A Truth for a Truth (19 page)

“I’m sorry.” I like Grace, I really do. A person who says exactly what she thinks is rare. One who says it with gusto is rarer still. Energetic Grace had probably put a lot of herself into revamping Emerald Excellence in the months she’d owned it, and now somebody’s vendetta against Win was going to ruin her, if the poor economy didn’t get her first.

“I need more than consolation from you, Aggie. You’re good at figuring this stuff out. If you spend a little time, you can tell the police who killed him. You’re not flipping houses these days are you?”

“Not so anybody would notice.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

“You know any private investigators selling out? I could do what you did and buy a business.”

“Aggie!”

I raised my hand, palm out. “I’m already working on it, Grace. I’m trying to help Hildy, because
she
didn’t murder him either.”

She sat back. “Well, what do you know so far? Give me something to hang on to, okay?”

I got up and made toast while I thought about this, using the orange bread I’d finished late last night when thoughts of Hildy and Win had kept me awake. It was rich with zest and pecans and a family favorite.

I brought it to the table with the last of the jam Teddy and I had made from local strawberries the previous June. Grace slathered a slice with butter and jam.

“Maybe you can help
me
,” I said. “I know you had nothing to do with Win’s death, but you were right there at the party. Emerald Excellence was on my list to interview. I just didn’t know Emerald Excellence was
you
.”

“The police asked a bunch of questions. Did you make this bread?”

“Uh-huh. What did they ask?”

She held up her half-eaten slice. “It’s really good. You honestly made it?”

“Just because I can’t make coffee to your specifications doesn’t mean I can’t bake bread.”

She still looked suspicious. “They wanted to know my life history, that’s what. Whether I knew Win when he was here before—”

“Did you?”

“No! I lived in Scranton until I married and moved here. I never met Reverend Dorchester until the night of the party. Mrs. Dorchester made all the plans, and wow, is she picky.”

I could relate. “What else did they ask?”

“About my employees.”

“What about them?”

“How many were in the house that night, whether they had access to the food. Stuff like that.”

“What did you say?”

“It was a small party. I have an assistant who helped me prepare, but she was busy that night, so she wasn’t at the party. I only needed one other person to help serve and clean up, so I used Red—”

“Red?”

“A local guy, Red Brown. He lives out in the county somewhere. He serves, tends bar, does preparation, whatever I need. Next to Hannah, my assistant, I use him the most. I hired a couple of other people who serve when they’re needed, but Hannah, Red, and I are the core. Nobody’s making a fortune at this, I’ll tell you, least of all me. Everybody but me works other jobs, too. This is extra for them.”

“Hannah helped make the food?”

“But she wasn’t there, so how could she have put anything in it later in the evening? That must be what happened, you know. The dip was more than half eaten by evening’s end, and nobody else got sick.”

“What about Red? Was he alone with the shrimp dip at the end?”

“I didn’t keep track every minute, but I was the one who brought the dip into the kitchen. Red left early. And before that, people were milling around the table, so it would have been hard for him to doctor it.”

“Did you sample it when it came back to the kitchen?”

“Trust me, after you’ve cooked and cooked and served, eating the leftovers is the last thing you think about. Besides, I was too busy.”

I was glad she’d been too busy. “Red left early?”

“He didn’t ask to leave. I told him to, because we’d cleaned up as the evening went along, and there wasn’t enough left to do for two of us. I paid him and sent him home. I promised we’d split the tip, if there was any. He’s moody, and that wasn’t one of his better nights. I was glad to get rid of him.”

“Was he giving you trouble?”

“Nothing like that. Just sullen. Annoyed at little things. He probably had a bad day. He drives a wrecker for a BP station, and he doesn’t like that job. He acted tired.”

“Can you give me his phone number? I’d like to talk to him.”

“He’s hard to reach. He doesn’t have a phone, so he calls in every couple of days from a pay phone to see if we have something coming up. If he doesn’t call, I have to leave messages at the gas station, but they’re not all that cooperative. The next time I hear from him, I’ll give him your number.”

I just bet old Red never got around to calling me. He sounded like a loner who was happier without human contact. If I was right, I’d have to find a better way to talk to him, like haunting the BP station.

I moved on. “Anybody else come to mind when you think about that night? Anybody who hovered around the table? Or came into the kitchen when they really didn’t belong there? Or had anything to do with the food?”

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot. There was one guy, kind of overweight. His wife is something else. One of those women whose face would crack if she smiled more than once a night. He hung around the shrimp dip, like he was leashed to that corner of the table. He seemed to like it as much as Mr. Dorchester did. One or the other of them was over there a lot. I made a ton of it. Mrs. Dorchester told me to. But between those two guys, I’m surprised anything was left to poison.”

The Booths. The description was unmistakable. I made a mental note that Samuel had been near the dip most of the evening. Maybe he hadn’t been as fond of it as he’d seemed. Maybe he’d just been waiting for a chance to load it with digoxin. Maybe Samuel had his own supply. He could well be on the drug himself, or at least be savvy about the results if he “borrowed” some of Win’s for the dip.

“There was a woman there,” I said. “Pretty, dark-haired, designer clothing. Looks rich,
is
rich. Does that ring a bell?”

“There was a woman like that, yes.”

“Anything odd there? Out of the ordinary?”

“If it’s the same woman, she didn’t eat a thing. I noticed that, all right. Frosted me, too, like the food wasn’t good enough for her. Drank a lot, though. Even Red remarked on it. He said we might need to cut her off, but I told him that wasn’t our business. Of course we were watching, to be sure she didn’t try to drive home. But she didn’t. She left on foot.”

“She left before you did?” If Marie Grandower was the woman Grace remembered, then the timing was off. I’d been under the impression Marie was there after the catering staff departed, because that’s when Hildy reported seeing her in the yard with Win.

“Yes. She was wearing a sweater trimmed in silver fox. The coat closet’s right beside the kitchen, and I got it for her when I saw her fumbling with the closet door. She took off without a word of thanks, like that was my job, too.”

Marie must have waited out front until everyone else was gone, then slipped back into the side yard to talk to Win. Either that or she came back later.

“How much of the time were you in the kitchen?” I asked.

“A lot, unfortunately. I was waiting for things to warm, setting up trays. You know. I came and went, but Red was out in the room with the guests more than I was.”

I determined to talk to him.

“The murderer must have been somebody who was there,” Grace said. “Don’t you know most of those people, Aggie? Aren’t they all members of your church?”

Unfortunately, as far I knew, they were. I wondered if Ed’s ministry could survive if I found another murderer right in our midst. How far would parish goodwill stretch if I kept putting our members in jail?

“You’ve got to do something,” Grace said, getting to her feet. “You just have to.”

I knew it, too, but I was afraid that the something I had to do might well land my husband among the unemployed.

I walked her out, and as we were saying good-bye I realized Grace might be just the person to ask about Stephen Collins. Grace was always on the lookout for trouble. She was convinced all teenagers were on the road to perdition and had to be corralled and detoured. Had anyone ever said a bad word to her about Mr. Collins, she would have it filed away.

I edged into the subject, asking about Shannon’s extracurricular activities for the spring. Then I told her Deena had quit the debate team, and I asked what she knew about Mr. Collins.

“Just wondering if he was giving Deena a hard time,” I said.

For once Grace’s store of gossip failed me. “Shannon’s not exactly debate material. And nobody else has mentioned anything about the guy to me.”

I knew I was in good hands here, but I was sorry.

“Of course you need to check Right in the Middle,” Grace added. “That’s the place to get all the dirt.”

“What’s Right in the Middle?”

She looked as if she was questioning my right to have children. “How can you not know about that?”

“Can’t answer that until I know what it is.”

“It’s a
blog
. Nobody knows who’s doing it, but it’s a big deal at the school. You didn’t know?”

Me? I barely know what a blog is. I have a sinking feeling it involves turning on a computer, which is why Deena probably hadn’t bothered to tell me. I confessed my ignorance, and Grace shook her head.

“I shouldn’t like it,” Grace said, “but it’s hard not to. It’s insightful and funny. Whoever puts it together is analyzing everything that’s going on at the school. It’s kind of like a newspaper gone ballistic. All the kids are reading it, and they’re hanging on every word.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“I track everything Shannon does online. You don’t do that with Deena?”

“Not exactly.” Not at all, as a matter of fact. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how, or the conviction it was a good idea, either.

“You can’t trust her, Aggie! There’s a whole world out there you don’t know anything about. Where have you been?”

“Not online, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll send you the link. You can check it out. What’s your e-mail address?”

I have one. I know I do. My sister set up an account for me somewhere. But the last time I looked at it, I found fifty notices that the IRS was auditing me, with special links so I could see what they’d discovered. It was about that time that the old peasant woman began to haunt our computer, and now I wonder if she was an IRS spy. I still look out the window before I go outdoors, just to be sure no one’s waiting with handcuffs.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Just tell me the name again.”

“Right in the Middle.” She looked at her watch. “You’re going to figure out who killed Win Dorchester, aren’t you?”

I certainly hoped so, but I made no promises.

I had set aside late morning to wash and wax the kitchen floor. I love getting up close and personal with archenemies. The old floor isn’t good for much, but it does provide me with an outlet for hostilities. Being down on my knees also gives me time to think—something religious folks discovered a long time ago. Call the floor my version of a police evidence board, but I’d planned to use my time going over and over what I knew about Win’s murder, to see if new connections appeared.

I was just stripping off the old wax when the doorbell rang. I considered ignoring it, but of course, this would be the one time I shouldn’t. Besides, instead of thinking about Win’s murder, I would spend the rest of my morning wondering who I’d missed.

I was still wiping my hands on a rag when I opened the door to find Hildy. She looked slightly better than she had yesterday, and I hoped she was eating. I’d had a little luck scaring up casseroles for her, but after delivery, nobody stayed around to be sure she actually warmed them and brought them to her mouth.

“Ah, I remember that smell,” she said. “You’re stripping the kitchen floor. You are taking such good care of the church’s property.”

I’m never happy at reminders this house isn’t mine. We are, in effect, renters here, and subject to the whims of our multiple landlords. But I smiled anyway and motioned her inside. Hildy is Hildy, and unlikely to change.

“I won’t keep you from your duties,” she said, “but I’ve taken over the reception after the Sunday service, and I’m not sure if the church has a punch bowl or where it’s kept. I was just there, and Norma isn’t in this morning.”

Ed could have told her, of course, but Hildy would never disturb the “minister” with questions like this. This was strictly minister’s wife stuff. Who would know more about the punch bowl?

As a matter of fact, this time Hildy’s assumption was true. And most of what I know isn’t pretty. The punch bowl and I go way back. Hildy would not believe the stories.