String of Lies (17 page)
“It’s the truth,” he said. “She’s been after me to clean them out. Whether she’d be at all interested in moving after I do it is a whole different story.” He gave a hint of a smile. “I might forget to suggest it to her.”
Jo laughed. “You like having your work space, huh?” Vernon had nodded.
Another senior citizen, Jo thought as she drove away from Pheasant Run, who felt attached to his home. Loralee hadn’t said much more about her own dilemma, but Jo was sure it was eating at her. She’d noticed Loralee pulling out a roll of Tums from her purse a few times during the evening, which was not a good sign.
Jo drove into her quiet neighborhood, which seemed even more still than usual on this starless January night. Everyone, she thought, was likely wrapped snugly in their quilts, either in front of TVs or in warm beds.
Jo pulled into her garage, lowered the door, and left her beading supplies behind in the car. She slipped past her small jewelry workroom, repaired from its damage of four months ago but sitting unused, and vowed she would find the time to return to her beloved metal craft as soon as this Parker Holt problem was cleared up. She entered the welcoming warmth of her kitchen, hung her jacket on a hook near the door, and dropped her keys on the counter. Glancing over at her sparsely furnished living room, Jo pictured Sebastian Zarnik’s paint-gun creation hanging on the wall and smiled, thinking how the artwork cost more than what she had paid for the entire secondhand contents of the room. Hopefully, Zarnik hadn’t picked up on that fact.
She considered fixing a quick cup of tea, but decided, after the fullness of the day, her wiser choice was bed. Not too many minutes later, Jo had begun pulling back the comforter when the phone rang.
“Jo?” a male voice asked, and it took her a moment to recognize it.
“Rafe?” She hadn’t run into Rafe Rulenski, the director of the Abbotsville Playhouse, for ages—or at least a couple of months.
“Sorry to call so late. We just finished up with rehearsals. How’s that kid doing? The one who fell into the pit here?”
Knowing Rafe, Jo suspected he hadn’t really called because of Charlie. The man was not known for a deep interest in the “little” people around him. The obvious proof was that Rafe didn’t remember Charlie’s name. But Jo played along.
“Charlie’s doing okay. He started back at school today.”
“Great. Glad to hear it. So it wasn’t too bad, huh?”
“A couple of cracked ribs. Painful but not life threatening. He’ll be happy to hear you asked about him.” Only four days after Charlie’s accident, but oh well.
“Right. Say, are you doing anything Saturday night?”
“Saturday?” This was a surprise.
“Yes. Like to go with me to the Founders Ball? It’s a dreary, dress-up kind of thing, but I have to go. I thought it’d be a little less dreary if you came along.”
What a silver-tongued devil this man was. Apparently the best her companionship could do was make his night a little less dreary.
Rafe plowed on. “It’s one of those ‘the whole town turns out’ functions. I’ve got to be there, talking up the playhouse and the support it deserves. Mallory Holt made me promise to show up, and if I don’t she’ll have my head.”
“Mallory Holt will be there?”
“Uh-huh. I know, it’s only a couple days after her husband’s funeral, but she says she’ll still be there. ‘The show must go on’ and all that. So, what do you say?”
Hearing that Mallory Holt would be there had suddenly made the ball tempting. “I’d really like to,” Jo said, “but I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
“No problem. You could probably find something in the playhouse’s stash of costumes. They’ll fit almost anyone. I’m borrowing one of their tuxes, myself.”
Jo grinned, imagining what her choices might be. Did she want to arrive at the ball dressed like Mary Todd Lincoln, or perhaps Lady Macbeth? Somehow, neither seemed quite her thing. “I’ll see if I can dig up something, maybe borrow a dress from a friend. It sounds like an interesting night, Rafe. Thanks for asking me.”
“My pleasure. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Jo hung up and climbed under the bed covers. So she’d finally get to meet Mallory Holt on Saturday night. Who else, she wondered, might be there?
Rafe’s words—
I’ll pick you up at eight
—ran through her head, words she hadn’t heard from a man in a long time.
I’ll pick you up at eight
—ran through her head, words she hadn’t heard from a man in a long time.
“It’s not a date, Mike,” she said as she closed her eyes, somehow feeling the need to explain. “He simply wants me along as a distraction, and I’m only going for Xavier and Dan’s sake.”
Either Mike had nothing to say on the subject, or Jo fell asleep within seconds.
The next morning, Jo was helping a customer select papers for an ongoing scrapbooking project when Carrie arrived. Carrie greeted them both, and though she had sounded fairly upbeat, to Jo’s more finely tuned ear the worries of the last few days were taking their toll.
“How’s your boy doing?” the customer asked. The red-haired, pleasantly attractive mother of two was putting together scrapbooks of her children’s individual achievements, both athletic and scholarly. Jo realized the older child, a girl, might be about Charlie’s age.
“He’s doing well,” Carrie answered. “Thank you for asking.”
The woman smiled and finished up with her purchases, chatting casually with Jo about how busy and active her family was and how she expected to fill many a scrapbook over the years. She thanked Jo for her help and took off. Jo turned to Carrie and, hoping to perk her up a bit, filled her in on her evening at Pheasant Run.
“I’d like to try to talk with this Heather Bannister today, if you don’t mind holding down the fort here again.”
“No, not at all. I’m so grateful for all you’re doing. So you think this former manager could be a suspect?”
“She’s worth looking at, anyway. Anyone who had a beef with Parker Holt is someone I want to learn more about. Has Dan had any luck talking with Holt’s workers?”
Carrie shook her head. “He hasn’t come up with a thing.” Carrie sighed, and looked at Jo with shadow-edged eyes. “Dan went to talk with Xavier last night. He’s worried—I mean
more
worried—about him.”
more
worried—about him.”
“Did things go badly for Xavier at the police station yesterday?”
“Yes and no. They still haven’t charged him, which is a good thing. But Dan thinks they’re still convinced Xavier’s the one. But there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Dan’s starting to get the feeling, and he swears he can’t put his finger on it as to why or what it might be, but he’s wondering if there’s something Xavier is holding back.”
Jo flashed back to her talk with Xavier at the apartment and remembered having the same feeling. It had something to do with the way Xavier looked when he spoke about his time—the critical time—spent picking up groceries. Was he merely envisioning that hour, trying to come up with someone who might remember he had been there? Or was it something else?
“That’s not a good feeling,” she said.
“No,” Carrie agreed worriedly. “Not at all.”
Price’s Hardware was a modest-sized store whose windows were packed with things like advertising posters, power tools, and mailboxes. From what Jo could see as she peered through the merchandise, the store currently had only two customers. She hoped they would leave soon and not be speedily replaced. She entered the store, and one or two heads turned to glance her way. Jo feigned interest in a chart of paint colors as she waited for a chance to talk to the owner.
She decided the older man behind the counter, discussing the merits of a certain snowblower with a heavy-set man, must be Jim Price whom she’d only glimpsed at TJ’s. Dark haired with graying temples, he appeared to be around fifty. He was perhaps five foot ten and looked fit, as though he actually used many of the tools he stocked and sold.
Jo caught sight of a younger man coming out of a back room and thought he must be Jim’s son, Gary. She recognized the buzz cut and now caught a resemblance to his father in his broad jaw and thick brows. Gary looked barely twenty-one, if that old. Jo remembered the youthful emotionalism in his voice as he complained about the unfairness of Heather Bannister’s situation. He clearly had a lot of sympathy for her problem. Whether she was truly deserving of it was something Jo hoped to find out.
The snowblower customer wound up the discussion with a declaration that he’d think it over for a while. The second man moved forward and laid his purchases—two boxes of nails and a roll of duct tape—on the counter, and paid for them with a minimal exchange of words. When he left, Jim Price looked over to Jo and called out, “Help you with anything, miss?”
“I hope so,” Jo said, and walked over. She introduced herself, then said, “I understand you’re related to Heather Bannister.”
“Heather?” Price said, surprised. “She’s married to my wife’s nephew. Why?”
“I’ve been talking to someone who had a problem as an employee of Parker Holt. A sexual harassment, loss-of-job problem. Mrs. Bannister used to work for Parker Holt at Pheasant Run. I’d very much like to ask her about her experience there. I wondered if you could put me in touch with her.”
Gary Price left a box of chrome faucets he’d been unpacking and came over to where his father stood, his face animated. “Is there a class action suit or something in the works?” he asked. “Are you a lawyer?”
“No, I’m not. I’d simply like to see if Mrs. Bannister ran into problems similar to this other former employee. It may or may not be of any benefit to Mrs. Bannister, but it would help us.”
“Heather was fired by Parker Holt and she didn’t deserve to be!” Gary said.
“We don’t really know the whole story, miss,” Jim Price said, tempering his son’s statement. “I got the feeling Heather was fairly embarrassed over whatever happened and didn’t want to talk about it that much. I don’t know if she’ll want to talk to you, but maybe it would help her to know she’s not alone. How about I give her a call and see what she says?”
“That’d be great.”
Price went to the back room, and in a moment Jo heard the sound of his deep voice talking into the phone. Gary fidgeted as they waited, and before long Price came back out. He nodded and handed Jo a slip of paper with an address on it.
“She says you could come over right now if you like. She’s been trying to sell real estate since she left Pheasant Run. But things are pretty quiet in January.”
“Thank you. I appreciate this.”
A man and woman entered the store, so Jo took her leave, Price nodding soberly, and Gary looking like he wanted to run out with her and follow along. Jo hated that she might be leaving him with a more hopeful expectation for what she was doing than was warranted, but she didn’t see any way of clearing that up that would still allow her to meet with Heather. Her first responsibility was clearly to Xavier and Dan. If it turned out that Heather Bannister had a connection to Parker Holt’s murder, Jo would turn her in without a second thought.
And Gary would just have to handle it.
Chapter 17
Jo found Heather Bannister’s house without much trouble. A two-story colonial, it looked more expensive than what an average young couple could afford. Jo wondered if this particular couple had banked on Heather’s higher paying job at Pheasant Run at the time of its purchase, and if her change of employment put their ownership at risk. Real estate could be an iffy career, particularly, as Jim Price had mentioned, in January.
Jo tapped the heavy, brass knocker on the front door, and a striking blonde woman in her late twenties answered.
“Jo McAllister?”
“Yes, hi. And you must be Heather?”
The woman acknowledged she was, smiled, and invited Jo in. She wore a blue cable-knit turtleneck that set off a perfect complexion and black knit pants that clung to her slim figure. Her blonde hair hung smoothly just below her chin in a cut that reminded Jo of a local news anchor—casual and chic.
“I was pretty surprised,” Heather said, “when Kevin’s Uncle Jim called.” She took Jo’s jacket and hung it on a brass coat tree in the corner.
“I appreciate you’re willingness to see me,” Jo said, “and I want to make clear right away that I’m not a lawyer.”
“But you had questions about my employment at Pheasant Run?” Heather led Jo into a living room decorated in pastels, with glass-topped tables and much light. A wedding photo dominated one of the side tables, showing a smiling couple beside an elaborate wedding cake. Heather gestured to one of the two sofas, inviting Jo to sit, and asked, “Coffee or anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine. To answer your question, yes, I wanted to know about your experience working for Parker Holt. I don’t mean to be intrusive, but someone I know had a fairly bad experience in his employ, and I need to know if she was alone in that.”
Heather crossed her legs, and one foot, clad in an ankle boot, bounced. “You know, I think I’d like something to drink. Come on with me to the kitchen. We can talk there.” She jumped up and led Jo into a sparkling kitchen, one that didn’t look much used, with black granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Heather took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and pulled glasses from a nearby cabinet. She set one down in front of Jo, who had slid onto a tall stool on the other side of the counter, and filled it without asking, then filled her own.
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