A Tale of Two Biddies (15 page)

“So, what is it?” The excitement in Chandra’s voice shivered through the still night air and she gripped my shoulder with one hand hard enough to make me wince. “What do you see?”

“Boxes,” I reported, and even I wasn’t sure what it meant or how I felt about it. “Stacks of cardboard boxes.”

“Makes sense.” Luella stood to my left in front of the door and I heard her shuffle against the wooden porch. “You remember what Alice told us. She saw Richie and Gordon moving boxes the night Richie damaged Gordon’s boat.”

“He would have had personal items on board,” Kate said. “Clothes and probably food and—”

“Boxes,” I said again before they could convince themselves that their theory was right. I looked up and over my shoulder from one woman to the next. “Not just a few. Not like the couple it might take to carry some stuff from Gordon’s boat.” Just to be sure, I stuck my nose as far as I could get it in the gap of the window opening and slid my light around the kitchen. “Dozens of boxes. And if I look real hard . . .” I did, and was just able to make out the doorway that led into the dining room and the dozens more boxes stacked in there. “They’re maybe three feet high and two feet long,” I reported. “I’m not very good at guessing, but I’d say I can see at least fifty of them. Maybe more.” I sat back on my heels and looked up at my friends. “No way these are personal items Gordon and Richie moved off the boat. Not unless Gordon had everything he’s ever owned on board.”

“What does it mean?” Kate asked.

I didn’t know, and I’m not sure how taking another look was going to help me figure it out, but take another look I did. I crouched back down, squinched up as close to the window as I could, and arced the beam of my flashlight over the boxes one more time.

And that’s when I saw it.

“Blue logo,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else. “There’s a blue logo on the boxes and I’ve seen it before.”

Thinking through this new development, I plunked my butt down on the porch. “Richie’s house,” I finally said, though no one had asked me. “It’s the same logo that was on the carton of Dunfield cigarettes in Richie’s bedroom next to the purple Sharpie and the picture of the Defarge sisters.”

Luella’s mouth fell open. “There’s been talk among the boaters, whispers more than anything else. About people smuggling cigarettes into Canada. There’s a huge black market there for American smokes. You don’t think—”

“I don’t know.” I closed the window, hauled myself up, and brushed off the seat of my pants. “But—”

But what?

But we had to tell Hank.

But we couldn’t tell Hank without explaining what we were doing at Gordon’s in the first place and how we were peeking in his windows.

But we’d have to say something because if there really was something havey-cavey going on, and if Gordon was involved, it was our civic duty to report it.

But we didn’t really know the details, at least for now.

But I didn’t have any time to think about any of that, because just at that moment, we heard the sound of a door opening and closing from the cottage next door and saw Mason Burke walk out the back door.

No, I stand corrected.

He didn’t
walk
out of the cottage. He
slipped
out, very quietly, even though as far as he knew, there weren’t four women on the porch next door, hunched over in an effort to make themselves invisible.

We didn’t have to worry.

With a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and his jacket collar turned up (it was way too warm to wear a jacket), Mason put his head down on his chest, hurried to the front of the house, and disappeared down the road.

“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Luella asked in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “But there’s something awfully familiar about . . .”

About what?

Really, I wasn’t sure. I only knew that watching the way Burke shambled off into the night reminded me of something. Or someone. Neither of which I could place.

Rather than waste the brain cells, I concentrated on what I could get my thoughts around and leaned over the porch railing to search darkness. “He’s dressed all in black,” I reported to them when I stood upright again. “And he’s carrying something big and square. Come on.” I led the way down the steps, grateful for my sneakers, and shushing my friends with a hand gesture when they whispered among themselves.

Out at the road, we could just see Mason as he disappeared into the darkness.

“He’s probably just going to the concert,” Kate suggested. But then, of all of us, Kate has the least imagination.

“Or he’s headed into town to pick up something for his wife,” Luella said. But then, of all of us, she has the biggest heart.

I glanced over my shoulder at the cottage where there wasn’t even one light on.

Chandra noticed, too. “Maybe she goes to bed early,” she suggested. But then, of all of us, she’s the one most willing to believe that people are, at heart, good.

Unfortunately, I didn’t necessarily agree. Not about the goodness or the kindness or the fact that Mason Burke, dressed in black and slinking through the night, was doing nothing more than going to hear Guillotine pound the living daylights out of their guitars.

With that little someone/someplace memory still niggling at the back of my brain and beckoning me on, I headed off down the road after Burke and the other Ladies fell into step behind me. Keeping as far back as we could, but still able to keep an eye on our quarry, we followed Mason Burke all the way into town.

He stopped now and then, hoisting the flat, square package he carried and switching it from one arm to the other, and when he did, we stopped, too, stepping into deeper shadows when we could find them, elbowing Chandra when she forgot that this was real life and not TV and started to comment about how much her feet hurt.

We were nearly all the way back to the park when Luella dared to mutter, “The concert. That has to be it. He’s going to the concert.”

But he wasn’t.

Burke bypassed the park completely and turned down the street toward Levi’s.

Except he wasn’t looking for a drink.

As one, we stopped cold and watched Burke march up the steps to the Defarge knitting shop.

As it turned out, it wasn’t the smartest of moves on our part. We stood in the halo of a streetlamp, and after all that time of being quiet and careful, Burke caught sight of us.

“Oh.” His surprise was nothing but a momentary glitch. “Good evening, ladies,” he called out. “Going to the concert?”

Since he was willing to act like we hadn’t just been caught gawking at him, I decided to play along and sashayed over to where he stood. “That’s exactly where we’re going. How about you?”

“I’ll be along in a minute.” He was a nice man with a cordial smile. He moved the clumsy package from one arm to the other. This close, I saw that whatever it was, it was about two feet tall and another wide, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“Do you need some help with that?” I asked him.

“This?” Burke looked at the package as if he’d forgotten it was there.
As if
being the operative words in that sentence. He carefully set the package in front of Alice and Margaret’s front door. “No, no,” he said, and he added a laugh to the statement like that was supposed to somehow prove that the last thing he needed was an assist from a woman who was dressed all in black, just like he was. “It’s a . . .” He laughed again. “Well, it’s supposed to be a surprise, but I don’t think it will hurt to tell you.” By now, Chandra, Kate, and Luella had come up behind me, and he included them in the look he shot all around. “It’s a gift from my wife,” he said. “For Alice and Margaret.”

Before any of us could ask why anyone would deliver a gift in the middle of the night, he went right on. “She was so grateful for that yarn I picked up here the other day, I can’t tell you. Why, when I left the cottage tonight, there she was knitting and knitting and knitting some more. The woman is a knitting machine!”

Apparently she was a machine that knitted in the dark.

Burke didn’t know I knew this. That would explain why he acted as if nothing was wrong. “My wife and I, we happened to see a poster at a garage sale here on the island yesterday,” he said, pointing to the wrapped package. “It’s a picture of a woman knitting, and I told my wife it reminded me of that drawing I saw inside the shop, the one that hangs behind the cash register. My wife insisted on buying the poster and I went out and got a frame for it and now I’m going to leave it.” He made a sort of
voila
gesture toward where the package leaned against the door. “You know, as a surprise.”

“That’s really nice,” I said at the same time I backed away and wished Burke a good night.

“Well, so much for following the guy,” Luella muttered when we were far enough away so Burke couldn’t hear. “Here we thought he was acting suspicious and he was just being neighborly.”

She was right, and I was appropriately shamefaced.

That is, until we turned the corner to continue on to the park and I took the chance of peeking around the side of the nearest building.

I was just in time to see Mason Burke glance around. Sure the coast was clear, he picked up that wrapped package and hurried off into the night with it.

If you ask me, that’s a funny way to leave a surprise for the nice old ladies at the knitting shop.

W
e have reputations on South Bass.

I mean, reputations as something other than the four nosy women who look into murders they have no business investigating.

Kate has the winery. Luella, her fishing charter business. Though it amazes me every time I think about it, I know that Chandra is busy all summer doing tarot and crystal readings for tourists who apparently have too much time on their hands and too much money in their pockets and too little common sense to know when they’re being taken for a magical, mystical ride.

Me? I’m proud to say that in the months since it has opened, Bea & Bees has earned a reputation for its wonderful (if a little over-the-top in some of my guest suites) Victorian ambiance, the quality of its food, and the friendliness of its innkeeper.

Like it or not, we had no choice. We had to go back to the concert.

If we didn’t, we’d look like we didn’t support the chamber of commerce.

Believe me, our fellow merchants would notice.

We joined the crowd of partiers just as Guillotine started into their second set. There was no guillotine on stage, I noticed, and frankly, I wasn’t surprised either by that or by the pounding bass line, the thumping drums, or Dino’s rough, raging solos. In spite of the tight black pants and white shirts with billowing sleeves that were supposed to make them look like they just stepped out of the French Revolution, Guillotine was hard-core tough, the driving music seemed to say. Even if the ladies screaming and swooning in the front row were all dressed in bubblegum pink.

I played my part and listened semi-intently for a couple songs, then casually moved toward the fringes of the crowd. Just as I was hoping I would, I spotted Gordon Hunter and made my way over to where he watched the celebration, a smile as big as all of gay Paree brightening his face.

“It’s . . . well! Everyone . . . wonder . . . time.” Though I couldn’t hear all of what he yelled into my ear, I was able to fill in the blanks.

Because there was no hope of being heard in turn, I nodded.

“We’re getting . . . great reaction . . . our visitors.”

Another nod.

“I just wish that guillotine—”

The song ended, and suddenly Gordon screaming in my ear wasn’t such a good thing. I backed away and applauded along with the rest of the crowd (except for the women in the first row who cheered with all the enthusiasm of rabid Scottish soccer fans). I’d hatched a plan the moment I laid eyes on Gordon and now seemed as good a time as any to put it into action.

“Do you have a cigarette?” I asked him.

It wasn’t my imagination. Or a trick of the charming made-to-look-like-gas-lamps streetlights that marched up and down the sidewalks that surrounded the park.

Gordon actually did blanch.

He patted down the pockets of his blue blazer, which, as it turned out, was kind of a weird thing to do since he replied, “I don’t smoke. Didn’t know you did, Bea.”

I was evasive. “Just that sort of night. Party atmosphere and all.” I knew I didn’t have much time before Dino started up again, so I did a quick survey of the buildings across the street. The souvenir shops were closed, but the bars and restaurants were open to take advantage of the crowds. I could see they were packed. A brief and annoying thought fluttered through my head: I hoped Levi’s was busy, too, then I wouldn’t have to worry that I might bump into its proprietor.

“I could probably buy a pack of smokes at any of the bars,” I said, furiously consigning thoughts of Levi to the nether regions of my brain where they belonged. “I never keep any around since I hardly ever indulge. I wonder if anyone around here sells Dunfields.”

The next thing I knew, someone somewhere in the crowd was infinitely more interesting than me, and Gordon disappeared. He never even said good-bye.

Where had that little bit of nicotine-laced prevarication gotten me?

Well, to be perfectly honest, not far. But it did make me wonder if it was possible that Gordon really was smuggling cigarettes over the lake into Canada . . .

And if Richie damaged a boat full of those cigarettes and had to help Gordon offload them . . .

And if Richie realized Gordon was up to more than just emptying the boat’s refrigerator and getting his skivvies back on dry land . . .

And—

A bolt hit out of the blue.

Or maybe it was just the electric vibrations of the first earsplitting chord of the next Guillotine song that shivered in the air and made my sternum quiver.

“Richie already had twelve thousand dollars, and he said he was going to have a lot more money very soon.”

Poor Kate. When I saw her walking by with Jayce Martin, I didn’t even bother to explain the train of thought that had brought me to this particular station. I grabbed her by the shoulder and yelled into her ear and repeated myself. “Richie said he was going to have a lot more money very soon. What if Richie knew about the smuggling?” Now that I had her attention, I didn’t need to scream quite so loud. “What if Richie was blackmailing Gordon? And Gordon—”

Neither one of us needed me to finish the sentence.

Kate’s mouth fell open and she simply nodded to let me know she understood, and because there was no way the two of us could hope to even begin to explain what was up to Jayce (and probably no way we wanted to, anyway), she vanished into the crowd with him.

Just for the record, I noticed he had a hold of her hand.

As for me, I heaved a satisfied sigh, and it had nothing to do with thinking that maybe Kate had finally set aside her a-little-bit uppity attitude that Jayce, as a ferryboat captain, wasn’t good enough for her and realized he was a great guy and he adored her. No, my satisfaction came from thinking that the pieces of the puzzle that was Richie’s murder were finally starting to fall into place, the fog was lifting, the day was dawning.

Except . . .

Somehow, I managed to block out the discordant rhythms of Guillotine and concentrate on the case. Song after song didn’t exactly float past (they were more of the stomping variety), and I found myself facing the inescapable fact: Gordon was looking like a good choice for most-wanted perp, but there were still others I needed to consider.

As if the Universe was listening and providing me the push I needed, across the park I caught sight of a flutter of gauzy yellow.

Didi and Dan Peebles. Believe me, I hadn’t forgotten that of all the people who hated Richie’s guts, Peebles had one of the very best reasons. Gordon Hunter might be currently at the top of my list of those-who-might-have-dunnit, but I am nothing if not thorough, and I knew I needed to get my information lined up nice and neat. I zigzagged my way through the crowd and as luck would have it, arrived at the picnic table where Dan was entertaining a group of people just as Dino called out, “Good night, Put-in-Bay! We love you!”

Yes, the word
cliche
crossed my mind.

I waved a greeting to Peebles and his guests and said
no thank you
to a glass of wine which they weren’t supposed to be drinking in the park in the first place. Since I knew Dino and the Boyz would be coming back onstage soon for the encore they’d been anticipating and thus practicing all week, I asked Peebles if I could speak to him privately for a minute.

“She’s looking for a deal on a car!” Like we were long-lost buddies, Peebles looped one arm around my shoulders and spoke loud enough to be heard in Sandusky, all the way across the lake. “Best used car deals on the mainland,” he added, and with his free hand, slapped the nearest man on the back. “You have my promise, and she knows it, too.” He gave me an extra squeeze. “Girl is from New York, and even she knows you can’t get a better deal on a used car than you can from Dan Peebles. I’ve got financing, too,” he told me with one of his signature, broad winks. “I promise, I can get a nice, low payment, even for somebody like you who must just barely make a living operating a motel like you do.”

Good thing my teeth were gritted, or I might have set him straight both about the motel and what he assumed were my reduced circumstances. Too bad. It would have been especially satisfying to point out to the big blowhard that I could buy and sell him a couple thousand times over.

Instead, I controlled my temper and my tongue. At least until we crossed the road and stood just outside the dock where, what seemed a lifetime ago, we’d all gathered to celebrate the start of the big Bastille Day weeklong celebration. That’s when I slipped out from beneath Dan’s clingy grip and said a little prayer that I hoped Peebles was about to incriminate himself.

Honest, it would have given me a special kind of tingle to see him in prison orange.

“So . . .” He didn’t just rub his hands together; he chafed them as if he was sure this was one way to start a rousing good bonfire. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

“You can stop calling me little lady.” Since I managed to say this with a smile, he thought I was kidding.

“I was going over the final bills back at the B and B,” I said, emphasizing those two initials just a bit and hoping he realized they did not in any way, shape, or form spell
motel
. “I knew you’d be busy tomorrow morning over at the B and B, and I didn’t want to bother you then, what with you packing and leaving the B and B. I just wanted to make sure. You arrived at the B and B . . .” Yes, I was laying it on a tad thick. I reminded myself that pride goeth before the not finding out who the murderer was, and told myself to get a grip. “You checked in at the . . . You arrived at my place on Thursday morning. The same day you arrived on the island, right?”

“Checked in to your sweet little place on Thursday.” Peebles nodded right before he gave me another anything-but-subtle wink. “But truth be told, little lady, that’s not when I got to the island. Nope. Got here on Wednesday.”

Wednesday. And Richie was killed on Wednesday night.

This bombshell from Peebles was something I hadn’t expected and I thought it over, wondering what to say next. “Wednesday! Is that so? I was just checking—”

“Just checking to see if I could have possibly killed that no-good loser, Richie Monroe.” Peebles slapped my back with so much force, it nearly knocked me off my feet. He held out an arm to keep me from falling over, but he didn’t apologize. “Of course you’re checking! Everybody on the island says you’re some sort of detective or something. That you’re looking into the murder. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me if I killed the SOB.”

“Did you?”

Peebles didn’t need to turn up the volume so I could hear him over the musical stylings of Guillotine. He was way louder than the band. “I guess I’m the logical suspect,” he finally admitted with a snort of laughter. “But I’ll tell you what, lately, it never crossed my mind.”

“Because . . .”

“Because I’m not that kind of man!” I wasn’t sure if it was a particularly drawn-out bass note or Peebles’s rip-roaring laugh that vibrated the sidewalk where we stood. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “I thought about it a time or two. I mean, back when the house first blew sky-high. But that was months ago, and I’m over it now. Have been since we went to court and I got justice.” There was the wink again. “And damages.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him. Oh wait, it was. “What time did you arrive?” I asked him.

“On the island? Got the five forty-five ferry out of Port Clinton,” he told me. “So it must have been a little after six.”

Which meant he was on dry land by the time someone laced Richie’s drink with pokeberry.

“But I didn’t kill the guy,” Peebles said. “I was . . .” This time, he didn’t bother with a wink. I got an elbow to the ribs instead. “Me and Didi, we were over at the new house site. You know they laid the foundation last weekend. And I wanted to check it out, make sure it was done right. Even planned a little surprise for Didi while I was there. Brought along a little pop-up tent and we set it up right there where the house is going to stand. We kept each other busy keeping busy, celebrating, if you know what I mean.”

I did.

As for taking his statement at face value, that was another matter altogether, and I guess Peebles realized it. He raised an arm and made a semaphore wave toward his party in the park. “Didi! Hey, Didi honey!”

Yes, she heard him over Guillotine.

I was pretty sure all of Put-in-Bay did.

In short, short white shorts and a skintight orange tank, Didi shimmied across the street and Peebles didn’t waste any time. “Hey, honey, Bea here’s asking about us staying out at the house site on Wednesday night. You took pictures, right? Show them to her. I mean . . .” I think the way he lowered his voice to a manly growl was supposed to be sexy, and in Didi’s world, maybe it was. She giggled. “Show her the ones you can show her.”

Didi pulled out her phone and when her very long and very pink fingernails
clicked, clicked, clicked
to the proper screen, she turned the phone so I could see it. There in living color were Peebles and Didi dressed in matching black shorts and red camp shirts, outside a pop-up tent, champagne glasses in hand. Since he was far taller than her, I imagined he was the one who’d held up the phone above his head to snap the picture. Behind them, I could see a broad cement slab and the beginnings of wood framing, and beyond that, a strip of blue lake.