Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (14 page)
Read Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery) Online
Authors: Cate Price
He told me what he knew about the judge, and I felt marginally better. Warren was well-spoken, competent, with an old-fashioned charm, and sounded like he knew what he was doing. Although with the way the deck was stacked against Angus, he had his work cut out for him.
Warren’s wife laid a hand on his arm. “All right. Enough work talk for tonight. This is supposed to be a party.” She smiled at me, but the message in her eyes was clear.
Knock it off.
I smiled back and moved away until I was standing in the center of the long room.
My tray was empty. I should have gone back to the kitchen for more, but I lingered for a moment, taking it all in.
Angus was always the life and soul of any occasion. But no one had even mentioned his name tonight. None of these so-called friends seemed to remember where he was. Alone, in prison, with only his jumbled thoughts for company.
“Hey, Mom, you okay?” Sarah came up beside me.
“Yes, fine, just thinking about Angus, that’s all.”
“Well, he would be proud of the way we pulled it off tonight.”
“Yes. You were fantastic, Sarah. Thanks for everything you did.”
“Oh, no problem. This is the most fun I’ve ever had in Millbury!”
Chris Paxson waved at her from across the room, and Sarah wandered over to chat with him and his friends.
Why was I the only one with a sense of urgency about Angus?
Because he always seemed so capable, so well equipped to breeze through any complications that came his way, that’s why, I told myself. They all assumed he could get himself out of this mess, too.
Eleanor came up, nudged me, and took a slurp of her martini. “Hmm. Inquiring minds want to know.” She cocked her head toward the bar. “What’s going on over there?”
Cyril Mackey was pouring champagne into Martha’s glass, his face animated. She was laughing, her hair loose, and sandals kicked off to one side.
I smiled. “He’s a man of many talents, I gather.”
“I must say, he’s come in handy tonight.”
“How’s your drink?” I asked.
“Probably the best martini I’ve ever had. And yours?”
I sighed. “Oh, I must have left my wine in the kitchen.”
“Now, Daisy. You don’t seem too cheerful. What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter? Everyone seems to have forgotten about Angus, that’s
what’s the matter!
” I realized my voice was rising and I took a deep breath.
Eleanor’s dark gray gaze zeroed in on me. “We haven’t forgotten, but what can we do?”
“Well, I don’t know what
I
can do either, but I’m still trying.” I set the platter down on a nearby table with shaking hands. “Oh hell, what makes me think I can solve a murder case? I’m not a real detective.”
“Yes, but you’re smart, and the thing is, you never give up. When you want something, you’re like a pit bull with a pork chop.”
I chuckled. In a way, she was right. I never gave up. Not even on the worst student.
Eleanor drained her glass and pointed it at me. “Remember when I needed those hand-carved mother-of-pearl buttons for that antique wedding dress? I’d searched everywhere. I was about to use a poor substitute in desperation. You wouldn’t stop searching until you found them for me.”
I nodded. “It needed to be authentic.”
“And you’re not afraid of confrontation. Well, except with Sarah . . .”
I grinned ruefully at Eleanor as my daughter came over to us, accompanied by Debby and Debby’s sister, Cecilia. Cee Cee was an ex-schoolteacher like me. She’d quit the profession because she was trying to get pregnant, and her husband, Tom, a doctor, suggested that the stress of teaching might be a factor. I could attest to that.
She had beautiful penmanship, and she’d recently started a calligraphy business from home for wedding and party invitations.
Thinking of penmanship reminded me of the pens again, and a new avenue I hadn’t explored. “Hey, does anyone know of any famous writers who live around here?” I asked the group.
Eleanor fished the last olive out of the bottom of her glass. “Abigail Weller is writing her memoirs, not that anyone will want to read them. She’s had a pretty boring life if you ask me.”
“Meow.” Sarah nudged Eleanor playfully. “Would you like a bowl of milk instead of that martini, E?”
“Speaking of ICBM’s, I need another one,” Eleanor announced.
“An intercontinental ballistic missile?” Cee Cee asked, confused.
“No, darling, an ice-cold Beefeater Martini.”
We followed her over to the bar as Debby chatted to Sarah about life in New York with stars in her eyes. Sometimes I wanted to put my arm around Debby and encourage her to look at the here and now and make that work. So many people spent their lives wishing them away.
“Are you staying for a while, Eleanor?” Martha asked, taking the empty glass.
“Until the gin runs out. Nice party, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
Eleanor drank the way she ate. Far be it from me to monitor anyone’s drinking, and none of us were driving anyway, but I guessed this had to be her fourth martini, and she showed no sign of it.
Cyril poured me a glass of chardonnay.
“I’m so glad you got the dollhouse, Daisy,” Cee Cee said. “I was worried that crazy woman would outbid you. Who is she anyway?”
“Her name’s Fiona Adams. She’s from New York. Supposedly it was her father’s fountain pens that were stolen on the night of Jimmy Kratz’s murder.”
“But why is she still here?”
“No idea. But I think I need to figure it out. All I know is that she’s someone right on the edge.”
“Of a nervous breakdown?”
“Of something.”
Debby and Sarah were making plans to see Robin Tague, a world-class violinist and composer who was visiting Philadelphia on tour.
“You know I’ve heard that musicians also cherish fountain pens as the perfect instrument for writing musical scores,” Cee Cee said to me.
“Really? That’s interesting.”
After I finally finished my glass of wine, Joe, Sarah, and I decided to call it a night.
When we got home, we discovered that Jasper had taken the magazines off the coffee table in the living room and reduced them to a pile of chewed-up damp pieces of paper.
Again, I reminded myself that he wasn’t my dog. He was Sarah’s responsibility, and I turned to her now. “Didn’t you put him in his crate before we went out?”
“I must not have latched it tight. It’s no big deal. I’ll buy you some new magazines, Mom. Don’t get all agitated.”
It had been a long day, she’d been a fantastic help with the auction, and so I let it go.
For now.
T
he next morning, Sunday, was visiting day at the prison.
Joe and Sarah were still lingering over breakfast when I left the house. I’d gotten a late start, but I couldn’t wait to tell Angus what a success the auction had been. It would be a weight off his mind.
When I got there, however, the officer on duty told me that Angus was not available for a visit, because he was undergoing some kind of medical evaluation. I pressed him for details, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, elaborate.
All the way home, I alternated between annoyance over the wasted trip and worry about Angus. Had the infection in his hand from the splinters worsened? Had he gotten in a fight in the prison and was being treated for his injuries? Had his mind finally snapped, and it was some kind of psychiatric testing?
I tried to talk to Joe about it when I got home, but he just sighed and pulled me into his arms.
“I’m concerned about Angus, too, but can’t we have a day to ourselves? Seems like you’re always working, or helping Betty, or doing your investigations. I miss my wife.”
“I miss you, too.” I hugged him back, the comfort slowly flowing through me as our bodies melded. God, I was tired. Maybe I could take one day off.
We checked the local paper and, for the rest of the morning, drove around to yard sales. I bought a baby gate for three dollars so Jasper could have the run of the kitchen and not be shut up in his crate, and also some toys to keep him busy. Joe picked up a cookbook published by the Sheepville Women’s Club. He also grabbed a vacuum cleaner with a
FREE
sign on it from the side of the road, saying he was sure he could fix it. Sarah found a pretty wooden tray with pressed flowers under glass for the store and a box of assorted costume jewelry that she bundled together and paid five dollars for both.
It was a perfect June day, the brutal humidity of the day before swept away by the gentle breeze that rustled through the butterfly bush in our back garden and swayed the orange heads of daylilies turned up toward the sun.
We ate a long, lazy lunch on the patio. A simple feast of a French baguette, cheese, salad, and white wine. Joe flipped through his new cookbook and read some of the more inviting recipes out loud to us. It was also typical of a French déjeuner in that we were talking about what to have for dinner while still eating lunch. We finally decided on a Chicken Saltimbocca with spinach and prosciutto.
While we relaxed, Jasper occupied himself by digging up one of the flower beds behind the shed. He trotted back with a yellow Matchbox car. By the end of lunch, he’d found a rusty pair of pliers, two marbles, a gold cufflink, and a heart-shaped cookie cutter.
“I can’t believe he found all this stuff in our own backyard!” Sarah exclaimed.
Joe was delighted with his finds. “We should give him his own box in the store, Daisy.”
Jasper’s paws were filthy, so I hosed his feet down and dried him with an old towel, while Joe cleared away the lunch and Sarah checked the messages on her phone.
*
“O
n Monday, I stopped by the diner, picked up some coffee for Cyril, and headed over to the salvage yard. He was in a particularly recalcitrant mood. His good humor from Saturday night had vanished, and he was back to the cantankerous old man I knew.
He basically ignored me, so I sat and watched him work on his crossword puzzle as I drank my own coffee. My attempts to inquire about his past were met with frosty resistance, although I did manage to glean the fact that his family had owned a farm back in Yorkshire, England. He commented that a farmer’s life was a hard one, with the farm chores never done.
Such as milking cows early in the morning.
Before I left, I amused myself by telling him the solution to 14 across. I chuckled as I peeked in my rearview mirror and saw him glaring after me and muttering to himself. I could just imagine the epithets hurled in my wake.
I drove back to the store, deep in thought, picturing the Kratzes’ farm on the morning of the murder. When Sarah showed up, half an hour later, I decided to ask her a few questions to see if my misgivings were correct.
“Okay, Sarah, picture this scene. Like it’s from one of your film scripts. Early morning. Our house. You come downstairs to the living room and you find Dad dead on the couch. What do you do?”
“
Jeez
, Mom.”
“Come on, humor me.”
“Well, I guess I’d scream, I’d yell for you. I’d see if I could help him. Make sure he was really dead.”
“Good. What else?”
Sarah sighed. “I don’t know. Call 911?”
“What else?”
“I don’t
know,
Mom.”
Usually I would back off when she inserted that note of irritation in her voice, but not today.
She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Cry, freak out, scream for help again? I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Would you milk five cows before the police got there?”
“I guess not.” She chewed on her bottom lip.
I picked up the phone and dialed Ramsbottom. “Were the cows distressed when you got to the Kratz farm on that Saturday morning after Jimmy was murdered?”
“Huh?” He exhaled loudly. “No, they seemed okay to me. They were all out in the field. Is there a point to this, Mrs. Daly?”
“Buchanan. Daisy Buchanan,” I corrected him. “And yes, there is a point. How long does it take to milk a cow?”
“What do I look like? A flipping dictionary?”
I refrained from pointing out he meant an encyclopedia. “Look, Reenie Kratz went out to the barn that morning, found Jimmy murdered, called the police, and then calmly milked five cows—and probably fed the pigs, too—while the body of her dead husband was lying on the floor of the barn beside her. Don’t you think that’s a little cold?”
I heard the sound of chewing on the other end of the phone line and grimaced. Probably a breakfast sandwich of sausage, egg, and cheese.
“Heck, I don’t know. People can do strange things when they’re in shock. Look, Mrs.—um—you need to stop calling here. I’ve got work to do, cases to solve. I suggest you concentrate on your nice little store and don’t interfere anymore. As far as I’m concerned, we have our killer and he can rot in jail. End of story.”
“I could agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.” I slammed the phone down as the door opened and Martha, Eleanor, and some of the neighborhood ladies, Liz Gallagher, Ruth Bornstein, and Dottie Brown, walked in.
“Let me ask you guys something.” I ignored Sarah, who rolled her eyes as if to say,
Here we go again
. “Ramsbottom says the cows were already out in the field when he showed up. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
Martha held up a hand. “Hold the phone,
what
cows?”
“Sorry. At the Kratz farm. I’m trying to picture myself in Reenie’s place. I’m trying to imagine finding my own husband murdered, and I don’t think I could sit next to his corpse, milking cows, while waiting for help to arrive.”
Everyone mulled this over as I poured coffee into as many mugs as I could until the pot was empty. I was coming out of the kitchen with another carafe of water for a new pot when the front door banged open again and Patsy strode in.
“Yo! Wazzup, Daisy? Ladies?”
“No diner this morning?” I asked, prepping a fresh filter.
“Took the day off. Figured I earned it. Damn, it’s hotter than a three-balled tomcat out there.”
I repeated my cow story to get her up to speed.
“Oh well, that’s no big surprise. Jimmy used to get liquored up, go home, and beat the bejeezus out of his wife on a regular basis. I don’t suppose Reenie was too sorry to see he’d cashed in his chips.”
“No big surprise?” I gasped. “I had no idea. And I’m sure Angus wouldn’t have been friendly with a guy like that if he’d known.”
Martha placed her hands on her hips and glared at Patsy. “And how come I never heard a word about this?”
I couldn’t decide if Martha was more shocked that Jimmy beat his wife, or by the fact that she hadn’t known about it.
Patsy shrugged. “Not many people knew. Nobody saw her in town much. At least not until the bruises faded.”
Nothing seemed to faze Patsy, who’d been a waitress her whole working life. She didn’t exactly expect the worst, but close to it. She told me it was better that way because you never got disappointed.
“Reenie and I were friends in high school. We used to keep in touch, but not lately.”
I unwrapped Martha’s platter. “Well, I suppose that would explain Reenie’s dispassionate attitude and ability to get on with chores as usual.”
I offered the diamond-shaped pieces of lemon crunch cake to the eager group.
“Did the police know about the abuse?” Liz Gallagher asked.
Patsy shook her head. “Reenie never called the cops. She never pressed charges.”
Again, I felt fury toward Ramsbottom. I bet he’d known about it, but had chosen to do nothing. Yet another example of his lackadaisical attitude. “Well, it gives her a good motive, but we’re back to the same problem as thinking Fiona Adams was the killer. There’s no way a woman could lift a barn beam that weighs well over a hundred pounds.”
Particularly not frail, skinny Reenie. I sipped my coffee, frowning. I’d seen Jimmy Kratz at auction all the time. He was medium height, with medium-length shaggy hair, and had dark brown eyes that were always scanning the room. Hard eyes that I’d attributed to the tough way he’d earned a living. I hadn’t exactly trusted him, as he seemed like someone always out to make a buck, but he didn’t strike me as dangerous exactly.
Although I guess I’d never seen him at the end of a long night of shots and beers.
And would the fact that Angus saw red at the abuse of women mean that he could have done the same thing to Jimmy Kratz that he’d done to Hank Ramsbottom if he’d found out?
Patsy poured a cup of coffee from the fresh pot and drank it black. “That’s not all. Jimmy was cheating on Reenie, too. With Carla, one of the diner waitresses. It’s a wonder he wasn’t as big as a house. He’d eat lunch at home and then come to the diner to see her and eat another one.”
A picture of Reenie crying and holding a suitcase flashed into my mind. “Oh my God, was
that
why he packed a suitcase? Because he was planning on leaving his wife?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, Daisy,” Eleanor said. “You and Joe—you’re a living romance novel—but the rest of the world is not that lucky. I read somewhere that fifty percent of spouses cheat on their significant other.”
Martha bit daintily into a piece of lemon cake. “Well, I know my Teddy never did.”
“How can you be so sure?” Eleanor demanded.
“Because I kept him so busy he didn’t have the time. Or the energy.”
“Oh, jeez. Too much information.” Sarah groaned and put her hands to her ears. “La-la-la!”
I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Joe had ever lost his temper in all our years of marriage. I felt an even deeper sympathy for Reenie.
“And what about those poor Kratz children?” Dottie Brown said. “What kind of horrors must they have seen in their young lives so far?” Dottie had a large family and several grandchildren, and the thought of their lack of welfare made her press her lips together into a narrow line.
Suddenly I saw the solution to two problems in one.
“Hey, I have an idea. How about we organize a country fair or flea market, something like that, with the proceeds going towards a fund for the Kratz family?”
Martha’s eyes gleamed. “Yes! I’ll be in charge. We could have tractor pulls, and a baking contest and—”
“We’ll need a place to hold it.” Eleanor was ever practical.
“Maybe our farm?” Liz Gallagher said. “No, wait a minute, we really don’t have enough open space, and my hubby wouldn’t want people tramping through his crops right now.”
“What about the auction grounds?” I suggested.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit awkward?” Dottie said. “I mean, with Angus in prison for Jimmy’s murder and all . . .”
Her voice trailed off. Dottie Brown was also a friend of Betty’s. She owned a yarn and fabric store in Sheepville, and held knitting classes at night.