Dead Between the Lines (12 page)

Glancing at my clerk as she carefully straightened bins of embroidery floss, I decided to practice my questioning technique on her. “By the way, Xylia . . .” I waited until she looked my way so I could see her expression, then said, “I’m curious about what you thought of the book-club discussion. You mentioned previously that you felt you didn’t fully understand the poems and was hoping Mr. Quistgaard would help you interpret them better.”

“Uh.” Xylia bit her lip. “I, uh, I’m still not certain.” Her cheeks turned red and her body went rigid. “Mr. Quistgaard’s reasoning wasn’t really clear.”

“He sure didn’t like explaining himself, did he?” I forced a chuckle, hoping Xylia would relax. “Did you talk to any of the members who didn’t voice their dislike of the poems during the discussion but were still offended?”

“Not directly.” Xylia blinked several times. “I overheard Bryce Grantham and Zizi Todd talking about the book while we were putting away the chairs.”

“What did they have to say?” I’d met Bryce last month when he helped me search for Tsar. The single father had found the cat and brought him to me. It turned out that Bryce was involved in a custody battle that was exacerbated by his sexual orientation; he was gay. I liked both him and Zizi, and I would have thought that they’d share similar opinions about the poems.

“Bryce agreed with Mr. Quistgaard about the negatives of small-town life.” Xylia finished arranging the floss and moved on to the bolts of fabric that had been pulled from their shelves and tossed in a heap on the floor.

“Zizi didn’t?” I moved to help Xylia with the cloth. The stiffness in her shoulders made it clear that the mess was upsetting her. “Or were their differing views about another issue?”

“Zizi said something about the obvious misogyny of Mr. Quistgaard’s poetry making any other social commentary in them questionable.”

“That sounds reasonable.” I returned a bolt of calico to its rightful place. “What did Bryce say to that? Did he disagree?”

“No.”

“Anything else you might have overheard?” I had been hoping for more. Xylia was quiet, which gave her the potential to be a keen observer. I had figured people might almost forget she was around and talk more in front of her.

“The police asked me all this when they interviewed me on Saturday,” Xylia said, her expression a mixture of apprehension and something else. “I sort of forgot about it until now, but I followed Grant Edwyn when he walked out of the meeting early. He didn’t leave the store, so I was keeping an eye on him.” She looked at me, and I nodded my encouragement. “Then as Mr. Quistgaard was leaving, I heard Mr. Edwyn say to him, ‘If you don’t learn to keep your mouth shut, you’re going to blow your cover as “The Bend’s Buzz” columnist.’”

“Wow.” I pretended amazement, all the while thinking that if Xylia had overheard Grant, someone else at the meeting might have, too. “I had no idea he wrote the ‘Buzz.’ Do you think other people knew?”

“I sure didn’t.” Xylia wrinkled her brow. “I really don’t want to talk about that night anymore. Thinking about it makes me feel like I can hardly breathe.”

“I understand.” I awkwardly patted her shoulder. Neither one of us were comfortable with touchy-feely stuff. “I just hate the thought of someone getting away with murder.”

“Sure.” Xylia glanced around the alcove. “Anything else we have to do here?”

“It looks good.” I dusted off my hands. “Let’s move onto the toy aisle.”

It was hard work, but by eleven thirty, Noah, Poppy, Xylia, and I had put the shop to rights. The backroom was still a disaster area, but the store itself was ready for its usual noon opening. I made a fresh pot of coffee, and we were all taking a break as we finished up the last of the donuts when Noah’s cell started to play “Mama Don’t Allow.”

“Yes, Mother?” Noah answered.

I laughed. The ringtone proved that Noah had a sense of humor.

“What?” Noah straightened and reached for his sweatshirt. “I’m calling nine-one-one. Take an aspirin, unlock the door, and sit in the foyer.” As he ran for the store’s exit, he called over his shoulder, “She thinks she’s having a heart attack.”

C
HAPTER 13

A
fter my helpers left, I used the employee restroom in the back to wash up, change into a fresh sweatshirt, put on nicer jeans, and redo my ponytail. Once I was fit to be seen, I retrieved the cash drawer from the safe, checked the soda fountain to make sure it was well stocked, and then, at exactly twelve, I flipped on the neon
OPEN
sign and unlocked the front door.

Seconds later, Hannah Freeman, my high school helper, arrived. A senior, she worked for me four mornings and one afternoon a week as part of her vocational-education program. Because she was not one to be influenced by how her fellow teenagers were dressing, I was never quite sure what to expect of Hannah’s outfit du jour, but I knew it would be wild. She tended toward Hello Kitty chic, but didn’t limit herself to that style.

Today she sported a pleated neon plaid miniskirt that she’d paired with a robin’s-egg blue and black graphic T-shirt and Zara ankle booties. Like Xylia, she refused to wear a Devereaux’s Dime Store sweatshirt. Her excuse was that since she went directly from the store to school, it would be too embarrassing to be seen in the hallways in something as uncool as a semi-uniform.

When I pointed out that she’d told me she didn’t care what the other kids thought about her, she’d retorted that she didn’t mind being thought of as weird, but only in a limited-edition way. Having no idea what she meant by that, I gave up my struggle to enforce a store dress code.

Today, Hannah’s first words as she zipped past me were, “So, tell me about the murder.”

“There’s nothing much to tell.” I was sensing a theme here, and I was sick and tired of everyone greeting me the same way. “Some poor man was killed behind the building. The store’s exit was found unlocked, so the police searched the place. End of story.”

“How loathsome.” Hannah’s voice rose incredulously. “But—”

Before she could question me further, the place began to fill with the first customers of the day. Tuesday through Friday, the hours after lunch and before school let out were usually slow, which was why during the rest of the week Hannah worked mornings. Often, I didn’t see a single shopper from one to three, but on Mondays, because the store had been closed for the past forty-four hours, there was always a crowd.

As the cheerful voices created a merry hubbub, I was once again glad I hadn’t replaced the tin ceilings with acoustical tile or cork matting to mute the energetic hum. To me, the sound of people socializing with their neighbors as their heels clicked along the hardwood floor was what made the shop a gathering place rather than just somewhere to buy life’s little necessities. Both sides of the community—the newcomers who had moved to Shadow Bend to escape the city’s crime and high prices, and the natives who had been born here and never left—felt at home in my store.

When I’d bought the business, I’d also purchased the adjacent building and knocked out the communal wall to double the interior space. And although I’d updated the plumbing and electrical and added Wi-Fi, I’d made a concerted effort to keep the character of the original variety store intact.

Hannah and I dove into the day’s business, helping customers find items, reorganizing shelves that people had disturbed while rummaging through our carefully arranged stacks of merchandise, and, my favorite, ringing up purchases on the old brass cash register. Its distinctive
ting-a-ling
, which signaled that the business was bringing in cash, always made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

While I worked, I went over my mental to-do list: call the chief to inform him about Quistgaard’s work as a gossip columnist, call Mrs. Zeigler about the basket she had forgotten to order, and get hold of all the past “The Bend’s Buzz” columns. I wasn’t sure how to accomplish that last one. Would they be online? Did I know anyone who kept all the local papers? Would the newspaper office have them? Too bad the Shadow Bend Library had been closed due to lack of funds. Now the nearest library was in the county seat.

Around two, the dozen or so members of the Knittie Gritties arrived. The knitting club, along with the other craft groups that met at the dime store, was the backbone of my business. I provided them with the space, and they bought the materials for their projects from me, as well as refreshments and any other merchandise that caught their fancy.

The members knew the drill and automatically headed to the crafting alcove in back. For the scrapbookers, quilters, and sewers, I set up long worktables, but when the knitters, crocheters, and needlepointers held their meetings, I hauled out the comfy chairs and ottomans. Another reason why I’d wanted the extra space the adjoining building had provided was to store the various pieces of furniture I needed for the clubs.

I waved as the knitters passed by, intending to check on the group when I had a free moment. I didn’t hang around during their meetings, but I did like to make sure they knew that I valued their presence. If there was one thing I was good at doing, it was making nice with the customers. A big part of my job as an investment consultant had been keeping the clients happy so they would continue to give our firm their money, and it was a skill that I continued to use as a retail-business owner.

Today, along with my usual kissing up, I also wanted to talk to Addie about his run-in with Lance Quistgaard at the book-club meeting, and find out if the police had questioned him about it. The radio shock jock’s mention of me in connection with the murder had spooked me, so I needed to know what was happening in the investigation and if the cops were doing their job.

Customers kept me busy at the register until the after-school crowd poured in a few minutes past three, and then I was occupied with the onslaught of hungry teenagers at the soda fountain and candy case for another half hour. Just as Hannah and I finished serving the last kids, the Knittie Gritties took their fifteen-minute break.

For five dollars each, I provided coffee, tea, and a selection of cookies and pastries that I purchased wholesale from the bakery. Although it worried me a little to trust people, I didn’t have time to stand around and collect the money, so payment for the refreshments was on the honor system. The group members deposited their money in an old cigar box. After Addie filled his plate with goodies and doctored his cup of coffee with cream and sugar, I hurriedly completed the purchase of a customer at the register; then I followed him back to the crafting alcove.

While the other Knittie Gritties ate their treats and chatted about their projects, their children or grandchildren, and the weather—always a fascinating topic in rural Missouri—I took the seat next to Addie and said, “Wow! That was quite a heated discussion at the book-club meeting. I thought the evening would be super intellectual. I had no idea that the get-togethers could be so explosive.”

“That guy was a punk,” Addie growled around a mouthful of snickerdoodle. “I told the cops it’s no surprise that someone offed him.”

“He was certainly pompous and rudely opinionated,” I agreed.

“Yeah, even duct tape can’t stop that kind of stupid, although I was ready to give it a try.” Addie brushed the crumbs from his pink T-shirt, which read
KNITTING KEEPS ME FROM UNRAVELING
.

“You should have.” I bit back a laugh. “It might at least have shut him up.”

Addie snorted his coffee, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“Had you met Quistgaard before? I understand he lived somewhere here in town.”

“I’d seen him around. He hung out at Brewfully Yours a lot.” Addie took another slurp from his cup. “And he was in my shop a couple of times, trying to sell stuff.”

“Really?” I couldn’t picture the elegant, supercilious man pawning his belongings. “Do you remember what he brought in?”

“The first time, he sold a ring and a locket that he said belonged to his dead mother.” Addie shoved an entire cookie into his mouth, then spoke around it. “And a couple of months ago he pawned his laptop.”

“Ouch!” I cringed. Parting with his computer had to hurt a writer.

“He vowed he’d get the laptop back before his contract with me expired.”

“Contract?” I asked. Who knew that there was paperwork involved in giving stuff over to a pawnshop? “I thought you just got some sort of receipt if you hocked your belongings.”

“The contract states the amount of money loaned against the pawned item, the finance charge, and the due date,” Addie explained. “Anyway, Quistgaard called the other day to say he’d be by to get his computer as soon as some big check he was waiting for came in the mail.” Addie crossed his beefy arms. “I told him he had until the end of the month. Then I was putting the laptop up for sale.”

“Do you think that was why he was so hostile to you at the book club?”

“I doubt he even recognized me.” Addie chugged the rest of the coffee and put the cup on the floor beside him. “The guy was driving without his headlights on.”

I tilted my head questioningly.

“He never looked me in the eye the whole time he was in my shop,” Addie clarified. “Lots of people don’t. They’re too embarrassed. And he definitely wanted to be anywhere but there.”

“Did you know much about Quistgaard?” I asked. “I mean, before the meeting.”

“Nope.” Addie opened the canvas bag at his feet and got out his knitting. “I never heard his name mentioned by anyone before he came into my shop.”

“Hmm.” Since Shadow Bend Pawn Shop and Jewelry was a fertile field for the local grapevine, Addie usually had the lowdown on everyone in town. “Did you see Quistgaard after the book club let out?”

“Nah.” Addie’s concentration was on his needles as they flew through the red yarn. “After I left, I headed out to Gossip Central for a drink. That asshat left a bad taste in my mouth and I wanted to wash it away with a beer. I ended up closing the bar down.”

Poppy owned Gossip Central, but she would have already left for Chicago by that time. Still, her staff should be able to verify Addie’s alibi. He was fairly hard to overlook, and if he’d been there the whole night, someone should remember seeing him. He wasn’t a quiet sort of guy.

The Knittie Gritties trickled out between four thirty and five, and the teenagers headed home to supper soon afterward. With only a few customers remaining in the store, I left Hannah in charge and ducked into the backroom to call the chief. I half hoped he’d be gone for the day, but the dispatcher put me right through to him.

“Chief Kincaid, it’s Dev Sinclair. Do you have a moment to speak to me?”

“If this is about how we processed your store, I have nothing to say.”

“That’s not why I called, but, yes, the place was a mess.” I wondered at the chief’s defensive tone, which was unusual for him.

“So, then,” he said, impatience lacing his voice, “what can I do for you?”

“I heard something that I thought might help your investigation.” I paused to figure out how much to tell him. “Are you aware that Lance Quistgaard wrote ‘The Bend’s Buzz’?” When Chief Kincaid didn’t answer right away, I added, “The gossip column in the
Banner
, written by Anonymous.”

“Interesting.” The chief clipped off that single word, then was silent.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “And during the book-club meeting, Grant Edwyn, the
Banner
’s
editor, gave Quistgaard a disapproving look that made him stop arguing and leave.”

“You’re not suggesting Edwyn murdered Quistgaard because the man had a big mouth, are you?” Chief Kincaid asked. “Because I don’t buy it.”

“No.” I sat on the edge of my desk. “I’m suggesting that someone who’d been skewered by Quistgaard in the ‘Buzz’ overheard Edwyn and Quistgaard talking that night, confronted the poet about being Anonymous, and ended up killing him.” I described the conversation Xylia had repeated to me.

“Hmm.” The chief seemed to process that information then asked, “So, your clerk told you Quistgaard was behind ‘The Bend’s Buzz’?”

“Yes, but I first heard it from Nadine Underwood.” I had briefly considered not revealing my source, but could find no reason to protect someone who would never return the favor. “Apparently she demanded Edwyn tell her the Buzzard’s identity right after the first column came out.”

“Which means that the identity of the columnist was never completely anonymous,” Chief Kincaid mused, then sighed unhappily. “I’d better talk to Nadine and see who else she shared that little secret with.”

“Questioning her might be a bit tough.” I swung my sneaker-clad foot. “Just before noon, Nadine thought she was having a heart attack and called Noah. She’s probably in the hospital by now.”

“Son of a buck!” Chief Kincaid took a deep breath. “Anything else you’d like to disclose? Maybe something else you forgot or didn’t think was important or didn’t find convenient to share with me?”

“No.” I didn’t like his snarky tone. “And, speaking of inconvenient, did you find anything when you tore my store apart?”

There was such a long silence, I thought the chief might have hung up on me, but finally he muttered, “There were no prints on the stake in the vic’s heart, but it definitely came from the fencing in your display.”

“Oh?” I wasn’t surprised. I’d been pretty damn positive it was a match before I told him about it. “So, the post did go through Quistgaard’s heart and that’s what killed him?” I asked.

“Yes,” Chief Kincaid confirmed. “The killer didn’t break through the sternum, but the stake ruptured the pulmonary artery, which was why there was so much blood.”

“Anything else?”

“What we expected—a hell of a lot of fingerprints and enough trace to keep the lab busy for a year.” The chief sighed again, then ordered, “From now on, if you hear anything, see anything, or have any hunches, I want to be the first to know.”

“Yes, sir!” I saluted the phone, then pressed the
OFF
button. That had gone about as well as I’d anticipated. Actually, a tad better, because I hadn’t expected Chief Kincaid to tell me what, if anything, they’d found when they searched my store. I tapped my lip with my cell; maybe the chief actually wanted my help.

Still contemplating Chief Kincaid’s motives, I grabbed the phone book from my desk drawer. Mrs. Zeigler wasn’t listed, and I didn’t think anyone would be answering the telephones at the high school this late, so I wasn’t sure how to reach her.