Nickeled-And-Dimed to Death (13 page)

“Whatever.” Hannah shrugged.

She and I turned on all the lights, and the place began to fill with the first customers of the day. The hours after lunch and before school let out were usually slow. Often I didn’t see a single shopper from one to three, which is why during the rest of the week Hannah worked mornings. But on Mondays, because the store had been closed for the past forty-four hours, there was always a crowd.

The excited voices created a cheerful hubbub that wasn’t muted by any acoustical tile or cork matting. Instead the sound of people socializing echoed off the old tin ceiling and hardwood floors. When I bought the place, I also purchased the adjoining building and knocked out the shared wall, which had doubled the interior space, but I had tried to keep the character of the original variety store intact.

Hannah and I worked steadily, helping customers find items, cleaning up messes created when people rummaged through our carefully arranged stacks of merchandise, and, my favorite, ringing up purchases on the old brass cash register. Its distinctive
ding
always made me smile.

At quarter to two, the dozen or so members of the Knittie Gritties, a knitting club that met at my shop, started to trickle in. I gladly provided them with the space, and—as with the other craft groups that met at the dime store—I gratefully reaped the benefit of their purchases. In addition to buying the materials for their projects from me, they also bought refreshments and any other bits and pieces that caught their eye.

I welcomed the participants, then walked them to the crafting alcove. Generally, I didn’t hang around during the club’s meeting, but today I was hoping to hear some gossip about Elise Whitmore and her murder, so I stayed.

For the scrapbookers, quilters, and sewers, I set up long worktables, but when the knitters, crocheters, and needlepointers held their meetings, I hauled out the comfy chairs and ottomans.

When the group had first started meeting at my store, I’d been surprised by the participants, figuring it would be mostly little old ladies. But the ages ranged from early twenties to nearly ninety, and there was even one man. Interesting how often we’re wrong when we try to pigeonhole people.

I greeted Irene Johnson as she plopped into the seat next to me. She was a new addition to the group, and this was only her second time attending. Irene kept house for several individuals in town, and Noah had mentioned that he was now one of her clients, as well.

She was a tall, solidly built woman, and it was clear from her stoic air and calloused hands that she worked hard to support herself. Cleaning up after other people wasn’t an easy way to make a living, and I sympathized. After buying my store, I finally understood the saying “Nickeled-and-dimed to death.” If it wasn’t one expense, it was always another.

Irene and I chatted for a few minutes; then I asked her, “Did you hear that Elise Whitmore was murdered over the weekend?”

“Sure.” Irene rummaged in her knitting bag. “It was all over the news.”

“Did you know her?” I kept my voice low, but the others were busy getting their materials ready and not paying any attention to us.

“No.” Irene shook her head. “She didn’t do much business in town. She even used some fancy cleaning service from the city rather than one of us locals.”

“How silly.” It seemed to be a common practice of the Shadow Benders who worked in Kansas City to spend all their money in KC, even when they could get the same items or services cheaper and/or better locally.

Excusing myself, I got up and wandered over to Vivian Yager, the founder of the Knittie Gritties and the owner of Curl Up and Dye. I particularly wanted to talk to her because not only was her beauty shop a hotbed of gossip, but she was also Vaughn Yager’s aunt. She had raised him after his mother passed away, and I figured if he’d confided in anyone about Elise’s marital problems, it would be her.

Vivian embodied all that was great about a small town. She had a sparkling personality and a heartfelt smile. She’d grown her little group of knitters from three or four to more than twelve, and welcomed the new additions as if they were old friends.

I leaned one hip against the wall near her chair and said, “How’s Vaughn doing? I understand he and Elise Whitmore were good friends.”

“He’s devastated.” Vivian didn’t question how I knew about her nephew and the dead woman. This was a small town. Eventually everyone knew everything.

“Did you hear that the police released Boone St. Onge?” It had dawned on me that Vivian was a good person to spread the news about my friend’s innocence. “Turns out the prosecutor declined to press charges against him.”

“No, I hadn’t heard.” Vivian ran her finger over the embroidered daisy pattern on her knitting bag. “But I’m not surprised. Boone’s too sweet a guy to do something like that. The cops probably just wanted a quick answer and didn’t care if they got the right person.”

“The whole situation is so awful.” I pasted a shocked expression on my face. “I can’t believe we’ve had a murder like that in Shadow Bend.”

“It is downright scary.” Vivian clanked shut the round metal handles of her bag. “To think that someone is breaking into people’s houses and killing them. I guess I’d better start locking my door.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Is it true that Elise was getting a divorce?”

“Yeah.” Vivian
tsk
ed. “Her husband, like so many other men, just couldn’t keep it in his pants.” She arched a brow at me. “Speaking of men, how’s that hunky U.S. Marshal of yours?”

“He’s doing great. He’s returned to duty,” I answered noncommittally.

“In St. Louis?”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded, then brought the subject back to the murder. “Do you know who Elise’s husband was messing around with?”

“Nope. Elise refused to tell Vaughn who she was.” Vivian slipped the point protectors off her needles.

“I wonder why,” I murmured. “So Vaughn never knew the name of Colin’s lady friend?”

“Right.” Vivian gave me a strange look. “That’s what I just said.”

“Sorry. My mind must have wandered.”

“No problem.” Vivian patted my hand.

After checking that she had everything she needed for her group, I returned to the front of the store. The after-school crowd would be in soon, and I had to make sure the soda fountain was fully stocked and ready for the onslaught. I’d found out the hard way that making hungry teenagers wait for food was never a good thing.

While Hannah and I made sundaes and milk shakes and doled out candy, I kept an eye on the front door. Luckily, except for the kids and the knitters, there were no other customers, so both my clerk and I could concentrate on feeding the adolescent masses.

Just as we got done serving the last of the teenagers, the Knittie Gritties took a fifteen-minute break. For five dollars each, I provided coffee, tea, and a selection of cookies and pastries. Payment was on the honor system—the group members deposited their money in an old cigar box—so after putting out the cups, plates, utensils, napkins, and goodies, I went over to the front register. I sat on a stool with my laptop on the smooth marble counter and surfed various online rare-book sites, looking for titles I could use for current and future basket orders.

When the Knittie Gritties finished their treats, they strolled past where I was sitting as they headed back to their corner. Generally, I blocked out their chatter because most of the conversation between members was about their projects, their children or grandchildren, and the weather—an always fascinating topic in rural Missouri. But today I listened in, and as the last pair drifted by, I was rewarded.

“What do you think about that murder over the weekend?” the youngest member of the club asked Addison Campbell, the only male Knittie Grittie. “Do you think we should be scared that some serial killer is running around town, or is it someone she knew?”

Addie, as he was known, owned and operated the Shadow Bend Pawn Shop and Jewelry, which was a fertile field for the local grapevine, so he usually had the lowdown.

“My money’s on her husband.” Addie laid a giant paw on the tiny brunette’s arm. “I heard the lawyer was released and nothing is missing, so in my book that leaves Computer Boy as the prime suspect.”

Addie was a huge man with multiple tattoos. Rumor had it that he had ink in places most men couldn’t stand a single needle prick. I admit it: When he’d first joined the club, my preconceptions had reared their ugly heads. I had been shocked that a guy had signed up, especially one with tats, earrings, and a shaved head. That he’d arrived on his Harley had really startled me.

But Addie had explained that his anger management coach had suggested the hobby and that working with the needles and various fibers soothed him. Now as I approached him, I had to smile at the T-shirt he was wearing. Against a gray background was a picture of two green skeins of yarn and the words
REAL MEN HAVE BALLS.

The young woman nodded, then said, “But why would Colin kill her?”

By this time, the twosome was nearly out of earshot, and I quickly rounded the counter and followed them back to the craft alcove. I ducked behind shelves and displays as I went, and then hid next to a rack of scrapbooking accessories once they reached their destination.

“He might have been banging everything in skirts,” Addie said, his voice disapproving, “but Elise was really screwing him royal in the divorce.”

“How’s that?” the brunette asked as she settled back in her seat.

“Not only did she sell all his possessions; she emptied their joint accounts, canceled their mutual credit cards, and then tried to get him fired.” Addie grunted as he dropped into the chair.

“But eventually Colin would get his share.” The woman picked up her needles. “When I went through my divorce, my husband tried to take everything but the judge ordered him to give me my cut.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to wait.” Addie concentrated on executing an intricate stitch, then added, “Or maybe for some reason he couldn’t wait.”

Hmm.
I narrowed my eyes. Addie had a good point. Had Elise’s husband needed something she was keeping from him so badly that he had to kill her to get it?

CHAPTER 13

I
t was almost closing time before I had a chance to check my text messages. Poppy and Tryg had confirmed that they’d be at the meeting at Boone’s that night, but Noah hadn’t replied. It was a shame there wasn’t an app that allowed me to tell if my text had been read. Then I would know if he was just too busy to check his phone or if he didn’t want to come but was too much of a wuss to tell me no.

Granted, it would be an awkward situation for both men, and I sympathized. However, if Noah truly wanted to be back in my life, he and Boone would need to bury the hatchet. I just hoped it wouldn’t be in each other’s skulls—or in mine, for that matter.

As I locked up the front entrance, shut off the lights throughout the store, and walked from the storage room’s exit into the tiny parking lot behind the building, I contemplated my next move. Should I let the matter drop? Noah had already told Poppy and me all he knew. Maybe he didn’t truly need to be present tonight.

No. Noah had to pull up his big boy boxers and show me that he had truly reformed. When we dated in high school, I was always the one who gave in and tried to be the way he wanted me to be. But I was no longer that girl, and now it was his turn to do the changing.

Having settled that matter in my mind, I needed to figure out what to do about Noah’s nonresponse. I had forty-five minutes to do that, pick up the pizza, and get to Boone’s place. At least I didn’t have to run back to the house to check on Gran, because she and her friend Frieda were on a senior bus trip.

A couple of times a month, the Shadow Bend Savings and Guaranty Bank organized an excursion for the golden-oldies crowd. One of the bank employees arranged for the group to attend a play or go shopping or—as in this trip—travel to one of the gambling boats. They weren’t due back until nine, so there was plenty of time before I had to get home.

After some thought, I decided to phone Noah rather than text him again. That way, if he answered, I’d know, and I wouldn’t have to guess whether or not he saw my message. I wasn’t sure what hours his medical clinic was open, so it was possible he was still working. Because I was reluctant to deal with his staff—who knew how they felt about me after all the years Noah and I had been on the outs?—I tried his cell first.

He picked up on the first ring. “Dev, I was just going to call you.”

“Oh.” Why did his voice cause my heartbeat to accelerate? A friend, which is all he was, shouldn’t have that effect on me. “Then you saw my text?”

“I only read it a few seconds ago,” Noah said. “My last patient walked out the door at six fifteen and I don’t carry my phone while I’m in the examination room. I figure if anyone wants me, they’ll call the clinic.”

“Right. Good to know.” I stalled, unsure what to say next. Why did this feel so uncomfortable? Was it because I really wanted Noah to come to the meeting? Would that prove to me he had really changed?

“Anyway,” Noah said, interrupting my thoughts, “I’m free this evening, and if it’s all right with St. Onge, I’d be happy to join you guys.”

“Great.” Now all I had to do was clear the way with Boone. “I know he’ll want to thank you for all your help.” I crossed my fingers that Boone would be in a reasonable mood and see things my way.

“Yeah, well.” Noah’s tone indicated he was unconvinced. “So, I’ll see you at seven thirty.”

“Yep,” I agreed, then added, “There’ll be food, so don’t worry about dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Noah said. “Can I bring anything? How about I get something for dessert? That new place that opened up next to the tearoom is supposed to have terrific pies.”

“Perfect.” I sure wished he would quit being so doggoned nice. This new Noah was making it very hard to resist falling for him again.

After we hung up, I stopped at the local pizza joint and picked up the two unbaked pizzas I had ordered earlier. I’d asked for them uncooked so that once everyone arrived at Boone’s we could pop them in the oven and wouldn’t have to worry about them getting cold before we were all present and ready to eat.