1 Death Pays the Rose Rent (15 page)

son had brought his machine to Lickin Creek and left it here. And Richard had found it in the Kirkpatrick house. The box I’d thought was a tape recorder was that same machine. And the seance was an effort to see if it worked.

But what did that have to do with Richard’s death …or LaVonna Hockenberry’s mysterious disappearance?

“LaVonna Hockenberry,” I said. “The castle housekeeper. Would there be anything about her in your papers, other than her birth announcement?”

P.J. nodded and brought last year’s book to me. She opened it near the center and walked away without saying a word.

The article was dated last August, and the headline was straightforward: “Local Farmer Hangs Self in Barn.” The gist of the article was that LaVonna had returned home to the farm from her work at Silverthorne Castle to find her husband, Micah, had committed suicide by hanging. The farmer was reportedly despondent over a recent bad investment that had made it necessary for him to sell the farm, which had been in his family for generations. Mr. Hockenberry, the article said, worked part-time at Silverthorne as a gardener.

A recent bad investment! “P.J., what do you have about the Mexican oil scheme that Richard was involved in?”

“Hmph! Too much. Start at the beginning of that volume.”

She was right about there being too much. But some of it I was able to skim over. It had started last

year with a meeting at the Holiday Inn Ballroom in January, where some “specially selected” people were offered an opportunity to make the investment of a lifetime. Richard had introduced a financial manager from New York who had presented a plan whereby the people there would form a co-op, all putting in an equal amount of money, which would then be invested in a “no-fail” Mexican oil discovery company. Apparently most of the guests had leaped at the chance to make a quick buck.

Several weeks passed before someone asked Richard why he hadn’t received the company’s promised prospectus. The following week, it was reported that the financial manager had left New York with no forwarding address. For several weeks, meetings of irate stockholders were held, the Borough Council met in emergency sessions, and Richard MacKinstrie spent a lot of time explaining that he had entered into business with the financial manager in “good faith” and had lost a lot of his own money, too.

At last I found what I was really interested in. The paper listed all the people who had been conned, including Rose Thorne and Micah Hockenberry. So, it turned out LaVonna did have a motive for murdering Richard after all—revenge for her husband’s death.

I needed one more bit of information from the Lickin Creek Chronicle. At the seance, when Sylvia had been so upset about not finding a ghost, she’d said she thought there were always ghosts where there had been violent deaths. And then she mentioned the first Sylvia and her father. The first Sylvia’s violent death I knew about. Her father’s, I didn’t.

“No problem,” the efficacious P.J. said. “That would be thirty-three years ago. Quite a tragedy for the family.”

The entire front page of the paper had been devoted to the accidental death of Michael Thorne. His many business accomplishments were listed, as well as his many civic and charitable works. He died of a broken neck suffered in a fall down the great stone stairway at Silverthorne Castle. He was survived by one daughter, Rose, and one grandson, Michael.

“One daughter! How could they have forgotten to put in Sylvia’s name?”

“You won’t find the answer to that question in the paper,” P.J. said with a grin. “How about if I just tell you the gossipy stuff? All the news that wasn’t fit to print.”

She lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, coughed three or four times, and began. “I was in my early twenties. Just started working for my father here at the Chronicle. We got a call from one of the maids at the castle that there’d been a terrible accident out there, and old Mr. Thorne was dead. I rushed right out and found it was true. The ambulance was just taking him away.

“I walked into total pandemonium. Sylvia was doing a mad scene from Hamlet. Rose had collapsed and was unable to speak, and poor little Michael was crying for his ‘gramps’ to come back. It took several volunteer firemen to wrestle Sylvia to the floor and hold her down long enough for the doctor to sedate her. It was quite a spectacle.

“By the time she was carted off to bed, more re-

porters had shown up, and a TV crew had arrived from Harrisburg. The family lawyer read a statement, written by Mr. Thorne the day before his death, in which he disowned Sylvia. She was never to be referred to as his daughter again. She was to leave the castle immediately, and she was completely disinherited.

“The attorney had come to the castle that day to get the documents signed, including the new will. After Mr. Thorne did so, he called Sylvia in and told her what he had done. That set her off, according to the maids—screaming and breaking antiques. Rose told me later she had even pitched a vase through one of their priceless Tiffany windows.

“Mr. Thorne ordered her to go to her room and pack. She ran out of the library, yelling, I could kill you for this.’

“Poor Mr. Thorne announced he was going to his room to rest. A few minutes later, he lay dead at the foot of the great staircase.

“Poor Sylvia blamed herself for his accident. Told everyone that it had been her fault because their terrible fight had upset him so much that he lost his balance and fell.

“Rose, of course, insisted that Sylvia stay. She’s always treated her as though they had inherited equally from their father.”

“Whew! That’s some story. I wonder what she could have done to have angered her father that much.”

“We all wondered, but I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. It’s particularly strange because just the year before she had made a brilliant presentation about the forgotten Rose Rent Festival and had been the leader of the movement to resurrect it. Her father was enormously proud of her. She was considered quite the heroine—even named Woman of the Year by the Chamber of Commerce.

“On the other hand, Rose disappeared for two years, then came home with an illegitimate baby. You’d think if anyone was going to get disowned, it would have been her.”

P.J. stopped and squinted at her watch. “You’d better get moving, Tori. You don’t want to be late for your date with Garnet.”

“How did you know …” Oh, hell—why even bother to ask? Everyone knew everything in Lickin Creek.

P.J. turned back to her desk, crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray’s detritus, and lit another. Tendrils of bluish smoke coiled around her head. Her cough followed me out the door.

After being in that dark, cool old building for so long, the heat rising from the brick sidewalk was scorching. I thought I might walk back to Alice-Ann’s, but soon regretted that decision. I was a sorry, sweaty mess by the time a bearded man in black Men-nonite clothing, driving a truck from “Aby’s Abattoir,” picked me up. He drove me directly to Alice-Ann’s front door, where he left me with a tip of his flat, wide-brimmed straw hat. I didn’t even ask how he knew where I was going.

The front door was unlocked, as usual. A habit of

Alice-Ann’s that really bothered me, especially now that there was a murderer running loose.

“Hi, I’m back,” I called out. My voice echoed through the downstairs rooms. I knew immediately there was no one home.

I thought of my poor kitties. I’d ignored them all day. There was just time to take them outside for a short romp. As I approached the sun porch, I saw a note tacked to the door. Except it wasn’t tacked but pinned there by a heavy-duty butcher knife.

I pulled it off and read: CURIOSITY KILLS CATS

The letters were of different sizes, crudely cut from newspapers and glued on an ordinary sheet of white typing paper.

I threw open the door in a panic, afraid of what I might find. Both cats hoisted themselves to their feet, yawned, stretched, and came over to weave around my ankles. I fell on my knees and kissed them both. What kind of monster could threaten poor, defenseless animals? But I already knew—the same kind of monster that could cold-bloodedly kill a man with a hammer!

I took them into the kitchen where I treated them to a saucer of milk. Alice-Ann and Mark came in the back door. They were talking, but stopped when they saw my solemn face.

“We went out to lunch, and then to the park. Mark, why don’t you go upstairs and wash up?” Alice-Ann said.

As soon as he was gone, she grabbed my arm.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I handed her the note.

“Unbelievable. Someone doesn’t want you to find Richard’s killer.”

“Well, that ‘someone’ doesn’t know me very well. I’ll move heaven and earth, if I have to, to find out who threatened my little sweethearts. And you, Alice-Ann, you’ve got to start locking your doors.”

“I’m not even sure I know where the keys are.”

“Find them,” I ordered. “I don’t want to scare you, but this person is a murderer, and there are three people in this house, besides two cats, who could be in danger.”

Alice-Ann slumped into a chair. “This is awful.”

“I think it’s going to get a whole lot awfuller,” I told her.

CHAPTER 14 

I took the cats up to my room, where they stretched out on the bed and watched me do some serious body work. Tonight, I was going to knock Garnet Gochenauer on his chauvinistic ass!

Thanks to Alice-Ann’s offer to help myself to anything I needed, I bathed in jasmine-scented bubble bath, pumiced dead skin off my feet, removed ugly cuticles from around my nails, and polished all twenty of them with a delicate frosted-peach color. With a curling iron, I tortured my usual boyish cut into a fluffy pouf, and I accented my dark eyes with three shades of eye shadow, as recommended in the six-page instruction booklet that came with the makeup. Powder, blush, mascara, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, control-top panty hose, my only pair of high heels …and there she was …tah dah …”Cosmo Girl”!

I had only one dress with me, pale blue rayon, slim skirted, sleeveless and cut low in front. Wearing only the panty hose, I put on the dress and took a critical look at myself in the full-length mirror. Better leave bralessness to Praxythea, I decided, taking off the dress. But just wait till I lose fifteen pounds, I thought, as I fastened the hooks on my good, sturdy underwire Bali and put the dress back on.

At exactly six, I heard something grind its way up the driveway, splattering gravel in every direction. I peeked out a side window and saw the biggest, reddest granddaddy of all monster pickup trucks parked outside. It had tires nearly five feet high and four big searchlights mounted on top of the cab. There were enough antennas sprouting to receive messages from Mars. Mounted on the rear end was a winch with a chain that could have anchored the QEII. All that was lacking was a huge German shepherd to stand snarling guard duty in the back.

I waited for the doorbell to ring, then opened the door to find Garnet standing on the top step, wearing jeans and a black-and-white version of the local plaid shirt.

My first date with Paul Bunyan.

His grin went from ear to ear. “You look wonderful! Really great!”

Just seeing that smile made all the hard work worthwhile.

I picked up my purse and followed him out to his truck.

“Where’s your German shepherd?” I asked innocently.

“At home,” he said, not getting the joke. “How’d you know I had one?”

“Lucky guess.”

My skirt was too tight for me to step up into the

cab, so he put his two big paws on my rear end and gave me a shove that sprawled me headfirst on the seat. He had a good chuckle over that, while I struggled to regain my dignity.

It wasn’t long before we were out of the town and driving along a country road through some of the loveliest scenery I had ever seen. Garnet acted as tour guide, pointing out the apple and peach orchards, the canyons of green corn, topped with waving golden tassels, and the harvested fields where the hay was left rolled in neat cylinders awaiting winter. Between farms were low walls built of piled-up gray stones, reminding me of Yorkshire, England. The barns were all much larger than the farmhouses and were decorated near their peaked roofs by openwork designs in the brick. Garnet explained that the openings were originally left for ventilation, and that it gradually became a source of pride for the craftsmen to come up with their own unique designs. Some of the barns were decorated with hourglass figures, several with stars, and one with a donkey.

In contrast to the large, whimsically decorated barns, the farmers’ homes were mostly small, neat, two-story brick buildings, often with second-floor balconies, but definitely no-frills housing.

The road we were on rose steadily, and before long we were able to look down over the entire valley. Garnet pulled the truck over to the side of the road and stopped.

“We’re on Rattlesnake Ridge Road,” he told me. “It’s one of my favorite drives. Want to get out and look at the view?”

“I can see it okay from inside the truck. Is it true that snakes can wrap themselves around a tire, slither through the engine, and get inside a vehicle that way?”

“Absolutely!”

I tucked my feet up under me, and he roared with laughter.

It really was a breathtaking view. From where we were, the houses and barns looked like the miniatures that hobbyists set out around their model railroads. We could even see the Borough of Lickin Creek, with its many church spires rising above the trees. And there were more shades of green down there in the farms and orchards than I ever dreamed existed.

“I’ve always had a dream,” Garnet said, “of someday buying land up here and building a log home. The living room will have a two-story-high cathedral ceiling and a glass wall overlooking the valley. Can’t you imagine how beautiful it would be to sit in front of a roaring fire, with a glass of wine, listening to La Bohdtne on the stereo, and looking down on a blanket of fresh, white snow? Or maybe you’re not an opera lover?”

Garnet was deliberately showing me a side of his personality I hadn’t seen before. One I liked a lot.

“Indeed I am an opera lover, and your dream home sounds heavenly. I hope it becomes reality for you soon.”

From his smile, I could tell he liked my response.

We continued on to a tiny village, hardly more than a few buildings at a crossroads. According to the

small white sign, with several rusty bullet holes in it, the village was named Rocky Mound Forge.

There were dozens of cars and trucks parked along the sides of both roads. Garnet pulled in behind a truck that could have been the twin of his, except it was blue instead of red.

After he amused himself by lifting me out of the front seat, he led me along a cracked sidewalk to the fire hall, where a plastic banner hung across the front announced:
TONIGHT
—
SLIPPERY
POT
PIE
AND
HOG
MAW
—

BENEFIT
FIREMEN
’
S
AUXILIARY
.

“Garnet, is this where you’re taking me for dinner?”

“Well, yeah. The fire halls always serve the best meals—real Pennsylvania Dutch home-cooking.” My face must have shown the disappointment I felt because he added, “Remember where you are, Tori. Lickin Creek isn’t exactly known for its gourmet restaurants.”

As soon as we walked in, I knew I was seriously overdressed. Most of the women wore plain cotton dresses or polyester pantsuits, and the men all had on jeans and plaid shirts. Whether they wore boots or high-topped sneakers seemed to be optional.

They sat on metal folding chairs at long tables covered with white paper. Every person in the room turned to stare at us as we entered.

After a moment of curious silence, there came a chorus of: “Hey, Garnet.” “Yo, Chief. How’s it hanging?” “Ten-four, good buddy.”

Garnet returned the greetings: “Hey, Darnell.”

“Hi, Luke.” “Yo, Marlin.” “Got ya, Peck.” “Prettier than ever, Roxy.” “How’s the baby, Myrna?”

It took about fifteen minutes to hail and yo our way to the food table.

A three-hundred-pound woman, with a disastrous permanent, lumbered around the counter to embrace Garnet. He almost disappeared in the rolls of blubber but didn’t seem to mind at all.

“How’s my favorite girl?” he asked.

She trilled that familiar girlish giggle that he so often managed to elicit from women. “Jest fine, Garnet. Gittin’ married again, next month.”

“Who’s the lucky fellow this time, Velvet?”

“Phares McPherson. Know him?”

“Sure do. He’s a good man. I wish you both all the best.”

“At least he ain’t a drinker like the last two.” She smiled at me. “You the chief’s girlfriend?”

Garnet broke in quickly, “This is a friend of mine, Tori Miracle. Tori’s a writer, Velvet.”

“No kidding? Do you write for them love-story magazines? I really like them …they’re so true to life and all.”

“No, I write books.”

She was obviously disappointed, but patted me on the shoulder and said, “I’ve never been much for reading books. But that’s okay, hon. You jest write what makes you happy.”

“Thank you,” I murmured weakly.

“Land sakes. Here I am a-jawin’ away and you’uns starvin’ to death. I’ll jest dish you’uns up the best dinner you ever et.”

She proceeded to heap food upon two enormous white Styrofoam platters. First there was a thick slab of some kind of mystery meat wrapped around stuffing. Over that she poured two huge ladles of gravy, the color of dandelions. That was joined by a heaping spoonful of sauerkraut and another spoonful of green beans, potatoes, and ham chunks. The whole thing was topped, like a sundae, with a bright red, peeled hard-boiled egg.

Garnet and I carted our overflowing plates to an empty table in one corner. Velvet followed carrying two plastic bowls, which she plunked down in front of us.

“You’uns forgot your slippery pot pie,” she said with a smile. “Now, when you’uns is ready for dessert, jest wave. I’ll save yuh some shoofly pie.”

Garnet had already cut his red egg in half, revealing the brilliant yellow yolk in the center.

“Why is it red?” I asked.

“Beet juice,” he said as he stuffed half the egg in his mouth. “Try it. It’s good.”

I cut a small slice and took a bite. He was right. It was good. I decided to be brave and try the meat, after first scraping off the congealing yellow gravy. It was sort of grizzly and greasy, but I did like the stuffing in the middle.

The slippery pot pie was strange to my tastes. I think it had some chicken in it and some hunks of slimy boiled dough. “Are you going to tell me what I’m eating?” I asked, taking another mouthful of meat and stuffing.

“Hog maw.”

“What’s that?”

“Just your basic pig’s stomach, stuffed and baked.”

The food in my mouth refused to go down. I tried to chew it some more, but finally gave up and spit it, surreptitiously, into my napkin.

Garnet didn’t notice. He was eating his with obvious enjoyment. “It’s a local favorite. On the nights it’s served at the Moose, you can’t get in.”

You can spare me the pleasure, I thought.

Velvet descended upon us bearing steaming mugs of black coffee and about a quarter of a pie for each of us.

I took a bite of the pie, found it much too sweet, and pushed the plate to one side. Garnet finished his and started on mine.

“Garnet,” I asked, “how is the murder investigation going?”

“You mean Richard’s murder?”

“Of course I mean Richard. Are there any others?”

He stuffed a forkful of pie into his mouth and shook his head. “About as well as can be expected, I guess.”

“Meaning …you don’t know who did it, right?”

He shrugged noncommittally.

“Something happened this afternoon that frightened me.” I reached in my purse and pulled out the threatening note that had been left on the sun porch door. Something made me pause as I started to hand it to him.

“What’s the matter?”

I sniffed the paper. “I was too upset to notice it earlier, but it smells like Praxythea’s perfume.”

Garnet held it up to his nose and inhaled deeply. “I don’t smell anything.”

“I have a very sensitive nose.”

He read the note with a frown on his face. “How could anyone get in the house?”

“Alice-Ann doesn’t lock her doors. She doesn’t even know where the keys are.”

“Of all the damn fool things …you bolt those doors from the inside tonight. I’ll send Lucy Lockit out tomorrow to put new locks on.”

“Lucy Lockit? Fowler’s Flowers. Uriah’s Heap. Did anyone ever tell you this town suffers from terminal cuteness?”

He nodded. “My ex-wife. Just before she went back to Philadelphia.”

“I didn’t know you’d been married.”

“Right out of law school. She promised to take me for better or for worse, but not for Lickin Creek. She’s married to another lawyer now and lives on the Main line. We’re all a lot happier.”

“Children?”