A Truth for a Truth (21 page)

“She
was
drinking a lot, but at the time, I had no idea why. I’ve been thinking about our conversation, and I guess I’d better set the record straight. I told you Win was like a father to me? Well, that’s not exactly true. He was more like an uncle, you know, the family rascal who’s the favorite of all the nieces and nephews? Win was like that, quite a storyteller. We used to go out for a drink sometimes after board meetings, and after a couple of drinks, he’d let loose with stories that would curl your hair. He made it clear he liked women. A lot. And that he more or less collected them.”

“Collected?”

“Had affairs. I was left to fill in the details.”

I must have shown my distaste, because he backpedaled. “At the time I wasn’t sure whether it was just talk. I’m still not. But who knows? Maybe that came back to haunt him?”

I wondered about this new, disturbing revelation. Because if it was true, it certainly opened new possibilities. Had another of Win’s old flames been at the party? Somebody Hildy didn’t know about? Somebody with passion burning so brightly in her aging breast that it finally erupted in murder?

Maybe Geoff read my mind, because he shook his head. “You know, Aggie, if word of multiple affairs got out, that would be even more reason to suspect Hildy. That much more motive.”

It was time to change the subject. I didn’t want Geoff dwelling on this and reluctantly taking this new development to the police. “Yesterday you started to say something about Win not having time to do something. Something about writing?”

He searched his memory banks. “Oh, right,” he said, when he got to the relevant one. “His memoirs.”

“Memoirs?” This was new to me.

“I’m not sure what he meant exactly. But he announced it at the party, although some people seemed to know already. He said he’d had a long, eventful career with lots of wonderful stories, and he was thinking about writing his memoirs. It’s too bad he waited so long, isn’t it? If he had written them, you’d have a lot more to go on.”

“Do you think he was serious?”

“I got the feeling he thought it might be a good way to spend his retirement. He still had an awful lot to say.”

I wondered exactly what Win would have kept to himself. Samuel Booth’s stint in jail? Or would he have created a Hollywood style tell-all? With everybody’s secrets, including his own, laid out for the world to enjoy.

Geoff raised a hand in greeting to somebody behind me, and of course, out of curiosity, I turned. Curiosity really should be one of the seven deadly sins.

Fern Booth stood behind us, and until that moment, I’d always thought “smoldering gazes” was a ridiculous description. But the look in Fern’s eyes could have set a rain forest on fire.

Geoff said hello, then he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be somewhere in a little while. Nice talking to you, Aggie.” He nodded to Fern and moved around us and back behind the counter. In a moment he’d disappeared.

“I want to talk to you,” she said. It was not a request.

“We can talk—”

“Outside,” she demanded. “Now.”

I held up my pathetic package of dental floss. “I still have to check out.”

“I will meet you in the parking lot.” She took off, head held high. I wondered if there was a rear exit and gauged how long it might take me to skulk home through back alleys. Ed could always come back for the van. Of course even if he came at midnight, Fern would probably still be waiting beside it.

I sighed, paid for the floss at the pharmacy counter, then took my tiny bag and my misgivings outside. Just as I’d expected, Fern was standing beside my van.

Fern wastes no time on pleasantries. “Samuel told me he confessed his past mistake to you.”

Now me? I tend to think killing another human being, no matter what the circumstances, deserves a stronger word than
mistake
. But this was not the time to quibble.

“He did,” I said, and waited.

“You just wouldn’t leave Win Dorchester’s death alone!”

“That’s right, too,” I said, standing a little taller.

“So, now you know. Of course you would have discovered Samuel’s mistake eventually. You can’t stand to just let the police do their jobs. You have to tamper with everything. And you’re not quiet about it. Oh, no, you can’t stay quiet about anything.”

“Fern, I—”

“I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you not to just tell anybody who might be interested in my poor Samuel’s past. You’ll blab it all over.”

She was working herself into a frenzy. I tried to interrupt again, but with no success.

“Well, here’s what I’ve got to say about that,” Fern said. “If you so much as mention one word of what Samuel told you to anybody at all, I’ll make sure your husband loses his job. Is that what you want? To be ridden out of town on a rail?”

Emerald Springs hasn’t had a train come through in years, but I got the picture.

“I really, really hate threats,” I said, lowering my voice as she raised hers, something I’d learned from Junie and more recently, Hildy. “I don’t respond well to them, in fact I don’t respond at all. They’re a last resort, and you’re a long way from needing to make one.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that unless I have some other, better reason to think Samuel”—I hesitated, but I decided to be honest—“or
you
murdered Win, I have no intention of repeating what your husband told me.”

“I’m sure you’ve already told that husband of yours.”

“I haven’t.” And it was true. Ed’s job demands that he not reveal “confessions” unless someone is at risk or a crime’s been committed. I have no job. Instead I have principles. Mine told me that for now, this was something Ed didn’t need to know. Samuel would never allow Ed to comfort or counsel him, so I believed that the less my husband knew, the more likely Samuel was to stay in the church.

Although that, of course, was a mixed blessing.

Fern was sizing me up. “Why not?” she asked at last.

I’d expected her to call me a liar, so this was a step up. “There’s no reason for him to know,” I said. “Samuel should be the one to talk about his past, not me.”

“Samuel should never have told you.”

“Samuel told me because he thinks I have better detective skills than I actually do. After all these years, it would be very difficult for somebody like me to find out about his conviction. I’m not a police officer. I don’t have access to files and computers”—which was a good thing for the world in general—“and I don’t have friends who do. But Fern, I think maybe Samuel just needed to tell somebody what his own minister did to him. He’s suffered a lot over this.”

She looked surprised, even, for a moment, vulnerable. Then she snapped back. “Well, I don’t know why he told you! He didn’t even tell me about what that rotten Win Dorchester did to him until the day of the burial.”

Now I’m sure I looked surprised. “
You
didn’t know?”

“No!” She puffed out a long breath. “I knew about the manslaughter conviction, of course. He told me before we were married. But I didn’t know about the blackmail, or whatever you want to call it.”

“I call it shameful,” I said quietly. “And I’m really sorry.”

“All those years I thought he was the finest minister our church could ever hope to have. And I was so glad when I heard Win and Hildy might retire here. I couldn’t understand why Samuel had so little enthusiasm.”

“I can’t imagine facing Win was much of a pleasure.”

“Maybe not, but my husband did not kill him.” She stared at me. “Not even if Win
did
announce that night that he might write his memoirs.”

That, of course, was the elephant in the middle of the Emerald Eagle parking lot. What would Win have said? Whose life would he have ruined? Would he have told Samuel’s story? Even if he’d used an alias for Samuel, people in town would most likely have figured it out. Unfortunately, Samuel Booth had a powerful motive for murder. And if Fern was lying and had known about Win’s subtle extortion on the night of the party, so would she.

“Samuel didn’t kill Win,” Fern repeated with conviction, “memoirs or not. But maybe somebody else who was there that night had something to hide. Maybe somebody else shut him up. Maybe somebody else had everything to lose.”

As little as I like the Booths, I really couldn’t see either of them as murderers. And Samuel’s revelations made it even less likely. Had he really been worried about my digging too deeply, he could have killed me, too, which was more likely to shut me up than an emotional confession.

But I’ve learned from experience that people do the darndest things when they’re under pressure. I still couldn’t discount them as suspects. Fern said she hadn’t known about Win’s blackmail, but how did I know that was true? And, of course, Samuel himself might have told me about his background just to make me less willing to go after him.

“We’re finished here,” Fern said. “I just hope you learn your lesson someday and stay out of these things.”

I watched her stomp away, and I wished I
could
just walk away from Win’s death and let the police handle it. But that was like wishing I’d been born blonde and willowy. No, it was worse. I could bleach my hair and lose fifteen pounds, even visit a plastic surgeon. But I don’t know any way to take the
busy
out of
busybody
. If I did, that just left a
body
, and unfortunately that’s how my snooping came into being in the first place.

Russell House had a cheerful lobby crowded with artificial ficus and banana trees that screened seating areas, so families could have more or less private conversations with loved ones. The furniture was rattan with tropical print slipcovers and pillows, and a cage of screeching parakeets adorned a corner. I thought the lobby might be a consolation prize for elderly patients who hadn’t been able to afford retirement in Florida. Maybe retirement homes in Naples and Boca Raton are decorated in Ohio Amish chic.

It was mid-morning on the day after my confrontation with Fern, and half an hour ago, I had called Flo at home to see if she had time to talk. Her husband told me she was filling in at work until someone showed up to relieve her. I’d decided to approach her in person rather than make another phone call. Just to get a feel for the place. Win had spent a lot of time here, and although I didn’t expect to find his spirit lingering in the hallways, seeing Russell House up close seemed like a good idea.

Last night after Geoff’s revelations, I’d gone home to tell Ed that Win might have had multiple affairs. I know how busy a minister’s schedule can be. When had the guy found time?

Ed hadn’t disputed the possibility, although when it comes to a nose for clerical gossip, his nasal passages are permanently clogged. He told me that Win’s short church tenures might be something of a clue. When the going got risky, maybe Win got going. I asked him to check with some of his older colleagues to see if they knew anything, but he looked at me as if I’d asked him to raid their pension plans.

“Just ask Hildy,” he’d said. “She knew about Marie. From that moment on you can bet she was on the lookout. She needs to be straight with you if you’re going to help her.”

I planned to do that. But right now I was more interested in whether Win had engaged in an affair with either Ellen Hardiger or Zoey—or, heaven help us, both. With this newest bit of gossip, it seemed more likely, and I’d gotten up this morning with the goal of finding out. If he
had
indulged, this was worth taking to Roussos, a strong connection between Win’s death and Ellen’s.

Zoey was supposed to come to town to make arrangements to transport her mother’s body or ashes. I hoped Flo might be able to put me in touch with her. I wasn’t sure how I would bring up such a delicate subject, but I was determined to try.

On the far side of the lobby, I found a woman in a lavender flowered lab coat with a chart under her arm and asked where I might find Flo. The woman was in her forties, graying curls and a snub nose. I liked the laugh lines around her eyes and figured she must be a favorite with patients. She checked her watch.

“She’s probably on rounds with a doctor. May I help you?”

I debated. “I’m trying to find out if Ellen Hardiger’s daughter is in town,” I said. “Ellen used to be—”

“Oh, yes, I know who she was. All our residents loved Ellen.” She examined me more carefully. “Why do you want to know?”

I figured Zoey’s story must be well known here. No one was going to give out her whereabouts, unless they were sure her ex-husband wasn’t in the picture.

“It’s a long story.” When she didn’t say anything, I went on. “I already talked to Flo. My husband’s the minister of the Consolidated Community Church—”

“Your husband?” She sounded shocked. “The man who died?”

“No, no, my husband’s the present minister. Win Dorchester, the man who died, was a former one.”

“Oh.” She placed a hand on her chest in relief. “Well, you’re certainly too young for him, of course, but you never know, do you?”

I almost went right past that. Then I backtracked. “Um, how do you know how old Win was?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. Except that when he was here the week before he was, you know . . .”

I knew. “Murdered,” I supplied. “He was
here
?”

“Yes, apparently he had a nice chat with one of our staff, Cinda.”

This was getting interesting. I introduced myself, and we shook. “Look, I’ll just come right out with this. I’m looking into Win’s murder. His wife asked me to help. I, um, have a little experience. Could you possibly tell me what he was doing here? It might help.”

“He wasn’t a patient, so it’s not confidential, but I’m afraid I really don’t know. Cinda never said, and she’s away on spring vacation.”

That was too bad. I wondered if Win had been checking to see if Ellen still worked here. Maybe he’d wanted to see how Zoey was doing. Or maybe he’d wanted to pick up on yet another old affair.