Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (6 page)

B
etty opened the door an inch and peered outside. “Is that horrible woman gone?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’m sure we’ve seen the last of her.” I hoped I sounded convincing enough as I picked up the cigarette butt and threw it into the trash can. “Betty, I want to talk to you about something important. About legal representation for Angus.”

“Oh, we already have a lawyer. Warren Zeigler.”

“Yes, but don’t you think you might need a good criminal attorney instead?”

“Why? Angus is innocent.”

I sucked in a breath. “I know that, Betty, but—”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that to Warren. He’s like family to us now.” She patted my hand. “He’s very good, Daisy. I trust him completely. And in the good Lord. He will take care of everything. You’ll see.”

I didn’t want to contradict her, but I thought He might need us to step up and do our bit, too. I glanced at my watch. “Yikes. I’d better get back. I have to grab a shower before opening the store.”

I hugged Betty and pedaled back to Millbury. Damn it, I’d wanted to go see Cyril Mackey this morning as well, but I’d run out of time.

Less than an hour later, breathless and hair still damp, I’d barely opened the door to Sometimes a Great Notion when Martha waltzed in
.

“Good God, that doll—”

“Martha!” I cut her off before she could launch into the usual routine. “Could you do me a huge favor? I need you to take care of something for me.”

“Sure. You want me to babysit Chris Paxson for you?”

“No, but how about the store? For a few minutes. Please?”

A look of panic spread across her freckled face. “But I don’t know the first thing about sewing. I can’t even sew on a button, for Pete’s sake. What about Eleanor? Can’t you ask her?”

“She has her own store to look after.” I took the plate from Martha’s outstretched hands and hurried to the door.

“Wait a minute—”

“Call me on my cell if anyone comes, or if there are questions you can’t answer. I’ll be right back. Thanks, Martha, I owe you one!”

I ran to the house to pick up the car so I could get to Cyril’s place and back as fast as possible. As I drove down Main Street, a few raindrops spattered the car’s windshield. A couple of minutes later, I turned off onto the dead-end road that led to the salvage yard, where the rusted gate was propped open by a giant iron rooster. I drove in as far as I could until the jumble of wooden porch posts, church pews, painted shutters, gargoyles, and what looked like an old barber’s chair blocked my way.

Cyril ambled out of the building, wearing his flat cap and tweed jacket, looking a bit like a bookie who’d fallen on hard times.

The smile on his face faded when he saw it was me who stepped out of the Subaru, and not Joe.

“What are
you
doing here?”

This guy didn’t need a junkyard dog. He was meaner than a whole pack of them.

I kept my smile firmly in place. “What can I say? Guess you drew the short straw today.” I knew Cyril liked Joe because Joe could never stop here without buying some rusty relic to bring home and fix.

As he continued to glower, I proffered my peace offering—the plate of Martha’s famous oatmeal cherry cookies. “Look, Cyril, I just want to chat for a minute. About Angus.”

“That bossy boots woman isn’t with you, is she?” he asked, with a furtive glance beyond me back toward the car.

“No, I came alone,” I said, feeling as though I was in some kind of low-budget gangster movie.

Raindrops were falling harder now, dotting the plastic cling wrap as Cyril took the plate from my hands. “Well, I suppose you’d best come in.”

The mobile home–type building had two doors on the side of it. He walked past the first door, and opened up the second one at the back.

I followed him in and stopped stock-still. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but this wide, bright kitchen definitely wasn’t it. Next to the window at the end sat a white table covered by a lace tablecloth, with a vigorous Boston fern hanging in the far corner. On the table, a tea cozy snuggled around a brown ceramic teapot, and a silver rack held several pieces of toast. I’d only ever seen one before in a hotel. The fragrance of freshly toasted bread still hung in the air.

A double doorway from the white-tiled kitchen opened to a decent-sized living room. There were a few antiques. Not many, but the pieces he had were nice, like the grandfather clock in the corner and a mahogany cabinet holding some Minton bone china. A recliner covered with a crocheted brown, orange, and yellow afghan was angled in front of the television.

The place was spare, but clean and neat. That first door to the trailer must have been his office. I was right—he did live here in this place, on this deserted dead-end road, all by himself.

“Were ya born in a barn?” he barked. “Put the wood in t’hole.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He gestured to the door behind me.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” I turned and shut it.

“Cuppa tea?” He glared at me as he asked the question.

“Oh, no, it’s okay. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“You already did. And as I can see you aren’t leaving until you get what you came for, you may as well park yerself.”

“Fine.” I glared back and sat down at the kitchen table. A square Limoges plate held the remains of his breakfast—some scrambled eggs and a corner of a piece of toast. He’d been working on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.

While he busied himself getting a mug out of a kitchen cabinet, I took a surreptitious glance at the puzzle. It was mainly filled in with his wavering capital letters, except for one long twelve-letter word with a
c
as the third letter and a
t
at the end. The clue was “defies authority.” I knew I drove Sarah and Joe crazy whenever we watched
Wheel of Fortune.
I could solve it with only one letter showing, or sometimes none at all.

Cyril handed me a mug and I took a sip of the tea. It was strong and sweet. “Thank you. Just the way I like it.”

Not that he’d bothered to ask if I took milk and sugar.

He sat down opposite me and bit into one of Martha’s cookies. “Now then, was there summat you wanted to ask me?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat, and took another mouthful of the delicious brew. “The thing is, Angus doesn’t seem to be able to remember much about that night at the pub with Jimmy. You were there. I was hoping you could shed some light on the situation. I mean, were they really that drunk? Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Well, Jimmy was sloshed. As per usual.” He dunked the rest of the cookie in his tea. “Angus was goin’ sideways, too, but believe it or not, I’ve seen him worse. Although lately he don’t seem to know whether it’s Tuesday or Christmas, the poor bugger.”

I blew out a breath. “I know. Now, were he and Jimmy getting along?”

“Aye, fair t’middlin. Jimmy was buying drinks like there was no tomorrow.”

But as it turned out, there wasn’t one. For him.

“Do you know who else could have wanted to murder Jimmy? Because we both know Angus didn’t do it. Did he have any enemies? Was he in any kind of trouble?”

He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Although Jimmy weren’t no prince, neither.”

“Any strangers in the bar? Like a tall, black-haired woman?” I didn’t mention the estate company yet. I wanted to be careful with the trust Reenie had placed in me.

Cyril stared out the window at the rain, which was coming down harder and making long, wet strikes against the glass.

I racked my mind for other good detective-type questions. Damn it. The police should be dealing with this cantankerous old man. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

I finished my tea. The slogan on the outside of my mug read,
NOT A POT TO PISS IN
. I set it carefully down on the table.

There was silence between us for a few more moments.

Cyril glanced at me. His eyes were hazel, almost greenish in this light. I’d never noticed the color before. His gray hair straggled out from under his cap, his clothes were a mess, but his eyes were positively beautiful. Almost hypnotic.

“Ah don’t remember much about math in school,” he said quietly, “but if
a
equals
b
, it don’t necessarily equal
c
as well. Maybe Jimmy’s murder is nowt to do with Jimmy
or
the pens. Angus had some enemies, you know.”

“Like who?”

“Well, the Perkins family in Sheepville, for one. A year or so ago, Angus bought their grandmother’s estate as a whole house buyout.”

I nodded. Angus sometimes paid a flat fee for entire estate contents, instead of taking items on consignment.

“Turns out the merchandise were worth a damn sight more when it was auctioned off individually. The two grandsons are especially brassed off.”

“You mean angry?”

“Aye. And those lads were in the pub that night. They could have realized this was the perfect opportunity to get their own back.”

“So you think they could have killed Jimmy to pin the murder on Angus and get their revenge? And recover their money by stealing the pens?”

Cyril shrugged. “Who knows? Jimmy was also the one that recommended they hire Angus in the first place. Kill two birds with one stone, if you catch my drift.” He took another of Martha’s oatmeal cookies and pointed it at me. “These sweets aren’t too bad. I didn’t peg you for a good cook.”

“Actually I didn’t make them. That bossy woman did.”

Cyril raised his eyebrows a fraction and took another appreciative bite.

My cell phone beeped with a missed call. “Well, I’d better get back to the store. Thanks for your time, Cyril. And for the tea.”

On the way across the lot toward my car, I noticed an interesting boot scraper made out of iron in the shape of a squirrel. I bent down to take a closer look. The rain had let up momentarily, and the rising heat was going to turn this day into a steam bath later on.

“You’re going to take this withee?”

I glanced up. It wasn’t really a question.

“Um, okay. How much is it?”

“Ten dollars.”

I didn’t dare argue. “Fine.” I forked over the money and stuffed the squirrel under my arm, while also stuffing down the feeling I’d been had.

“Next time, bring some coffee.”

I grinned. That sounded as close to an invitation to come back as I was ever likely to get. As I pulled out of the lot, I called to him. “It’s
recalcitrant
, by the way.”

“What is?” he shouted.

“Three across. On your crossword puzzle.”

*

“I
checked my phone. The missed call was from Joe.

“Hi, babe,” he said when I called him back. “Wondering where the car was. Thought I’d go over and see if Betty needed some manly muscle to get ready for the auction this Saturday. It’s the least I can do after all Angus has done for us.”

“Oh, Joe, you’ve read my mind. I was going to ask if you’d mind helping her with the heavy stuff. But as usual, you’re one step ahead of me. What’s Sarah doing today?”

“Still sleeping right now. I fed the pup and walked him, so he’s all set.”

“I see. Anyway, I’m dropping the car off in a couple of minutes. I just went to visit Cyril Mackey.”

“Yeah? Did you have fun?”

I grunted. “Honestly, I don’t know how you put up with that man.”

Joe laughed. “Oh, he’s okay once you get to know him. I never can leave there without taking something with me, though. I can’t believe he let you off the hook so easily.”

There was a short silence.

“Daisy? Did you have to buy something?”

“Look, it was very nice talking to you, Joe, but I’ve got to go.” I hung up to the roar of my husband’s laughter.

I parked the car outside our house and hurried back to the store, dodging raindrops. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t fully dried my hair earlier. It was wet again now anyway.

The striped pole was turning outside the barber shop across the street, and a customer was already sitting in the cracked red vinyl chair. Tony Zappata, the barber, or Tony Z as he called himself, was a transplant from South Philly. Short in stature, but a giant in personality, he embodied the nation’s impression of Philadelphians. Warmhearted enough to give you the shirt off their back, but tough enough to rip it off again and slap you with it, depending on the occasion and their mood. He was also a pretty good tenor and belted out operatic arias to entertain his clientele while he worked.