The Devil's Puzzle (19 page)

“I burned a batch of garlic bread, so I’m trying again,” he told me as I walked in the door. “Cooking really isn’t my strong suit, so I apologize in advance.”

“What are you worried about? You’ve cooked for me before.”

He blushed. “I haven’t, actually.”

“Last month you made me fried chicken.”

“Actually, my mother made it.” He grabbed an oven mitt and pulled nearly burned garlic bread out of the oven. “I just said I’d made it in an effort to impress you.”

“That clinches it. Everybody has secrets.”

“Who besides me?”

“Eleanor.”

As I started to tell him about Eleanor’s loan to Ed’s father, Allie came running in the kitchen, excitedly explaining about the nice lady who had bought her an ice cream cone that afternoon and promised another one for tomorrow.

“Molly,” Jesse explained.

“She’s bribing your daughter now?”

“My mother dropped Allie off at the station while she was there. They both like ice cream.” He shrugged.

“Should I be jealous?” I asked, teasing. Even in my most insecure moments I couldn’t picture Jesse being interested in someone as annoying as Molly.

“Yeah. You probably should be really nice to me and do whatever I ask so I don’t end up leaving you for a college freshman.”

I laughed. “She can have you if you’re going to be that high maintenance.”

Jesse heaped spaghetti on my plate and passed me the garlic bread. “She’s just enthusiastic about uncovering some old family secrets.” He smiled. “I would think you would understand that.”

“I do,” I admitted. “I just don’t want her getting in the way.”

Jesse nodded, looked on the verge of saying something sarcastic, then seemed to change his mind.

“While you’re checking into Ed’s past, you probably should check into Glad’s past as well.”

“You think Glad Warren has a police record?”

“No, it’s just she’s having secret meetings with the mayor and leaving urgent messages for Eleanor. And there’s something else. That day at the library, I gave her a brief description of the body, and Winston’s name just popped out of her mouth. I thought that was odd. I tried to ask her about it today, but she kind of caught me off guard.”

“Eleanor saw the body, saw the clothes, and she didn’t think of Winston,” Jesse said.

“Exactly. And she probably knew Winston far better than Glad Warren. She was living in his mother’s house. In his house.”

“So why didn’t she think of him when she saw the skeleton?” Jesse looked a little suspicious for my taste.

“She didn’t think of Winston because she wasn’t expecting to find him there.”

“But Glad was.”

“That seems possible,” I said. “Did you find out anything about Ed?”

“No arrests. None for Winston Roemer, either. But there was an interesting incident. Apparently Ed and Winston got into some kind of confrontation on July 3rd of that year. Nothing physical as far as I can tell, but the shouting was bad enough for someone to call the police.”

“Over what?”

“No idea. According to the report, the police were called to the bank to break up a fight, and when they got there, Ed and Winston were yelling at each other, accusing each other of something.”

“But they weren’t arrested?”

“No. They both were prominent men in town. And it sounds like they were just overheated. The chief at the time separated the men and sent them on their way. Apparently he only made a report to satisfy the president of the bank, who seemed pretty upset by the idea of the two men fighting in his bank.”

“Glad’s father.”

“Exactly.”

“Who was the chief? Can we talk to him?”

“He died five years ago.” He poured me a glass of wine. “But we can talk to Ed tomorrow.”

“I talked to Ed about Winston today,” I said. “And he never mentioned any fight. But I don’t think that’s the only thing he’s hiding.” I told Jesse about the conversation outside the theater and about the candle and other items I’d found in his projection booth.

“Doesn’t sound like Ed,” Jesse said. “It seems more like something Mary Shipman would do.”

“Dru called her a witch. She seemed to think she had something to do with the break-in at the library. I think that’s terrible of her to say.”

“Have you met Mary?”

“No. I’ve never even seen her.”

“You don’t want to. Believe me, she’s strange.”

“Something else that’s strange,” I said as I pulled out the note warning me to mind my own business. “I found it on my windshield this morning. I meant to tell you at the station, but the whole Molly thing got in the way.”

Jesse studied the note. “This is a threat, Nell.” He looked worried.

“So what do I do?”

“I think you do exactly what it says. You stay away from the investigation.”

“I’ve been trying to.”

“Well, obviously, someone doesn’t believe you’ve been trying hard enough,” he said. “And who knows what they might be capable of.”

At about two in the morning I slipped out of Jesse’s house and made my way home. I left Jesse’s quiet street and drove toward the center of town, relishing the silence and anxious to get to my own bed. But just as I was turning from the edge of the cemetery, past the church, and onto Main Street, a woman darted in front of my car.

I slammed on the brakes and watched as the woman ran into the cemetery, not paying attention to where she was going. I watched to see if anyone was following her, but the streets were empty. Just in case she was in trouble, I pulled the car over, got out, and started to walk toward the graves.

As I opened the gate, I heard a noise. I could hear myself breathing but tried to ignore it. This was just headstones and bones, I told myself. I walked a few steps farther. There was no sign of the woman who had run into the cemetery, and I began to question whether it was even a woman. All I really knew was that it was a person, probably no taller than five-five or five-six, wearing a woman’s trench coat, running. I wasn’t sure of the hair color or the age, or whether the person was drunk, in trouble, or just stupid enough to run in front of a moving car.

I found myself muttering the warning on the note: “Mind your own business, Nell Fitzgerald. Or you’ll regret it.” I knew that half of me was inclined to do exactly what the note’s writer, and Jesse, wanted me to do. And the other half—the stubborn half—was standing in a cemetery in the middle of the night because I’d seen something I couldn’t explain. I stood, silently debating which half should win, before finally giving in to fear and common sense.

“Not everything that happens is my concern,” I told myself for the third or fourth time today. “And I need to get my sleep.”

I’m not a cowardly person. I’ve confronted people I thought had killed someone. I’ve broken into houses in search of clues. But walking among headstones on a dark, moonless night, chasing the closest thing to a ghost I’d ever seen, required more bravery than I had in me. I took three more steps before I decided to turn around.

But as I did, something got my attention.

I walked over to the headstones that were placed closest to the church, the oldest part of the cemetery. Most of the headstones in that area date from the sixteen and seventeen hundreds and are worn and faded. Centuries of weather have eaten away at what were once long messages lamenting the loss of husbands, wives, and children. Now many have lost their lettering completely and have even sunk into the ground, leaving stumps where large, proud headstones once stood.

But among this sad collection, one stone is well cared for. John Archer’s small grave marker had been replaced recently, with an elegantly carved marble stone engraved with the words:
“John Archer, 1630–1661, From his Sacrifice, in his Honor, a Town was Born.”

Though tonight the words were not so clear. Red paint—at least what I hoped was red paint—had been splattered across his headstone. I reached a finger hesitantly toward the stone and wiped it across the red mess. I moved toward the street lamp by the church and confirmed my suspicions. It was paint, and it was wet.

I walked out of the cemetery and back toward my car. There was no sense in waking up Jesse in the middle of the night to investigate another vandalism. I called the police station and let the officer on duty know what I’d seen, then I settled into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear. Just as I was ready to pull onto Main Street, a car sped past me. It was going far above the twenty-five miles per hour speed limit. Too fast to read the license plate. But I didn’t need to see the plate. It was a lemon yellow BMW, and there was only one person in town with a car like that. Glad Warren.

CHAPTER 30

T
he next morning I headed to Jitters for coffee and to start my search for Glad. It didn’t make sense that she would vandalize John Archer’s grave, but there was no denying that it had been her car that nearly crashed into mine in the middle of the night.

Glad wasn’t at Jitters, but two cups of coffee and a chocolate doughnut were there waiting for me. Along with Molly.

“This seems like a great place to hang out,” she said when she saw me.

“It is.” I waved to Carrie. “I think everyone in town comes here at one point or another.”

“That’s why I’m here. So I can talk to people.”

“About Winston? Molly, most of the people in town didn’t even know him. And those who did don’t want to be interrogated over their morning coffee.”

“What are my options? It’s not like Jesse is giving me addresses of any of his suspects. I have to start somewhere.”

Carrie saw me finishing my second cup of coffee and came over with a full pot. “I’ll give you a refill if you tell me what happened at the cemetery last night.”

“Someone threw red paint on John Archer’s grave,” I told her. “I think Jesse is there now, trying to figure out which high school kid was in the mood to pull a prank.”

“One of my customers said it probably was Mary Shipman’s doing, but it won’t be investigated because she’s Glad’s sister,” Carrie said. “Personally, I think it’s tied into the murder.”

“Of my uncle?” Molly asked.

Carrie jumped at the statement. “Your who?”

“Her great-uncle was Winston Roemer,” I explained. “She’s here to solve his murder.”

“Oh, well,” Carrie stammered. She looked toward me with a puzzled expression. “Does Jesse know about this?”

“He knows, and so far he’s all for it,” I said.

“Who is Mary Shipman?” Molly asked. “Can we talk to her?”

“Who’s talking, and what about?” Natalie had snuck up behind me and nearly got a cupful of coffee on her T-shirt for startling me.

I didn’t want to admit it, but Molly had a point. Everyone kept talking about Mary Shipman, but so far no one had talked
to
her. Maybe she knew something, and there was only one way to find out.

“I’ll tell you about it on the way to Mary Shipman’s house,” I said to Natalie.

“Really? Cool. But you have to drive. I can’t fit behind the wheel anymore.” She patted her alarmingly large belly.

“When are you due again?”

“July 26th.”

“Are you having twins?”

“Actually, I’m having one regular-size baby and about thirty pounds of fat.” She eyed what was left of my doughnut. “What’s one more pound?” she asked as she grabbed it and stuffed it in her mouth.

“What do you know about Mrs. Shipman?” I asked Natalie as we drove toward her house at the edge of town. We’d left Carrie at Jitters with a shop full of customers, but Molly wasn’t willing to stay behind. She sat in the backseat, determined to question Mary about the death of Winston. “Eleanor told me she’s Glad’s sister, a year older,” I said. “They were very close growing up, and now she’s the town recluse.”

“Her husband died in the mid-eighties. He was really young, maybe thirty-five. My mom said he fell off a ladder,” Natalie said. “And she, apparently, had an affair with Ed Bryant.”