Bones & Boxes: a Hetty Fox Cozy Mystery (Hetty Fox Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (11 page)

T
he next day dawned dark and raw. A stiff north breeze rattled the bushes outside my kitchen window. Blackie strolled into the room. We went through our usual morning routine.

I settled down to a breakfast of cornflakes and sliced banana. But the meal did nothing to warm my soul. Andrew hadn’t made an appearance this morning, and I suspected he was out bothering the good doctor. After Prat, he considered Barstow the best candidate for the killer.

Standing in front of my kitchen window, I shook my head and groaned. I’d have to rely on tea and knitting to get me through my morning. Dark days and a step back toward winter had me wanting to cower under my blankets.

Then my thoughts turned to Andrew. I wondered again if my ghost actually existed or if he were my imagination run amuck. Blackie certainly behaved as though Andrew were real.

Could cats share in their owners’ hallucinations?

It seemed an unlikely idea. But what did I know? Until a few short weeks ago, I’d never even considered the possibility of ghosts actually existing.

I rinsed out my breakfast bowl and poured myself a mug of tea. I wandered to the living room, switched on the radio, and sat myself in my favorite chair. Grabbing my knitting bag, I launched into a fresh row. The latest baby blanket was coming along nicely. That was good, since the knitting society meeting was coming up in two days, and I wanted to have this blanket finished by then.

Working along, I paused occasionally to enjoy a sip or two of tea. Blackie joined me, settling into his basket at my feet. I nodded comfortably.  It felt like a lIfe well ordered, as it had once been before this ghost had plopped himself so rudely into our midst. A part of me sorely missed my calm, former life.

I glanced down at Blackie and asked, “What do you think? Is your mother losing her mind?”

Even as I said it, I knew what answer Andrew would advance. He’d bellow that Blackie was my cat
—
not my child. And he would add that If I still had doubts about his being a real ghost, I obviously had severe mental problems.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. The man was so utterly predictable.

***

My only jaunt away from home that morning included a trip to the grocery store.  And I was in the kitchen putting a bottle of mustard away when Andrew chose to return.

“You’re home,” he exclaimed.

I turned to face him. “Yes, where you should have been all along.”

He frowned. “You can’t expect me to spend all of my time locked up here when you need my help with this case.”

I bit back a sigh. There was no way I could tell Andrew that I still doubted his existence.

As though he’d been reading my mind, he said, “Solving this case has been a struggle for you. You should be pleased to have my help.”

“Do I look pleased?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I do have an occasional doubt, okay?”

“Come on, lighten up. There’s enough work to keep the pair of us busy. Besides, you’ll like my report.”

I sank into a chair at the table. “Which is?”

“I don’t think Doc Barstow is the killer. I believe he’s a helpful and kind man.”

I refrained from saying that I’d told him so, although I had. “And you’ll be pleased to learn I doubt Hubbard’s the killer, either.”

“So that wipes out everyone as a suspect?”

“You’ve still got doubts about Jennifer and Prat. And what about Chester?”

Good grief. I’d never considered him for a minute. “I don’t know,” I reluctantly admitted. I’d never seen any reason to suspect him. “In his favor, he lives awfully far away to have come here twice to commit a murder.”

“You think so?”

“I’ve seen no overt displays of wealth from him. And I still assume Carrie was killed for the money she inherited.”

“What do you know of Chester’s finances?” Andrew asked.

I pursed my lips and thought for a minute. “Not much. I know both times he came here his clothes appeared to be appropriate to a school teacher. No sign of Armani suits and such.”

“A matter of a quick trip to a local mall. Who knows how the man dresses at home?”

“Oh, bother.” How could we check on someone who lived as far away as Boston? It all seemed like a lost cause to me. “There’s still Prat,” I said.  “I have one more thing to check on him. Let’s see what we turn up there  before we extend our search to a distant state.”

“Don’t some people say it’s best to strike while the iron is hot.” And with without another word of explanation,  Andrew vanished from the room.

“That’s one gigantic advantage you have over Andrew,” I told Blackie. “You don’t pop in and out of my life.”

Blackie stuck his tail straight up into the air and meowed.

T
he Weaverton County Courthouse stood tall and imposing under the blue skies of a glorious, spring like afternoon. Once inside the building, I headed straight for the County Clerk’s office, intending to track down a will.

Before arriving at the courthouse, I’d stopped at the library in Hendricksville. There I’d spend a great deal of time searching for an obit for the death of George Pratt's father and mother. I had no idea which of them had died first, but I assumed my handyman’s inheritance hadn’t come down until the death of the last parent.

Finally, in an obit from about twelve years ago, I struck pay dirt. Now, I strode to the counter in the clerk’s office where the same gal who’d helped me last time advanced to do so again.

“I’m interested in finding the will for Elizabeth Pratt,” I told her.

She jotted the name and year of death down on a small pad of paper. “This should only take a minute or two,” she said. I watched as she rushed out of the room through a doorway on the wall to my right.

Within minutes she returned and passed me a small file. She pointed to the desk in the corner where I could sit while seeking out the information. I crossed to the desk and flipped open the file.

As I’d expected the document passed ownership of a large farm to the Pratt's son, George. The size of the farm was large enough to explain the handyman’s wealth. I slid the papers back inside the file and returned it to the counter, thanking the young woman who’d fetched it out of storage for me.

Perhaps it was a sign of my desperation that I refused to give up my last local suspect so easily. For from the Circuit Clerk’s office, I proceeded on to the office of the local newspaper where I bought what’s called a plat book. In it, farms are sketched out with each owner shown on their section of land.

But for all the time I spent going over each page, I could not find George Pratt's name listed anywhere. Which fit well with his claim that he’d sold off the land and was living on the money he’d earned from it.

In short, I’d reached another dead end as far as proving him innocent or guilty of murder.

“Well?” Andrew asked later, when I walked through my front door.

“Where did you take off for this morning?” I asked.

“Boston, or near enough.”

“You didn’t.”

“See how handy I am? I didn’t even have to bother with an airplane.”

“Stop showing off, and tell me what you learned.”

“If Chester ran off with his aunt’s money, all I can say is that he’s hiding it well.”

“Darn. I wish you’d returned with better news.”

Blackie looked up at Andrew and hissed.

“Hush,” I told him.

‘That cat need to learn manners,” Andrew barked.

“At least he listens to me,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest.

“Oh right, like he’s so well behaved,” Andrew scoffed.

Blackie bounded out of my lap, tail rigid, the hair on his back standing up. He headed directly for Andrew, leaped completely through him, twisted himself in the air and came down on the rug, hissing.

“Would you two please cut it out,” I yelled.

“He’s a jerk,” Andrew said.

Blackie leaped skyward for Andrew again.

Finally, figuring neither of them could do any serious damage to the other, I fled the room, taking my bag of knitting with me. I was determined to finish this baby blanket before the next club meeting.

And in the quiet of my bedroom, with the door closed against the two fighting males, I sagged onto my bed and let my tears fall. I’d been working too hard. I’d wanted to locate the killer too much. I needed to trust the solution of the murder to the police
—
to Oberman. And I wondered what he was up to just then.

Had he discovered another suspect? Or had he turned up something significant on Prat? Something that I’d missed? Would the killer of Carrie and Hank be tracked down? Or would  he or she walk free without being punished for their crimes?

***

I found both Andrew and Blackie in the kitchen the next morning, the pair of them studiously ignoring each other. I said good morning to each of them and then proceeded on to fish a packet of bacon from the fridge. I didn’t buy it that often and I intended to use it up while it was available.

Besides I’d fled to my bedroom last night without supper. I did not intend to scrimp on breakfast. All during my shower, I’d been picturing a delightful plate full of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. To say I was hungry would be an extreme understatement. And if the boys launched into another fight, I’d ignore them. It was time first things came first around here.

“About the murder….”

I raised my hand, palm out. “Don’t say another word.” And to my amazement, Andrew shut his mouth. Blackie, meanwhile, had taken up his favorite spot on top of the fridge.

All was right with my world.

Then, the doorbell rang. “Mom,” Megan said, as she stormed into my house. My two grandsons trailed beside her, their hands caught up in her tight grasp.

“What in heaven's name...?” I asked.

“I want you to teach me to knit,” Megan demanded.

“Huh?”

“You’re always telling me how knitting calms you down. Well, I want to learn how to knit.”

I could hardly believe it. I’d been begging Megan to take up the craft since she’d been eight. And now here she was, in my own home, ordering me to give her lessons.

I’d have laughed out loud if I hadn’t feared Megan would be offended. “Okay.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Of course.”

“I brought my own yarn and needles.” She lifted a plastic bag that had been dangling from her right wrist.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“Yes, it is. When I go home, it’s going with me. When I’m feeling pressured, I want to be able to grab up this project and relax.”

I frowned internally. I hoped I hadn’t given my daughter the wrong impression. Knitting wasn’t all that easy. “Okay,” I said, “we’ll start out with a very basic scarf.”

I could introduce her to more complicated patterns later. But a scar would probably come close to the kind of simple knitting project she sought.

“But I’m having my breakfast first.”

“Oh… of course,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“Breakfast. That’s all I need. Then I’m all yours.”

I settled my grandsons in the living room with a large pile of toys I kept on hand for their visits. It was a nice size room and had taken my collection of antiques comfortably. After Prat finished sprucing up my bedroom, I’d do the living room next. I hadn’t yet found wall paper that pleased me, but I was certain I soon would.

“What’s happened,” I asked when I returned to the kitchen. “What’s brought this on?”

“I was young. I was dumb. What can I say?”

“But something has obviously happened to send you in this state to my door.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just teach me.”

Feeling discouraged over my failure to track down Carrie’s killer, Megan’s request could not have come at a better time. So after breakfast  the two of us spent a quiet morning, knitting and purling and watching our projects lengthen, while my grandchildren played happily on the floor.

Fortunately, Andrew left me alone to enjoy my time with my daughter. And Blackie always disappeared when my grandsons visited. He didn’t enjoy spending time around children.

“There’s a local knitting group,” I said, as we worked. “They meet tomorrow. Would you like to go with me?”

Megan laughed. “Thanks but no thanks. Maybe once I improve, I’ll tag along”

“The group’s not at all like that. The members are very welcoming and most of them would be more than willing to lend a helpful hand.”

“That may be, but you know me, I’d rather wait until I can make a decent showing.”

That was true. Megan had always disliked letting her weaknesses show.