MURDER TUNED IN (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 4) (8 page)

              Ben peered out with an incredulous smile on his face. "They're Nazi crackpots!"

              "I think Sally Kane may have been a member."

              "What?" he said, his voice cracking with incredulity. "Did she know there was a Jewish man here writing the songs she was singing?"

              "Maybe."

              "And how did you come by this lovely information?"

              She followed Ben into the kitchen. "I received an anonymous note this morning. All it said was, 'Sally Kane liked Beautiful Soup.' That was it. This is as close to a meaning I can come to at the moment."

              "You want to sit down and join me in some dishwater coffee and stale cake?"

              "I have to go," she said. "I'm sorry. Something's come up. I'll have to take a raincheck. The cake is stale you said?"

              "Go. Do what you have to do."

              "Sorry about the cake," she yelled, halfway to her car.

              Tad Mills lived in a small apartment complex on the south side of town. Were each apartment to have its walls demolished, the entire building would have made a pretty decent mansion. As it was, however, each apartment was form-fitted to creatures built like Tad Mills or smaller, and single ones at that.

              Allie was hesitant in driving up, hesitant in getting out of the car, hesitant in curling up her fingers for a timid knock at the door up on the second floor of the two-story building.

              Tad answered in black sweats and a white T-shirt, panting, his face burning red, and his clothes splotched with massive sweat stains.

              "Allie," he said, composed though she'd caught him unawares.

              "Can I come in for a second? I see I've caught you in the middle of a workout."

              "Just finishing. But you can come in."

              It was a cozy place. Done up in dynamic hues, aided by some savvy choices by way of wall art, and furnished in postmodern eclectic, the place was as artsy as it got in this tiny little slice of heaven in the Northeast.

              "I was in the area. I hope you don’t mind, I got your address from Del Collins."

              It was a stupid thing to say. Did she expect him to believe she'd asked Del for his address and then found herself in the area randomly? Or was she in the area first and then she called Del? She mentally kicked herself. Around Tad, she tended not to be able to concentrate clearly, and it angered her.

              "Water?" he asked, holding up a filtered pitcher.

              "Sure, that would be great."

              He poured out two glasses. "I would offer you something else but I haven’t gone shopping yet."

              She took the glass and raised it. "To your health."

              "To yours."

             
Clink.

              "So?" he said after a moment.

              "Hm?"

              "I know you didn’t come here for water, sweetheart."

              "No," she said, regaining her composure, her mind quickly gearing up for a line of inquiry. "No. I wanted to ask you about your phone calls."

              "Ok."

              "They stopped I'm assuming?"

              "They did."

              "Stopped the day Sally was murdered?"

              "Mm hm."
Sip.

              Allie stared at a colorful piece on the wall adjoining the tiny kitchen. "Matisse?"

              "Garage sale. I don’t know who painted it. I don’t know much about art."

              "You have incredible taste."

              "Maybe. Just because I can tell the difference between filet mignon and McDonald's doesn't necessarily mean anything."

              "No," she said from somewhere far away. "I guess not."

              "Allie," the man said, putting his glass down. "Why are you here?"

              She looked at him. "Because you lied. Both to me and to the police."

              He stared at her blankly. "And this because...?"

              "Stop it, Tad. Angus sent you death threats because you insulted Sally? Really? Death threats, Tad?"

              "Allie, honey—"

              "No, no, I'm not going to fall for your inherent charm. There was another reason you were threatened, and it wasn't from Angus. The threat came from Sally."

              He shook his head. "No."

              "Um, yeah."

              "I'm telling you no."

              "Sally belonged to a group called the Greater Good Citizen's Government, an anonymous faction of nut job bigots. They want to clean up Vermont. Was it because you were gay? Or was there another reason? Sally Kane works in theater, which means she's probably used to gay men by now. So I don’t think that's it, Tad Mills. So what is it, Tad Mills?"

              He stared at her with pursed lips and a broiling anger in his eyes. "It's Thaddeus."

              "Thaddeus."

              He went to the treadmill and grabbed a towel and swabbed at his face and hair. He threw it back onto the machine and spread out his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Thaddeus Schoenbaum Millstein III at your service. Doesn’t look too pretty on a marquee so I shortened it. No crime there."

              "I agree," Allie said softy. "No crime there whatsoever. But there are people out there who don’t think that way. Thank God they’re few and far between, and thank God the government has checks and balances in place to ensure that people like that never go beyond whatever basement apartment they meet in on Friday nights. Sally was one of them. She threatened you because you’re Jewish. I suppose her day job working in the representative's office lent her a modicum of credibility, but it had another advantage: She was able to cajole the office into sponsoring bills that would serve the group’s bigoted ends. Like, for instance, banning non-union workers from the show. It was a petty bit of maliciousness perpetrated by a petty little mind. But I guess that's how those minds tend to work. Any opportunity to indulge their worst instincts. You were the only non-union guy down at the theater?"

              "No," he said calmly. "A couple of the stagehands I think were non-union."

              "Well, you want to make an omelet..."

              "I guess."

              "Why, Tad?"

              "Why what?"

              "Why did you lie?"

              He sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands. A small chuckle came from his throat. "You know," he said, picking his head up, "I've been asking myself that ever since it happened. And you know something? I have no idea. But I will say this:
You
go and be the only Jewish kid on the block, or the neighborhood, or in the class or the entire school. You grow up with your parents telling you that you have to hide yourself well. Don’t call yourself Thaddeus. That's a strange name. Tad is more American. Get rid of the Schoenbaum. And Millstein? Give it a haircut. And no mannerisms, son. They’ll give you away. No Yiddish. No inflections. Gay? Fine. Just as long as they don’t know the truth about you. Well, sweetheart, I say you oughta try growing up with that. Your parents telling you to be ashamed of your heritage. Try it once. Then come back here and ask me again why I lied. I lied because I don’t know any other way."

              "And that's why you didn’t go to the police in the first place?"

              He nodded. "You hate me now."

              "No, I don’t hate you."

              "Do you think I killed Sally Kane?"

              She couldn’t answer him; she could only pay reverence to the creeping coldness in her gut. Her stomach fluttered as she tried to speak.

              "You don’t have to answer," said Tad. "That look says it all. Well, I guess I have a pretty good reason."

              She looked around the apartment and saw a tie draped over a chair. She went over and picked it up. It was fine silk, and yet Tad had tossed it over a chair like an old coat. She threw the tie at him. "Tie this into a square knot for me."

              "A what?"

              "A square knot. Just do it."

              He stared at the tie for a moment, and then tied it into a perfect square knot.

              Allie smiled.

              "You care to share with the rest of the class?"

              "Where'd you learn to do that?"

              "Boy scouts."

              "I thought so."

              "Ok."

              "The killer tied a square knot. No one knew that except for Del, the cops, and me. And the killer."

              "So you do suspect me."

              "Tad, I did. I'll admit it. Not a hundred percent, but, say, eighty-five percent. But you understand what just happened? Had you killed that woman, you would've known what I was getting at when I tossed you the tie. You would have tied a granny knot or a bowline or you would've said you didn’t know. But you didn’t do any of those things. You tied a perfect square knot and I love you for it."

              "Well I love you too. So we're cool now?"

              She breathed a sigh of relief. "Very."

              "Would you like to have lunch?"

              "I would love to, but I have to run." She ran out the door and shouted, "Raincheck!"

              Then she got into her car and headed out toward Route 5. Destination: Teller Farms dairy.

              It looked like any other farm: several acres of nowhere running flat and well-groomed for as far as one could see with a rust-colored building situated far off to the right, and two silos like rocket ships standing steadfastly by its side.             

              She saw a little man in jeans and a plaid shirt, attired irrespective of the weather, she thought. Out here for a long time. Acclimated. Older man. Takes his time. Farm owner.

              "Hi there," she called to him.

              Without a word, he walked slowly over to the fence where she stood.

              The man nodded. "Hello."

              "I was wondering if you could help me. I'm one of your milk delivery subscribers and I—"

              "Well!" said the man, suddenly displaying more than just a mere hint of emotion. "Nice to meet you!" He grabbed her hand and pumped it furiously.

              "Yes, ok, hello."

              "Which one are you?"

              "Pardon me?"

              "Which subscriber? What's your name?"

              "I'm Allie Griffin."

              "Ah, of course," he said, pointing to the side of his head."Allie Griffin of Green Street. Of course, how are you?" He continued shaking her hand.

              "Fine. Listen I'm going to need this hand for grabbing egg rolls."

              "Oh, hey, I'm sorry," he said, letting go.

              "You'll have to pardon me, but how did you know my address?"

              "We only have five subscribers. No, wait, four. One kicked out yesterday."

              "Four?"

              "Ayuh. Used to be five."

              "I don’t understand. There was a bevy of college kids at the farmers' market that day. No, not a bevy, this was a swarm. And you're telling me they only got five subscribers, and I was one of them?"

              "Ayuh. Looks that way."

              "Hoo-kay. Well, maybe you can help me. I need to know who delivers my milk."

              "Nothing wrong with the service?"

              "Nothing at all. Just curious."

              "Well, we got ourselves a few different vehicles for deliveries all over. We add the residential route to the commercial one, you see. The guys take turns driving."

              "I see. And is there any way I could find out who delivered to me on a particular day?"

              "You'll have to ask the missus. She takes care of the personnel. I do the herd and some tilling."

              "Is your wife here?"

              He looked at the barn behind him. "Gee I don’t know."

              "Anyway we can check?"

              "Ayuh. Go right on in and ask around."

              He opened the gate for her and she walked through. She looked back at him and he stood watching her and smiling, and then he gestured for her to keep on walking.

              It seemed like a very long time before she got there. A very long, manure-smelling time. She would have sworn at one point that the barn was receding as she approached, as if playing a game of chicken with her. And speaking of chickens, several of said creatures flapped and flurried out of her way with loud complaints. This was their home, they told her, and she was invading their space.

              The inside of the barn looked about what she expected it to look like. A row of stalls, each one encasing its own dairy cow lowing to itself, lined up to her right. Beyond that, two more rows. The place was large enough to house a small piper plane with room for a square dance.

              Off to the side was a door leading into what looked like a fairly modern office. Taking this door, she was indeed surprised to see that it was just that. What a contrast, she thought. How did farms function in the old days, if such an awkward melding of old and new technology seemed to suit the enterprise so well?

              "Hi there," said a robust woman.

              "I was just speaking to a man that I guess was your husband?"

              "Yes, he just texted me to say you were on your way. Allie Griffin of Green Street. You want to know who's delivering your milk?"

              "Yes. Exactly."

              "Did he tell you they take turns delivering?"

              "He did."

              "Ok..."

              "I guess he didn’t text you the rest. I need to find out who delivered on a specific day."

              "Ah. No problem," she said, turning toward a four-foot wide file cabinet behind her and sliding out the top drawer. What day was it?"

              "This morning."

              She immediately shut the drawer and turned to her desk, casting an eye upon Allie that accused her of a very slight, though precious, waste of time. She grabbed a clipboard off the top of her desk. "That'll be Jo."

              "Is he here?"

              "Jo's a girl. Josephine. She's out at the moment. Oh wait...yes, that'll be her now." The woman yelled, "Hey Jo?"

              "Yah?" answered a high-pitched voice.

              "Allie Griffin of Green Street is here to see you."

              No answer.

              "Jo?"

              "Be right back," said the voice.

              Allie went out the office door and saw the woman who had been speaking rushing toward a door in the back of the barn.

              "Wait!" Allie yelled. "Jo? Jo, I need to talk to you for just a second! I need your help!"

              Jo stopped and turned around.

              Jo was Susanna Comfort.

              Allie squinted at the diminutive girl. "I know you."

              "Hello again."

              Allie stood ten feet from the girl. The surreality of the moment faded fast and gave way to a moment of pure clarity. Clarity, with unanswered questions brewing in it.

              "We need to talk," said Allie. "Can we go somewhere?"

              After a moment's hesitation, Susanna Comfort said resolutely, "We can walk around here. There's nobody around for miles."

#

              The sun was beginning to dip in the sky. The air smelled of manure and hay and fresh wind. It was not an unpleasant sensation to be out here in the open flatness. Vermont was a place of looming mountains. This was a welcome respite from the imposing stature the mountains asserted over everything. Even though this life wasn't for Allie Griffin, she had no trouble seeing how farmers could love their work.

              "It's strange," said Allie, "when I first met you, I would never have pictured you working here.

              "I'm an actress, Allie. You know how you can tell an actress? They're never acting."

              "I've heard similar things from Del."

              "Yeah? Well I need to make money somehow. I figure this is as good a way as any to make a buck. It's as fruitless an effort toward reaching my artistic goals as working in the quarry or waiting tables."

              Allie watched the girl move. She was small, yet muscular. She wore leather gloves that enlarged her hands. And the tan that covered her body was different from the tans of starlets or Club Med vacationers. This was a tan that had been earned over days and days of tough as nails work. Her face was soft, but her eyes and her manner of looking far off into the horizon as she spoke told the tale of countless mornings awakening to the croaking of roosters, the mournful lowing of cattle, and the chill of frost in the air. She wore a plaid shirt that was opened at the wrists. Her jeans were tough. They were the pants of a working man, or boy. Allie got the impression that Susanna Comfort could, and most likely did, win a few fights against boys on the playground. A teasing comment here or there regarding her tomboy appearance building up over time and then finally erupting. It was this impression that came over Allie as the girl spoke in harsh tones using harsh words. And the wonderful irony of her chosen stage name hit her now as well. Susanna, a folksy farm girl's name; Comfort, the sound of home and coziness and everything good and warm and billowy in life. It was the perfect dichotomy that was in this girl beside her, speaking of her life growing up with the longing to do art, to feel art, to sing and dance. And how it was next to impossible to convince her father that this was her dream, to be like the people she saw in movies. Studying hard. Reading. Learning about the theater and all the wonderful things that the theater was capable of bringing to people. It was as human as working on a farm and growing and nurturing things for people to use and to eat. In other words, it was exactly what Jo—Susanna Comfort—was in her heart of hearts.

              "I hate to ask you this, but I need to know why you did it."

              "Why'd I do what?"

              "Write that note."

              "What note?"

              "Come on, Jo— Susanna, whatever your name is. Someone left a note in my milk delivery this morning. I know it was the person delivering the milk who left it. Beautiful Soup? A reference to
Alice
?"

              There was a very subtle change in the girl's features. Perhaps too subtle for someone not looking for it. Allie had been looking for it.

              "How did you know it was me?"

              "Well, the reference to Sally Kane, for one thing, was a pretty big tip-off."

              "No. I mean that letter could've been written by anyone and then left there. How did you know it was the person who actually delivered your milk?"

              "Oh. Well, because of the way it was folded. Anyone delivering a secret note would take care to fold it completely. This one was folded just enough to fit into the cooler without unfolding on its own. It was almost rolled. It took me a minute to realize it, but it was folded in the exact manner that my milk bill is folded when it's shoved into the mailbox."

              Whatever subtle change had begun across the girl's face was now asserting itself unabashedly.

              "I'm still waiting," said Allie. "Why did you do it?"

              The girl bit her bottom lip. "I read about you. About the rich girl being murdered in your home. There are stories about it all over the Internet. They said you're good with codes."

              "They say a lot of things on the Internet. I'm not that good with codes. I just know where to look."

              "Well then I guess that's all that was needed. You're here, aren’t you?"

              Susanna Comfort was obviously beating around the bush and it was starting to test Allie's patience.

              "Fair enough. So why did you do it?"

              The girl looked around, as if to check and see if maybe a spy drone was hovering somewhere nearby. Then she turned back to Allie. "Someone had to tip you off. I was afraid to."

              "Afraid of what?"

              Susanna Comfort smiled incredulously. "You really don’t know? That organization she belonged to, it's not a joke. I wouldn’t want to be caught tipping you off. Do you understand where I'm going here?"

              "Jo— I'm sorry, what do I call you?"

              "Susanna is fine. I'm going to have it legally changed."

              "Susanna, you have no reason to fear that I'm going to reveal who told me what. I'd never put you in any danger. I have friends on the force."

              "Not that detective guy."

              "Ok, not him. But others. I'll never reveal the source of my information."

              The girl became visibly nervous. "What are you going to do next? Tell the cops?"

              "I might give them a lead or two once I'm sure my info is good."

              "Who do you think did it?"

              The question caught Allie off guard for a moment.

              "Me? Um, I don’t know. I mean, I think I know what
type
of person killed Sally Kane."

              "Ok," said Susanna Comfort, "then what type of person did it?"

              "Someone who hated her enough to watch her die in that way. Strangulation is an angry method of murder. It takes strength and a steel nerve to watch someone die in that manner."

              The girl licked her lips. The sound of her tongue revealed a very dry mouth. "Tad Mills hated her."

              "Yes he did. But he didn’t kill her. It's a process of elimination."

              "Ok," said Susanna.

              Allie watched her for a moment. The girl didn’t return her gaze, but instead chose to focus on a cloud formation building slowly far off, edging toward them like a stalking ghost.