All Murders Final! (14 page)

Chapter 24

“What is it? You're as pale as that cloud up there,” Laura said.

“We've got to get back to the community center. I'll tell you on the way.”

We hurried back to Laura's car, and she drove over the twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit by a daring five miles. The base wasn't like the rest of the world. Here you really might be pulled over for exceeding the speed limit by five miles an hour—even by one on some occasions. The military meant business when they posted a sign. Maybe having security around wasn't such a bad idea. I filled her in as she drove up Travis Road, the main road that cut from one side of the base to the other.

“Call security,” Laura urged. “We don't know what we'll find up there.”

I called the nonemergency number, which I knew by heart from the days when CJ was the squadron commander. Even as I explained what had happened, I knew how strange it sounded.

“We'll send a car right away, Mrs. Hooker,” the airman who answered the phone said.

Even though I identified myself as Sarah Winston, people from the base often forgot I'd gone back to my maiden name. Laura and I beat the security forces to the community center. We pulled up near the couch. The sign and the cat were both gone. A squad car screeched up beside us. I was happy to see that James was the first one here.

“Stay in the car while I look around,” he told us.

We nodded gratefully. A couple of other cars pulled up, one belonging to the two guys from the bowling alley who'd said they would help us move the couch. The troops started to scatter.

I rolled the window down. “Please look for a small black and white cat,” I called after them. I couldn't bear to think that Tux or his twin was roaming loose.

From past experience I figured the photographer was long gone. Focusing on the cat was a lot easier than focusing on the reality of getting another picture. First, a photo of me finding Margaret, then the creepy photos commenting on my clothing, then the one of me heading into my apartment, and now this. A direct threat. Did someone really want me to die? Who? Why? A thousand other questions tumbled around in my head like laundry in a dryer while I sat there. I shot off a text to Stella asking if she was still home and if Tux was there. She wrote right back answering yes to both.
Whew
. Laura called her husband to let him know what was going on. A few minutes later James came back and motioned for Laura and me to get out of the car.

“Do you have any idea where the picture was taken from?” he asked.

I looked at the couch and then turned my back to it. I faced the TLF, the temporary lodging facility, a hotel of sorts for military people, which was surrounded by woods. I pointed to a spot near a Dumpster that seemed like it would be at the right angle to photograph the couch. And there were plenty of trees, along with the Dumpster, to hide behind and easy access to parking to get away. Talk about déjà vu. “I got a picture . . . the day I found Margaret More. It was taken by someone hiding in the woods, too.” What the heck was going on? I was not sure why, but I didn't want to tell James about the other photos.

James's eyes lit in recognition.

“The police said there were some cigarette butts near a tree. Maybe someone should check for some here.” I pointed again toward the spot the photo seemed to have been taken.

James spoke into the radio on his shoulder. A guy and girl hurried from the community center to the woods. At least with James on the case, I might have a chance of finding out what was going on.

“Let's go take a look inside the community center,” James said. “We've already been through it, but you ladies might have a better idea if anything is out of place.”

“Can you help us carry the couch in?” Laura asked. “We can't do it alone.”

James picked up one end, and Laura and I took the other. With a bit of huffing and puffing, we managed to get it inside the room. The community center was empty, and there weren't any threatening signs lying around.

“I probably should go tell someone in the Ellington Police Department about what happened,” I said.

“I can do it for you if you'd like,” James said.

“Thank you. That would be great.” If James told them, I could avoid any lectures or questions that might arise from this latest incident. It would give me time to think the whole thing through.

James's radio crackled, and we all heard someone say, “Found something.” We followed James out, and Laura locked up. Several of the security policemen were standing by one of the trees, looking down.

“Stay here,” James told us before trotting over to join the others.

He talked to them for a couple of minutes, and I saw one of the guys bag something. James trotted back over. “You two can take off.”

“What was it?” Laura asked.

“Sorry, ma'am. I can't tell you,” James said.

Laura gave him a steely look, but James held her gaze. She turned to me. “I'm going. Call me later. We'll finish our prep work tomorrow.”

I nodded and waited until she was out of sight. “What was it, James? Please tell me. I'm scared.”

“A couple of cigarette butts. Nothing else.”

“So whoever is doing this is pretty dumb.”

“And has access to the base,” James said.

“That doesn't narrow the field by much.” The base employed hundreds of people. Lots of retired military people lived in the area and used the base facilities. Then there were delivery people and guests. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Don't rat me out,” he said with a grim smile.

“Never.”

* * *

At 1:30 p.m. I walked over to DiNapoli's, which, happily, had reopened. I walked in, and the place was still pretty full. Ryan waved to me from the back as he bused a table. Rosalie looked up from taking an order.

“Hold on a minute,” she told the person. “Lois, can you finish taking this order?” Rosalie came around the counter and hugged me. “I'm sorry we got you in trouble last night.”

I shook my head. “I should have paid more attention. All cars look alike to me. How's Stefano doing?”

“Much better. Thanks.” She went back around the counter. “Angelo made a new soup. Italian sausage, potatoes, white beans, kale. It's delicious.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I sat at a table, and Ryan brought over a basket of garlic bread. “It's great with the soup.”

“Thanks, Ryan. Did you ever find a gift for your girlfriend?”

“No. I'm still looking, when I have time. I've been doing a lot of extra handyman jobs lately.”

“The base is having a community sale on Friday. Maybe you could find her something there. Do you have a way to get on?”

“I do. One of my buddies works on base.” A group behind me left their table. Ryan grinned at me. “No rest for the wicked.”

Angelo brought over my bowl of soup. He sat in the chair across from me and gestured toward the soup. “Tell me what you think.”

I reached for the pepper.

“Really? You're going to add extra seasoning before you even taste it? I put just the right amount of pepper in it. You add more, it will upset the balance of the flavors.”

I withdrew my hand. Angelo was rarely wrong when it came to food. I dipped my spoon in the soup. Chunky pieces of sausage and potatoes, spiked with pepper, steamed on the spoon. I blew on it before taking a bite. “Mmm. You're right. It's perfect.”

Angelo nodded in an “Of course” motion.

“Kale seems kind of trendy for you, though.”

“Humph. My mother used kale in this recipe long before it became trendy. She grew it in her own garden. I had to pick and clean it. It ain't easy to clean. Everyone looked down on us for having kale instead of iceberg lettuce.” He waved his hands around. “Now everyone wants to eat kale. Until the next big thing comes along.”

“Did you hear about Juanita?” I asked him.

“It's a sad business.”

“Do you know if Margaret and Juanita knew each other?”

Angelo turned in his chair. “Rosalie, you got a minute, honey?”

Rosalie was wiping down counters but put the cloth down and joined us. I repeated my question.

“Margaret came in a few months ago, talking about needing a new cleaning lady. I mentioned Juanita because I'd seen her ad on your garage sale site.”

I almost dropped my spoon in my soup. “Do you know if she used her?”

“No idea,” Rosalie said.

“I saw CJ on TV this morning, saying they had a person of interest. Do you know who he was talking about?” I asked.

“With Stefano sick and getting caught up here, I haven't heard a thing,” Rosalie said. Angelo nodded his agreement. “What have you heard?” she asked.

That was disappointing. “Nothing. It's just since I found Margaret, I'm worried he was talking about me.”

Angelo frowned. “He'd better not be. You need me to call Vincenzo? I'll call him right now.”

I smiled in spite of my worry. “No. It's okay.”

“Eat your soup, before it gets cold,” Rosalie said.

They left me alone with my thoughts. I used the bread Ryan had brought me to mop up the last bits of soup in my bowl. It wasn't like I could call Margaret's relatives and ask if they knew who her cleaning lady was. I didn't have access to her accounts or books. CJ might, but he wouldn't be answering any of my questions. Seth had said he'd call me later. Maybe he'd know. But I should probably notify the EPD about this development. The more they looked at someone else, the less they'd look at me. In the meantime I'd look through old posts and notifications on my Web site to see if I could find a connection there.

As I walked home, I realized maybe I could ask Nancy Elder if she knew anything. I'd go under the pretense of talking about the second annual New England's Largest Yard Sale, which we were planning for next fall. Since Nancy was engaged to one of Margaret's sons and she was the town manager, she just might have some information and not even know it.

Chapter 25

Minutes later I stood in front of Nancy's desk in the town hall. Her office was cramped and old, with a rusty pipe in one corner, but it had fabulous light pouring in through a large window. You'd think the town manager would have a nicer space. She'd brought in her own area rug, beiges and greens, along with a couple of chairs for her visitors to sit in. I took one of them, careful not to get my wet boots near the cream-colored upholstery.

“I wondered if you had gotten all the permits for the community yard sale next fall,” I said.

“Yes. I e-mailed them to you last week.” Her tone indicated she didn't think I was on top of things.

“Hmmm. It must be buried somewhere. The virtual garage sale sometimes overwhelms my inbox.” I'd actually seen the e-mail but, fortunately, hadn't responded. “Great. Then I can start putting out the word to the vendors.”

“This early?”

“Yes. These people plan ahead. There are lots of festivals in the fall, so I want to make sure they don't forget ours. Plus, that way I can start laying out a map of whose booth will go where.”

Nancy nodded. Her short hair swung around her ears. She'd draped her suit jacket across the back of her desk chair, and her shirt was a no-nonsense white.

“How's Margaret's family doing?” I asked.

“They're mad as heck someone took her life.” She picked up a pen and twirled it around with a slight smile. “And there's a lot of jockeying to see who will be the next top dog.”

“Filling her shoes won't be easy.”

Nancy grimaced. “That's for sure.”

“Do you happen to know who her cleaning lady was? She mentioned her one time, and I have a friend who's looking.”

“She changed cleaning ladies like other people change shoes. No one was ever quite up to snuff with her.”

“Oh, I thought she had someone she loved.”

“She did for years, but Frieda Chida quit abruptly last spring. No notice. She just quit coming.”

Frieda had told me she'd been fired. I wondered which story was the truth, but figured I didn't have any way to find out, since Margaret was dead and Frieda was none too fond of me. “I've heard some really good things about Juanita,” I said.

“And I'm guessing a lot of complaints. But still, her death is such a pity.”

“From what I've heard, it's like Juanita was the little girl with the curl of cleaning ladies. When she was good, she was very, very good. But when she was bad, she was horrid. Did you ever use Juanita?”

“I did.” Nancy leaned back in her chair. “I've heard the rumors. Pellner was around, asking questions. But I never had a problem. Not one.”

* * *

Back home I opened my laptop and sent a private message to Frieda, asking her to call me. I didn't know her well enough to ask her a bunch of questions, and I was guessing she wouldn't answer me, anyway. But if I had her come over and clean, then she might be more inclined to talk. As I waited, I finally thought about the picture of the couch, and suddenly Angelo's soup was roiling in my stomach. I didn't have to wait long before my phone rang.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I'm looking for a cleaning lady.” I looked around my tiny apartment, which was pretty neat and clean.

“Give me your address. I'll be there at nine in the morning.”

“How much will it cost?” I asked her after giving her my address.

“I'll tell you when I see the place.” She hung up before I had a chance to agree or disagree. Maybe that was why she had been fired and/or had quit—her grating personality. But nine in the morning was fine with me. Fortunately, I hadn't dusted in the past week. I'd fix something for dinner tonight and make as much of a mess as I could when cooking for one.

I kept thinking about what Nancy had said about Margaret's family fighting over who would fill Margaret's shoes. How could I find out which of her siblings wanted to? I decided to call Orchard House and see if Kathy Brasheler was working. Hopefully, she wasn't giving a tour right now and would have time to talk.

“It's been the main topic of conversation around here,” Kathy said after I explained what I wanted.

“Why?”

“Three members of her family have been contacting every board Margaret was associated with, saying they were the one she wanted to take over for her.”

“So what's the Orchard House board going to do?”

“Right now we're on hold, trying to wait to see how things shake out. No one wants to offend any of these people.”

“Who would you pick if it was up to you?”

“I'd rather not say. But no one should assume that family position gives you power or that you can buy a position on this board. I'll take smarts anytime.”

* * *

I couldn't put off buying groceries any longer. If I kept eating fluffernutters and food at DiNapoli's, I was going to have to buy a new spring wardrobe. So I drove over to the Stop & Shop. I decided I'd make pasta tonight. That ought to make a mess in my kitchen. I pushed my cart around the store and tossed in a baguette to make garlic bread, some candles, bubble bath, broccoli, and fusilli, instead of plain old spaghetti. I was reaching for ajar of sauce when someone tapped my shoulder. Seth.

He looked at my cart and picked up a candle and the bubble bath. “It looks like you have a fun night planned.”

“Dinner and a bath for one,” I said. I didn't want to hurt anyone. Seth deserved better, and so did I.

“Sure you don't want to make it for two?” He gazed at me with his incredible eyes, and I almost blurted out, “Yes, yes, I do.”

“Dinner, maybe. Bath, no way.”

“What about reversing that?”

I shook my head, lips firmly pressed together, to keep the blurting in. I reached for the sauce again.

“Let me teach you how to make a very simple marinara. It's way better than that stuff.” Seth pointed at the shelf.

If Seth was willing to come over and spend time with me, that must mean I wasn't the person of interest CJ had mentioned on the news. I was still ready to say no to all of it but since Seth's family and Margaret's family had been intertwined for years, I'd feed him and then pick his brain. “Okay. What do I need for the sauce?”

“I'll bring the ingredients.”

“Seven?” I asked.

“See you then.”

* * *

Every time Seth was in my kitchen, it seemed smaller than normal. Seth and I kept bumping into each other as we prepared dinner. Maybe part of the bumping wasn't by accident. I managed to chop the onions and mince the garlic without cutting myself. After sautéing the onions and throwing in the garlic for a minute, Seth added Chianti.

“That jarred sauce you buy won't have Chianti in it,” Seth said. He poured each of us a glass while letting the wine cook off. He added tomatoes and turned down the heat to let it simmer. “We have fifteen minutes. What do you want to do?”

“Boil the pasta and fix the garlic bread.”

Seth grabbed me and whirled us around. “That's no fun.”

I laughed but pulled away. “Neither is having just marinara sauce for dinner.”

Seth sliced the bread, which I arranged on a baking sheet and slathered with olive oil. He popped it in the oven, while I added the fusilli to the boiling water.

“Now we have ten minutes,” Seth said. “I can make you very happy in ten minutes.”

“Seven. The bread will be done then.” I set the timer. “Not enough time to make me
very
happy.”

We sat on the couch with our wine.

“So what's on your mind?” Seth asked.

“Why do you think there's something on my mind?”

“Very few women would pass up seven minutes with me.”

I didn't want to think about Seth and other women. “Does your bio say ‘incorrigible'?”

“No, but my mother always has. I could see you wanted to ask me something at the store when I offered to make the sauce.”

“I thought people around here called it gravy instead of sauce.”

“Some Italians do. My family isn't Italian. Nice try changing the subject.”

“I've just been hearing rumors about infighting within Margaret's family.”

“No surprise there. Who in her family wouldn't want to be the next Margaret? She's made quite a name for herself. People love power.”

That was what Kathy and Nancy had said. “Do any of them have financial troubles? Something to gain from Margaret's death?” I couldn't imagine that any of them did, but I was using my “Leave no stone unturned” philosophy.

“Not that I know of.”

“What about Nichole?”

“She's doing fine on her own. Why ask about her?”

“I'm just trying to figure out what's going on around here. Did Nichole use Juanita as a cleaning lady?”

“I have no idea. You'd have to ask her.” Seth looked at me, eyebrows drawn together. “Why are you so focused on the cleaning lady?”

I thought about it. “I'm not sure. It just seems like something is off with the woman who used to be her cleaning lady.” But why
had
I been so focused on Frieda, Juanita, and Margaret? My original idea had been to figure out who my stalker was. How had I let that slide? Because no matter what I thought about the cleaning women, I didn't think they had anything to do with my stalker. I sniffed the air and leaped up. “The bread.”

I ran into the kitchen, grabbed a mitt, and hauled the baking sheet full of blackened garlic bread out of the oven. I looked at the timer. I had set it but hadn't turned it on. Seth scraped the burnt parts off the pieces of garlic bread and handed them off to me. I rubbed a clove of garlic over them. “I can't ever manage to pull off a dinner without something going wrong.”

“It'll be fine.”

I threw together a salad, while Seth drained the pasta. He reserved a little of the water and added the pasta and a bit of the water to the sauce. We crammed everything onto my small table. Seth held my chair out for me, and I sat. He pulled his chair next to mine, and we dug in.

“Better than that grocery store stuff?” he asked.

“Way better.”