Beware False Profits (11 page)

“You’re really going to help?”

“Try and stop me.”

Lucy left at five, first wiggling into a short black dress and heels that were high enough that if she hadn’t already told me, I could have guessed her new client was a man with potential. Shortly afterwards I left in my ratty jeans and work shirt, clutching a list of people to talk to, including the local tile dealer. After all our work, the hardwood floor wasn’t worth saving.

Lucy planned to cozy up to Dora, Brownie’s housekeeper, and a few people at the courthouse. I was going to follow up on Hazel’s work as a volunteer, particularly at the food bank. Then we were going to get together somewhere fun for a girls’ night out with murder and margaritas on the table.

I don’t like being on the outs with my husband. I decided to make black bean burgers as a dinner treat. We could throw them on the barbecue, play badminton with the girls while the burgers cooked, and try to ignore my involvement in another murder. Tonight when we were alone I would promise to stay on the periphery of the investigation. Ed’s a reasonable guy and he’s worried about Joe, as well. I thought I could convince him to accept the inevitable, particularly if we went to bed late enough that nobody would bother us.

I swung by Krogers on the way home to pick up buns and an extra can of black beans. I was putting my groceries in the car when I realized that the lush brunette with pigtails who was walking toward the edge of the lot was none other than Keely Henley. I dropped the second bag on the floor and slammed the door, starting after her before I could even figure out what to say.

Keely was taking it slow, and I was puffing like I was training for a marathon. I caught up to her easily.

“Keely?”

She whirled—which couldn’t have been easy considering how tight her shorts were—then she grinned. “It’s you. Where you been keeping yourself?”

This was a nicer reception than I’d expected, although in all fairness, I
had
more or less saved her life last time we spent a day together.

“I’ve seen you once or twice, but only in the distance,” I said. “How have you been?”

“Me? I’m a different woman. Ever since, well, you know.”

I did know. I just nodded.

She moved a little closer. “I got religion again.”

Put that way this sounded like something she was being treated for with penicillin or strong mouthwash. But Keely looked so pleased, I was pleased for her.

“I guess you’re not back at Don’t Go There?”

“No. It don’t fit who I am now, you know? I got a new job, at Way Too Cool.”

Way Too Cool is an ice cream parlor that opened a few months before in our downtown. Junie and the girls came back with good reviews. I’m waiting for the weather to warm up a little more before I dive into a strawberry sundae. A true Midwesterner, I’m not.

“Do you like your new job?” I asked.

“It’s okay. Nobody yells at me or nothin’ like that, although come to think of it, I guess sometimes the customers yell. But at least nobody’s trying to kill me.”

In the scheme of things, this was an improvement. Still, I thought maybe Keely needed a little help moving into her new role. In her tight yellow shorts and a black halter top cut almost to her navel she looked more like dessert than the person serving it.

Her rosebud lips turned up in a smile, and her big blue eyes were shining. “You doing okay? You up to anything special?”

I considered what to tell her, but before I could say anything she put her hand on my arm. “Do you know what I heard today? The guy who told me don’t lie, either. That Brownie Kefauver? You know, the guy you told me was the mayor?”

“He
is
the mayor.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, now I know that. But anyway, his wife dropped dead at Mayday! You know about Mayday!?”

“I was there.”

“You were? I was, too, only not there when she, you know, dropped dead like that. I was dishing up ice cream at Way Too Cool’s stand. Just chocolate and vanilla, on account of it being too complicated to bring everything.”

I was nodding hypnotically.

“Anyway, she just keeled over.” Keely shut her eyes and dropped her head to her shoulder to illustrate. Then she opened her eyes. “And now they’re saying it was murder. Somebody poisoned her.”

This certainly made it easier for me to ask Keely questions. But I felt sorry for Brownie. I wondered if there was anybody left in the county who hadn’t heard.

“I did know that,” I said. “And I remembered that you knew him…pretty well.”

Now she was nodding.

Encouraged, I went on. “Here’s the thing. Some people are going to suspect Brownie of being the one to murder Hazel. And I just wondered what you thought of that. Does it seem possible to you? Knowing what you know?”

“That’s easy. He would never do nothing like that.”

I was surprised she was so convinced. “Mind telling me why you think so?”

“Because he’s one of them guys who can’t stand up for himself. You know? And having a wife made it real easy to do whatever he wanted and still get away after he zipped up his pants.”

I winced. This was more graphic than I’d hoped for. “So he could use being married as an excuse?”

“Not that he really needed one, you know? I mean nobody was asking him to stay around. At least nobody I knew.”

“It sort of sounds like there were a number of, umm…women in his life?” I hesitated. “I’m sorry, Keely, but it would help me to know if you’re still, umm…involved with him?”

“Another easy question. I got religion, remember? I got morals now. I only sleep with a few guys, and I don’t let them pay me, unless they want to take me out to dinner.”

“Well, that’s…” I fished for the right adjective. “Great. Really great.”

“It’s too bad about Mrs. Kefauver, you know, but I gotta say this. Some people won’t be sad she’s dead.”

I was still congratulating myself on selecting
great
from among its more judgmental competitors and almost missed Keely’s last sentence.

“Really, why not?”

“I know her. She’s not…she wasn’t a nice lady.”

“It sounds like maybe she found out you and Brownie were, well, you know…”

“Nothing like that. No, she used to come into Way Too Cool. That’s how I know her. She liked to say she was the mayor’s wife, like that entitled her to privileges, that’s how I know it was her.”

“Was she rude?” This wasn’t hard to imagine.

“She was rude, and she was sneaky. See, she used to come in right when I was closing up. She’d sneak in the door just as I was shutting it. Then she’d insist I give her a double scoop of chocolate ice cream, even if I’d already started to clean out the freezer or close out the register. The nerve of her. Course, now she’s dead and that takes care of all her nerves, doesn’t it?”

I winced again. “I imagine that upset you and the other employees.”

“She used to do it when I was alone. Just me. Never when anybody else was around. You know what I think? I think she was one of those secret choco-hallways.”

Seconds passed. “Chocoholics?”

“That’s what I said. You know, like an addict with his meth or his crank? That was her, only it was chocolate ice cream. And you know what else? After all the trouble she put me to? After me being nice enough to let her in—on account of my boinking her husband before I got morals—anyway, in spite of all that? She never once gave me a tip. She gave me nothing but attitude. So that’s why I say not everybody’ll be sorry she’s gone. I’m going to try, on account of getting religion and loving everybody, but it’s not going to be easy.”

I was fairly certain this was the longest speech I’d ever heard Keely give.

“You’ve been a big help.” I held out my hand and she shook it solemnly. “Are you still making birdhouses?” Keely had a surprising talent for constructing birdhouses that looked like houses in town, then selling them to homeowners. I had been quite impressed when I’d seen one in the Kefauver yard.

Of course that was before I realized what else Keely was selling Brownie.

“When I can,” she said modestly.

“I’m still waiting for you to make one for the parsonage.”

“I might do that. And I’d do it cheap for you.”

We said good-bye, and I started back to the van. I hoped the black bean burgers would make up to Ed for the time I’d be spending on Hazel’s death in the coming days. With the cat out of the bag—I apologized silently to Moonpie for that imagery—Brownie needed my help more than ever.

The funny thing about marriage? You don’t always have to see eye to eye. Black bean burgers didn’t soften up my husband on Wednesday, but by Friday night he was resigned. He took me out for spaghetti and cheap red wine and asked me to keep Roussos in the loop when I investigated. As apologies go, it was a winner. He didn’t even spoil it by asking for a promise.

Late that night, hours after spectacular makeup sex, I sat bolt upright in bed, clutching the spring leaf quilt Junie had made for us, my heart pounding.

Ed sat up, too, and rubbed my back. “Nightmare?”

“Uh-huh.” I didn’t tell him that my terror had nothing to do with Joe or Hazel. Or even that it hadn’t been a dream, but a revelation.

He pulled me gently back against him, wrapped his arms around me, and fell sound asleep. My eyes were wide open.

I had forgotten about the punch bowl.

Actually, it wasn’t as simple as that. I had remembered twice, once yesterday and once the day before. But both times I remembered too late in the morning or too early in the evening to find the building empty. I certainly had plenty of opportunities to wash it on Thursday, because I did an obligatory tour of duty in the toy room cleaning and pricing. Today I was slated to work wherever the committee needed me.

Unfortunately, it seemed that everybody in the church was also there on Thursday. The kitchen or the parish hall was filled with people finishing preparations, then yesterday the sale started. I had planned to wait until everybody went home, slink over, and tackle the punch bowl late in the evening. Then Ed appeared to sweep me off my feet and whisk me to Joe’s Spaghetti House.

I am a Spaghetti House slut. Now I was paying the price for slavish devotion to cheap Chianti and marinara sauce.

I shifted just enough to see the clock without waking my husband again.

Would anybody report me if I was seen sneaking in or out of the church at four
A.M.
? I could imagine clutching the punch bowl in my arms, refusing to give it up as local cops surrounded me. This isn’t as theatrical as it sounds. The local cops really have very little to do. Our force is sort of a Midwestern version of the one in Mayberry, with Barney Fife and his lone bullet. With nothing more exciting on their schedules, they could turn a punch bowl into an international incident.

I decided to wait for the rosy fingers of dawn or the moment Ed turned over. Whichever came first.

Two hours later, the sun and Ed made their moves, and I slipped out of bed, already exhausted but anxious to end the drama. I pulled on the same jeans and shirt I’d worn last night and tiptoed downstairs, where I added shoes and finger combed my hair. On my way out I stole Ed’s keys from the key basket in the kitchen.

Outside the sky was brightening rapidly. I took off for the parish house, and let myself in. I couldn’t believe I was actually alone. As dedicated as our rummage sale vigilantes are, they weren’t at church yet. I pictured them at home eating hearty breakfasts, doing push-ups and jumping jacks to make it through the first wave of eager bargain hunters.

I plugged the sink and started to fill it. Then I opened the cupboard under the sink to get the detergent. I’d squirted a healthy amount and was watching it bubble when I realized that I hadn’t noticed the box.

I squatted again and pushed things from one side to the other. The wastebasket with its sponges and dishrags was still there. So was a coated wire drainer, a plastic bag stuffed with plastic bags, an extra bottle of detergent, and a trio of assorted cleaning products.

But no box. No punch bowl.

For a moment my life flashed before my eyes. Craft fairs with my mother and sisters. Carefree weeks of forced marches and target practice in my father’s survivalist compound. The day I met Ed. The birth of my children.

I wondered when the Women’s Society rode me out of town on a rail if I’d be allowed to bring our photo album.

I plopped seat first to the floor and put my head in my hands. Too many early mornings and not enough sleep. I tried to think. The room was torn apart last time I was here. Somebody had been cleaning and organizing.

I opened my eyes and looked under the sink again, since the doors were still open. Did it look different? I wasn’t sure, although I thought that last time there might have been more clutter. Everything now in residence actually belonged there.

January.

January Godfrey is our sexton and, like Junie, something of an old hippy. He is organized and conscientious, and best of all, he minds his business. January isn’t paid enough to spend every waking hour reordering our existence, but after he’s done with the basics, he has a habit of moving through the buildings, thoroughly cleaning and clearing one room at a time until he finishes and begins all over again.

I rose and saw that the cupboards, which had been torn apart the day I tried to wash the punch bowl, were now cleared of junk, scrubbed clean, and sporting new shelf paper. Best of all, the mismatched glassware was gone. Darn, I’d miss those jelly glasses and Dollar Store tumblers, but I bet they were going to be replaced with something better.

I stood and wiggled my toes to restore circulation. I would feel better when I knew for sure, but I guessed that in the process of cleaning and clearing, January had found the punch bowl, washed it, and returned it to the Women’s Society sacred closet. He would have done it carefully and with respect. I had nothing to worry about.

Of course I
would
worry until I asked him. But for now I had to take this on faith.

I pulled the plug and left the building. Like everybody else I needed a good breakfast and a quart of strong coffee before I faced the thundering herd.

Ed knows that working in his church office is impossible during sale week. So although he visits in spurts to lend moral support, he hightails it home to his study immediately afterwards. Today he was torn between coping with the rummage sale mob and his two daughters. Deena and Teddy won, and he agreed to stay home with them while I worked the sale. Junie planned to be gone all day hunting for old quilts, treadle machines, and interesting storage bins at our local antique malls. I just hoped that soon there’d be a real shop where she could install them and begin to decorate.

Two scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and a pot of Juan Valdez, and I was ready. By the time I left again the street outside the church was lined with cars, and the sidewalks were growing crowded as people waited for the doors to open. I smiled my apologies as I pushed my way to the head of the line and waited to be snatched inside. Somebody asked if Tickle Me Elmo had visited our toy room, but I pretended not to hear.

Yvonne McAllister was in charge of assigning tasks, and she stood close to the door with a clipboard and walkie-talkie. After thirty years of more than two packs a day, she recently quit smoking. Now, every time a door slams or somebody gets too close, she snarls. Since Yvonne is a renowned pacifist and a real sweetheart, nobody pays attention, which is the problem with being the peaceful sort on a bad day.

“I’ve got a job for you,” she said, cutting right to the chase. I noticed that her reed-slim body was rapidly plumping out, and I was afraid I knew what she had substituted for cigarette smoke. Yvonne is a vegetarian, too. Unfortunately sugar is more or less a vegetable.

She pointed toward Ed’s office, which is right off the reception area leading into the parish hall. “We’ve got a situation.”

“Somebody’s holding Norma hostage?” Norma is the church secretary, a perfectly nice woman who talks faster and louder than a Bible salesman. Ed’s trying to train her, but I’m pretty sure that something essential is missing between her brain and her vocal cords. Organ donation may be our only salvation.

Yvonne didn’t smile. She shifted weight from one foot to the other, then back again, and she stared at me as if I were growing scales.

I stood a little straighter. “I know where Ed keeps his stash of granola bars.”

“With chocolate coating?”

“I can check and see.”

She looked a little cheerier. “As we were about to close the doors, Brownie Kefauver came in last night, carrying a box of Hazel’s things.”

“Yikes.” This was not what I’d expected to hear.
Situation
at a rummage sale means that somebody forgot to get enough change, or the crew making sloppy joes for the luncheon added too many onions.

“Somebody took pity on him,” Yvonne said. “It certainly wasn’t me.”

“I guessed that.”

“They told him we’d be happy to sort and price whatever he had and get it out on the tables today. I guess they thought he was so overwrought, he couldn’t
stand
to look at Hazel’s belongings because of the memories. Maybe they didn’t even realize that the box in his hands wasn’t the only one.”

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”

“See for yourself.” Yvonne walked over to Ed’s office and threw the door open. She did it with such vigor, it bounced against a bookshelf. I stepped inside and saw that the room was piled with boxes. There must have been twenty or more.

“I think he’s removing every trace of Hazel from his life,” Yvonne said.

Maybe Yvonne isn’t at her best these days, and her outlook is a little different without a screen of cigarette smoke. Maybe like most of the people in our church, she doesn’t want a mayor who makes decisions based on whether they benefit his supporters. But I couldn’t fault her for her conclusion. Brownie was deleting Hazel from his memory bank.

I needed to have a little talk with Brownie about the appearance of guilt. Sooner rather than later.

I crossed the room and unfolded the flaps on the closest box to reveal a stack of badly folded skirts. “What would you like me to do?”

“Ed’s office is the only room in the building that’s not being used for the sale. But I don’t feel comfortable letting just anybody else inside. Will you go through these?”

I felt like a kid in a candy shop. And I was hopeful that the best chocolate was hiding somewhere out of sight. “Is it just clothes?”

“Handbags, shoes, coats. I think that little turd went through her closet and threw everything in these boxes.”

I ignored the
turd
and my own disappointment. “I’ll find those granola bars. Right away.”

“I would appreciate it.”

“And I’ll go through the boxes as fast as I can and get the stuff to the right tables.”

“You do that. I’ll make sure nobody bothers you.”

I wasn’t sure that was necessary. I’d hoped for the contents of desk drawers and filing cabinets. But maybe I’d get an idea or two about the woman from handling her things. Besides, even this was better than pumping up basketballs and dressing Bratz dolls.

If I had only a tenth of the psychic powers Junie claims for herself, I could easily figure out who murdered Hazel Kefauver. In the hour it took me to sort the contents of the boxes, I probably handled everything Hazel had worn in the past decade. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a single vibe about who might have poisoned her, but I did learn a lot about the woman.

Had Hazel been invited to shoot pheasants in the Cornwall countryside, she certainly had the clothes. She liked good quality wools and tweeds, in neutral or muted colors. She preferred long sleeves, skirts well below her knees, and serviceable underwear. Yes, Brownie had also gifted us with Hazel’s bras and panties. What a guy.

Most of the clothing was well used. I doubted she rarely treated herself to impulse buys. In her favor, she seemed to live by the standards she demanded of others. No waste in Hazel’s closet. Nor had she cared if a garment suited her. Clearly vanity was never an issue.

She also took care of her things. Despite Brownie’s sloppy packing, I could see the clothes were neatly pressed. There was a faint medicinal odor to the wool, perhaps some sort of herbal sachet to keep moths away. And just a hint of tobacco smoke—which lent credence to that rumor I’d heard.

The handbags and belts were more of the same. Good quality but utilitarian, wearing down at the edges. Inside the handbags, there was nothing of interest, not even tissues or gum wrappers. I wondered if Brownie had emptied them or if Hazel meticulously removed every item when she changed to a different style. I was betting Brownie had checked them for cash.

Yvonne hadn’t realized just how much Brownie wanted Hazel out of his bedroom. Not only did we have the wardrobe, we had the costume jewelry, the library, and the knickknacks. The first two took up the smallest box. There was little jewelry. Brownie had probably taken the good stuff to the pawn shop, and given us what he couldn’t sell. There were a few practical watches, a couple of chains and pendants, a brooch or two. Nothing that would make anybody draw an extra breath at the jewelry table.

The books were more interesting. Self-help, mostly, with titles like
Free Your Inner Superhero
,
Even the Scarecrow Had a Brain
, and my personal favorite,
Ruthless or Toothless: You Decide
.

I could understand why Brownie was in such a hurry to get rid of the books. I don’t think they were meant to be Hazel’s nightly reading. I pictured her standing over Brownie as he finished his bedtime quota.