Murder in Miniature (8 page)

Candidate Jack was at the fair ostensibly helping out his sister at the table across from Linda’s and mine. No doubt there was self-promotion going on at the same time, as attested to by the several
WILSON FOR COUNCIL
buttons on his clothing and the piles of pamphlets on the table next to Gail’s price list. Gail seemed embarrassed by the display, but there was no written rule against campaigning.

There weren’t too many men in the hall, so Dudley would have stood out even if he weren’t over six feet tall. Another Western-wear fan, I noted—but Dudley Crane was much classier than Chuck Reed, even in his beige weekend cowboy hat. He and Jack (also tall, but more muscular than Crane, and with a voice that matched Crane’s in loudness) appeared to be arguing. From the few words I heard, Dudley seemed to be chewing Jack out for his scathing letter to the editor of the
Lincolnite
, stomping all over Dudley’s latest growth proposal for the town and impugning shady practices regarding his estate-handling sideline.

It seemed strange that Dudley would venture into this den of women and their crafts to vent his anger, but he seemed not at all intimidated. I stepped by him to get to my table (admittedly hoping to catch more of their argument, but they’d stopped by now). Dudley turned to go. He tipped his hat—“Mrs. Porter”—and walked out the side exit.

All I’d heard from Jack was his testy question to Gail. “Can’t you come up with a good cup of coffee for me?”

Gail didn’t seem bothered by her brother’s rudeness. She exited the area in the opposite direction from Dudley, toward her new best friend, Karen Striker, with her Cape Cod on Table 17. I guessed Gail was my age, considerably older than Karen, but the two had seemed to bond quickly when Karen joined the crafts group recently.

Before thinking it through, I asked Linda, “What was that all about? Did you hear anything?”

Linda’s face brightened. She put down her small hammer and wood block, ready to chat. “Gail and Jack Wilson think Dudley Crane cheated them on their mother’s estate. Same as what Postmaster Cooney’s accusing him of. Remember both old Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Cooney died a few months ago, and the children hired Crane to…”

Once I realized how thrilled Linda was to be gossiping about someone other than herself or her son, I tuned out. I had to curb this heightened curiosity I’d experienced lately. It was unbecoming a grandmother and a crafter.

I punched in Skip’s cell-phone number on the way back
to my table, breaking my own rule one more time. My mind was racing, one theory chasing another through my brain. I waited through four rings of Skip’s line, then hung up without leaving a message.
Whew
. I needed to sort things out before I talked to an officer of the law, anyway.

I thought through the possibilities. The first was that, coincidentally, and unbeknownst to Linda, she had been in the same area as the crime scene on Friday night, and might have been a victim herself if I hadn’t picked her up. If I could accept this, case closed, and I wouldn’t have to talk to Skip.

It was also possible that Jason had been involved and had run off from Peter’s and sent for Linda (then where was he when I got there?). Or that Chuck had been involved (I had no trouble picturing Chuck’s abandoning Linda). I wrestled with my obligation to tell the police what little I did know of the weekend nighttime activities at the gas station. Surely not every citizen with a theory was obliged to share it. But I had been at the scene of the crime around the estimated time of the murder.

At one far end of my range of theories was that the poor woman had been murdered long before (then I’d driven right past her?) or long after (this was better) my picking up Linda. At the other far end was that Linda had intimate knowledge of the crime.

The intimate-knowledge theory was out of the question. Linda was not a criminal, let alone a killer, the worst of criminals. She was more likely a victim who might need my help.

Right now my table was lined with last-minute shoppers, so I had to put my curious mind on hold.

Like most vendors during the last hour of a fair, I’d put many items on sale to reduce the load we had to pack up and carry home. Crocheted throw rugs, any size from one-inch to four-inch diameter: three for one dollar. A set of one-inch books made from foam board, painted, spines lettered in gold with Jane Austen titles: three dollars for the set. Bedroom and kitchen curtains made from hem-binding lace, complete with (toothpick) rods and tiebacks: one dollar per pair.

I sold a whole shoe box of items in about fifteen minutes.

The murder was on everyone’s mind, apparently. Each sale began or ended with a comment about the victim, or the crime scene, or crime stats for Lincoln Point. One popular observation involved civic pride.

“You know it was barely within the town limits,” said one customer.

“It’s just some technicality of zoning that makes that old gas station part of Lincoln Point,” was another variation.

My favorite expression was one of denial, from Jim Quinlan, “She was probably killed in Mountain View and dumped here.”

I was reminded about the effect the murder might have on our children when I heard a tense little girl.

“I hope the killer doesn’t come after us next,” she said.

“He doesn’t know where we are, honey,” her mother said, with a nervous look around the hall.

I hoped Beverly had an equally comforting comment ready for Maddie if the occasion arose.

I did my share of tsk-tsking and speculating on the crime, to placate my customers, not because my heart was in it. But it wouldn’t have been good business practice to scream
gossipers!
to people who were supporting the fund- raiser and buying my wares.

I searched Linda’s face every time the topic came up. Unreadable. She had her own crowd of admirers and buyers, and limited her conversation to negotiating prices (she seldom marked anything down) and information on crafts- supplies classes and stores.

I tried to engage her only once, when a customer asked what I thought about the murder (a silly question, but an opportunity to query Linda).

“Awful,” I said. “What do you think, Linda?”

“Awful,” she said. She gave a thin smile to the customer, and the same old look of annoyance to me.

This time, with my mistrustful thoughts and accusing theories, even for a second suspecting that my friend had any knowledge of the worst of all possible crimes, I felt I deserved it.

Just Eddie stood against the wall by the side exit, flipping
an unlit cigarette end over end, as he waited for me to make one last trip around the hall. My final tour of inspection. A criterion for our being able to use the multipurpose schoolroom for the quarterly fair was that we leave it cleaner than we found it. I could see that Just Eddie was itching to get out, get in his truck, and light that cigarette.

I filled a shopping bag with things vendors had left behind—a thermos, a plastic bag of beads, small scissors, and enough stray markers, tape dispensers, and staplers to outfit the entire incoming freshman class of Abraham Lincoln High. I’d wait a few days for their owners to make a claim, then would hand over what was left to the Mary Todd Elementary art teacher, another former student of mine. This one, to my delight, had led her students in a graffiti exercise, painting the walls of her classroom with quotes from Lincoln.

“I’m ready,” I told Just Eddie. “You can lock up.”

He pushed himself off the wall and muttered, “’Bout time.”

As if he weren’t getting paid overtime. “Thanks for all your work,” I said, unwilling to be dragged into his attitude.

Linda and Just Eddie would make a good pair
, I thought.

My house was quiet except for the trickle of water from
the tabletop fountain in the atrium, and the low, moaning lawn-mower noise from my neighbor. I’d entered the house through the garage, not wanting to chat with June Chinn, or anyone else at the moment. What I wanted was that the murder had never happened and that Linda hadn’t involved me in her adventure. Most of all, I wanted a nap.

The loud ring of my landline made that unlikely. I threw my purse on the kitchen counter and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Aunt Gerry. I see that you called this afternoon.” A twilight-zone moment, until I realized that my phone number would have shown up on the display of Skip’s cell phone even though I hadn’t left a message. One more questionable by-product of the electronic age. “What’s up? Or
‘sup?’
as my last caller asked me.” Skip was entirely too cheerful for my mood.

It was decision time. I laid my glasses on the kitchen counter, shut my eyes tight, and rubbed my forehead. As if that would result in a clear choice, a bright banner in front of me, telling me yes or no, talk or don’t talk.

“Aunt Gerry?”

My head hurt. I’d been squeezing my eyes longer than I thought. “Skip, I, uh, just have a question about that murder. Was the newspaper accurate where it showed the location of the body?” My last-ditch effort to wish away the whole scenario.

“Yeah. There’s an old gas station at that intersection, closed for renovation.”
And a pay phone
, I added silently. “Some trucker stopped there for a nap in his cab, he says, then went out back to take a…” My delicate nephew cleared his throat. “Well, you know. Anyway, he found her.”

“And the trucker’s been cleared?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s squeaky-clean, no connection at all to the victim, or to anyone in the state as far as we can tell. He’s from Utah.” Skip laughed. “Like, your textbook good guy.”

“Oh.” I wet my lips. “Well, I just wanted to be sure.”

“What’s going on, Aunt Gerry? Do you know something about the murder?” Skip paused for a quick, low-pitched chuckle. I assumed he expected the answer to be,
most certainly not!

And that’s what I would give him, I decided, as images of Linda came to my mind—helping me care for Ken, understanding my loss after he died. Just one more try, I told myself, to straighten this out with Linda first. I owed my friend that. “Most certainly not,” I said.

The next pause was too long for my comfort. Skip cleared his throat several times. Stalling while he put some thoughts together? Weighing his next words? Finally, he asked, “You don’t know anything? Not even, say, that there’s a pay phone near where the body was found?”

My nephew’s tone was serious. Not the Skip of softball games and a chick-magnet car. I pictured him sober-faced and attentive, probably wrestling with his own conscience about arresting his favorite (that is, only) aunt.

My mouth went dry. I uttered a series of
uh
s and deep sighs.

“I’ll be right there,” Skip said.

“Okay,” was the sound that barely left my throat.

There goes my nap time
, I thought, as if that would be my biggest loss once I spoke to Skip.

I paced the small loggia between my family room and
the bedrooms, knowing I had to tell Skip everything I knew, little as it was, about my middle-of-the-night pickup at the crime scene. I told myself over and over that I’d given Linda every chance to explain why she was there; it wasn’t my fault that I now had to resort to what amounted to snitching. For all I knew, I’d been obstructing justice by not talking to the police sooner.

The door chime, ordinarily a pleasant set of notes, sounded harsh and startling, as if I knew the police were on my doorstep. Skip had a key to my house, to use in case of emergency, or when I called and told him the fridge had especially tasty leftovers. Otherwise, he rang the bell.

“You might have a date,” he’d said, when I suggested he could come in unannounced at any time.

“Not in this lifetime,” I’d told him. “And don’t forget our deal.” (Skip and I had an on-again, off-again agreement that we wouldn’t try to fix each other up with dates. Beverly had refused to sign the “contract,” even figuratively.)

I opened the door to my handsome nephew, in khakis, a summer blazer, and a soft yellow tie with red specks that seemed to match his hair. I knew he was following the “dress as though you’ve reached the next step” rule of business—in his case, going for that
DETECTIVE GOWEN
plate on his desk. Somehow, I thought law enforcement would have its own rules about dress, but the small-town LPPD might have been exempt.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“I’ll get it. You talk.”

“I see you’re not going to make it easy on your old aunt.”

Skip’s smile said the opposite. “I’m here to listen,” he said, and then pressed the coffee-grinder button so that neither of us could hear anything. That got the laugh he wanted.

“Skip—” I began, feeling my face sag into a pleading expression.

“Actually, I
am
going to make it easy on you, Aunt Gerry. Maddie told me about your trip to the crime scene. Well, not that you knew it was a crime scene.”

I felt my shoulders relax even as my mind kicked into overdrive. “Maddie told you?”

“The next day. Neither one of us knew it might be this big a deal. It was an adventure to her.” I pictured Maddie, thrilled to report to her cop uncle about her own exciting nighttime excursion. “Apparently she slept through most of the trip and still doesn’t know exactly where she was, but when you called a few minutes ago, I put two and two together.”

“That’s what detectives do,” I said, mimicking one of his favorite phrases.

Skip came to the table where I was slumped, with two mugs of coffee. He set them down, then leaned over and gave me a long, soft hug. “Before we talk, where’s that private stash of ginger cookies?” he asked.

I loved my nephew.

Probably no other cop would have believed that I’d told
everything I knew, that Linda hadn’t revealed an iota of why she was stranded at the crime scene. But Skip took it all in, nodded appropriately, and then gave me another hug.

“I guess that’s it. And, by the way, thanks for not asking me where my jeans are.” Skip ran his hands down the lapel of his new, business-casual attire, a bit embarrassed, I thought. Not a cool outfit, I gathered.

“I’ll bet they’re not connected at all,” I said. “Not your jeans. Linda and the homicide, I mean.”

“We’ll find out. But the time frame you’re giving me is pretty close to the estimated time of death, and there’s a chance she knows something, even if not consciously. Do you know if Linda’s home now?” My look must have worried him. “Just for questioning. I’ll try to keep you out of it.”

“You don’t have to go through hoops, Skip. I’m taking full responsibility for this.” Linda would know anyway, I thought. “Just, you know, take it easy. She’s had to deal with Jason and the robbery at Crane’s, and—”

“Not to worry, Aunt Gerry. I know this has been rough on you, too. I’ll do my best. For everyone.”

I knew he would.

I let Skip out and his mother and Maddie in at the same
time. Not that I wasn’t glad to have them home, but I’d been hoping for at least a bit of quiet time, if not a full- fledged nap.

“Uncle Skip!” Maddie jumped up into his arms, not as easily as on her last visit, a few months ago. I noticed Skip reel a bit, and I wondered if it might be from the distinctive zoo smell I caught, as well as from the inches Maddie had grown.