’re meeting at 8:15 on the Athenaeum porch.

CHAPTER THREE

EIGHT-FIFTEEN P.M. was a perfect time for nabbing an often-hard-to-find seat on the historic hotel’s grand wraparound lakefront porch.

With most Chautauquans heading for the Friday-night concert at the Amp, Mimi easily found a rocking chair facing the lake, a few feet from the two tables, pushed together, where Maddie McLaughlin sat with Tom Whistler’s seven kids and their spouses.

Mimi browsed a cheat sheet Maddie had given her, with photos and capsule bios, to keep everyone straight. When Maddie began, Mimi turned her chair to face her.

Know what’s expected? Maddie asked the group.

A round of shameless ass-kissing?

The questioner, Mimi found by consulting her sheet, was Phil Whistler, Kid No. 3, a never-married, 40-year-old Shakespeare professor.

Nothing in my instructions says the toasts have to be tributes, Maddie said. Your father just asked—

"Required," Phil corrected.

"Okay, required, Maddie said, that each of his offspring raise a glass and say something. The content is up to you. We just have to get through this before we can move to the next step: hearing the will read aloud at black-tie reception in your dad’s home, hopefully tomorrow."

Before we start, can you say if the police think dad’s death was an accident?

There were a few eye-rolls at the dad coming from Maeve Whistler, a daughter-in-law. And probably at Maeve, herself, a stubby, unstylish redhead too agitated and uncool for this glamorous indifferent clan.

Maeve’s handsome, lanky husband, Jim Whistler (Kid No. 4, age 38, a suburban Chicago stockbroker), was so cool he looked practically asleep beside her.

The police, for now, are calling it a suspicious death, not a homicide, Maddie said. I don’t know more than that.

Isn’t anyone else scared about a killer on the loose? Maeve asked, looking around.

The police aren’t sounding the alarms, Maddie said with remarkable patience. So if they don’t think we’re in imminent danger, I don’t see why we—

Just one more thing, Maeve said. Could you, uh, give us a ballpark estimate of what each child might expect to inherit? And—

When Maeve’s husband put a silencing hand on hers, she angrily shook him off.

Please, Maeve said. I’m just asking what everyone else here wants to know but is too polite to ask. I don’t know why we need to stand—

Sorry, Maddie said. I can’t help you with that one either. The will was drafted by another partner at my firm and kept sealed until we get through these toasts. So how about—

Why don’t I start?

The welcome assist came from Katrina Whistler (Kid No. 2, age 44, an unmarried dog trainer and Chautauqua Children’s School bus mom) who found the body.

We could go oldest to youngest, Katrina proposed. And since Tommy’s plane is delayed at Newark—

Tommy, a 45-year-old New Jersey contractor, was the eldest.

Please, Maddie said, obviously grateful. Go ahead.

I’ll keep it short, Katrina said, standing and raising her glass. Of course, it’s no secret that dad and I had our differences. No one would call the man perfect. Or even close to perfect. Still, I believe, in my heart of hearts, that he loved us all … in his own way. To dad.

To dad, the crowd echoed.

Phil, the wise-ass professor, stood next.

I’ll keep it even shorter, Phil said, hoisting his glass. To the King.

The group waited for more. When they realized it wasn’t coming, they chuckled and chugged their drinks.

Jim? Maddie said.

Yes, right, Jim said, standing, raising his glass and pausing as if picking his words carefully.

To the King, he deadpanned.

The group tittered again until Fran Whistler Halsey (Kid No. 5, age 36, divorced, New York City mother of three, art lover and socialite) rose somberly.

In that spirit, Fran said, I’ll add mine, too. To the King.

Amid more chuckles, Kat chimed in.

Pam should be here by tomorrow, she said. The sixth Whistler child, according to Mimi’s crib sheet, was 35 years old and mentally disabled, living in a group home in Jamestown.

She couldn’t get here until—

I thought that— Phil said before a look from Kat cut him off. Never mind. How about you, Tiff?

Tiffany Whistler, the youngest, a 33-year-old actor and singer, who was the most stunning in this stunning crowd, got up.

I don’t, couldn’t, really. No, she said, choking up as if playing a theatrical part. Not in words, no. So Travis thought I should, well, sing mine. If that’s okay?

The crowd whooped and cheered as Travis, Tiffany’s husband and agent, a short guy with a gray ponytail, locked his blue eyes with Tiffany’s, nodding encouragement.

Travis pulled out his phone. When he pointed it at her, Tiffany took a deep breath. He signaled go. And she launched into a gorgeous version of Dolly Parton’s (and later Whitney Houston’s) I Will Always Love You.

Starting softly, Tiffany built to a huge, teary finish of Love Yous sung, it seemed, entirely for the camera.

CHAPTER FOUR

WHAT’D YOU THINK?

Mimi waited for the server to leave a gin and tonic for her and Cokes for Maddie and Betsy at the table they claimed after the Whistlers left.

Not much affection for their dad, Mimi said.

True, Maddie said. But, in fairness, the King—that’s what everyone called him—was impossible. Especially with his kids.

After they sipped their drinks for a minute, Maddie asked, Do you have any more information on whether the sheriff thinks it wasn’t an accident?

Nothing official, Mimi said.