Plan Bee (20 page)

“Not a one.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be observant?” I said. “Since you’re a reporter and all?”

Patti shrugged that off, but she had a theory about the type of individual who would attack an innocent woman like herself.

“I’m sick and tired of all those do-gooders who still think they are entitled to private lives. This is the age of transparency and they need to get with the program. Nobody has the right to stop me from gathering personal information!”

Sally and I exchanged looks of disbelief, then Sally
stood back with her arms crossed and said, “Patti, you and that damn telescope have obviously made a few enemies and one of them really doesn’t want you to set up another observation tower. We’ll check around, but our chances of catching the guy are slim.”

“I wonder if my homeowner’s policy will pay for another telescope,” Patti pondered.

“My point is,” Sally said, “maybe you should give the telescope obsession a rest.”

“And give in to aggression? No way! Next time, I’ll be ready.”

“Next time,” I said. “You might be dead.”

It wasn’t until later in the day, after I’d spent some much-needed time catching up in the honey house, that I remembered the conversation with Stanley and how he had found a bead in the cemetery. I’d shoved it in my pocket when we heard Patti moaning from her side of the cedars.

I fished it out and held it up. What did Stanley have, X-ray eyes? Because it wasn’t that big. Although it was crystal, so maybe the sun caught it just right and Stanley spotted the reflection.

And it wasn’t until even later, after I’d closed up the store and walked home under a rising full moon with Holly and Dinky, that I remembered something else: Dinky had gobbled up something that night in the cemetery. I’d tried to stop her, but I’d been too late. And she’d upchucked it after we got home. At the time, I hadn’t thought anything of it, since she tended to eat just about anything and everything.

But what if it was an important clue? I didn’t have any
solid facts to support that assumption. The idea presented itself out of nowhere, just rose up and struck me in the head like a sudden bolt of lightning.

Before I got a chance to follow up on that thought, P.P. Patti arrived at my house wearing her pajamas and carrying a pillow and a duffel bag.

“After what happened to me,” she said, “I can’t stay home alone.”

What could I say? Nothing, that’s what. I had a houseguest whether I wanted one or not.

I’d already taken the trash outside, so I hustled out there with Holly and Patti trailing behind. I pulled out the top garbage bag, got down on my knees, opened it up, and rummaged around. It really smelled ripe.

“What are you doing?” Holly asked, holding her nose.

“I have to check something out.” There it was. I came up with the wadded paper towel I’d used to clean up Dinky’s gooey mess.

“I’m going to be sick,” Holly said when I pried it open and she got her eyes on semidigested stomach stuff.

“If you had a dog,” I said, “you wouldn’t be such a sissy. Besides, I have natural ruggedness that I must have inherited from Mom.”

Wow. That came out of nowhere. My ruggedness statement was a huge improvement in my attitude toward my mother. Before today, I would have shuddered to think I shared any qualities, good or bad, with her. This was a giant step in the right direction. And unlike Holly, I didn’t need a shrink to tell me I was on the right path.

Studying the paper towel, I spotted something solid in the drying out blob, something round. I palmed it and swiped at it to clean it off.

“A silver bead,” I said with a little frog in my voice. “Exactly like the one from my scarf, only a different color.”

Holly and Patti wanted to know what was so important that I’d pick through dog barf, so I told them how Stanley
had found a silver bead in the cemetery and here was another one from the same place.

“The bead Stanley gave me could have been dropped anytime,” I said. “But this one”—I held Dinky’s gobbled treasure up between my fingers—“was in the cemetery when Ford Stocke was killed. We have an important timeline.”

“So what?” Patti said. “Unless Ford Stocke choked to death on a bunch of beads.”

“We still don’t know cause of death,” I realized, closing up the garbage bag and returning it to the trash can.

“Maybe,” Holly said, as we went back inside, “Alicia used those same beads in other scarves. Or maybe one of the Petries walked through there with a stack of scarves and beads dropped to the ground. I agree with Patti. No big deal.”

I made a phone call to Mom just to confirm that I wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. “The scarf you gave me,” I said. “Came from Aggie Petrie’s sale booth, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Um… eh… I love it so much I’d like to get another one. For a friend.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet.” I almost thought I was talking to my grandmother. I was tempted to say, “Put Mom on the phone.”

After I hung up, I said to Holly and Patti, “Have either of you heard anything about a murder weapon? Or how Ford was killed?”

They both shook their heads.

I made another phone call. This time to the medical examiner, Jackson Davis.

Jackson and I were friendly enough that I had him on speed dial. We’d bonded one night at Stu’s bar during an Irish wake, and since then he shares tidbits with me. Jackson’s job is to fit together all the missing pieces. It’s a big jigsaw puzzle to him. He might have an easy time stamping
“dead as a doornail” on Ford’s forehead, but next he’ll have to figure out exactly what had happened to make him that way. Not only would he figure out what caused Ford’s death, but hopefully Jackson would have some insight into even more details that might catch his killer.

I’m slightly embarrassed to admit to myself that I’m not above having a morbid fascination when it comes to tragedies and major dramas. We humans are wired that way, even though most of us won’t admit it out loud. But I’m not the only one in this town who is fixated on crime shows on television or who slows down to gawk when I come across a car accident.

Holly made sandwiches for us while I talked about this and that with Jackson. Finally I got around to the reason for my call. “Did you finish the autopsy on Ford Stocke?”

Jackson chuckled. “Are you pumping me for information again?”

“You know me. Snoopy Story. But I have a personal interest in this case. My mom’s dating Ford’s brother.”

“As a matter of fact, I
did
complete the autopsy. I just finished giving a verbal report to the police chief and the next-of-kin.”

“Tom Stocke?”

“Right. He’s the closest relative.”

“Can you tell me if Ford was killed inside the house where his body was found?”

“That I can’t do, because it’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Can you tell me what caused his death?”

“That’s not a secret.”

Oh good. I had been ready to go into my promise-not-to-tell speech, which usually only worked when Jackson was tipping a glass or two at Stu’s. And even then it wasn’t easy getting him to talk. So the “not a secret” part was a relief. “How did he die?” I asked, hearing the eagerness in my voice. Darn.

“In layman terms or…”

“Layman,” I interrupted.

“Strangled,” Jackson said. “Strangled until dead.”

I felt my stomach pitch. “With what?”

“Can’t reveal that, either. The chief wants to withhold certain details.”

After I hung up I didn’t feel like eating the sandwich Holly put down in front of me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I said.

“Try me.”

“He was strangled.”

“With a scarf?” Holly practically shouted.

“Jackson wouldn’t say.”

“Bring it on,” Patti yelled, excited over the latest bit of news.

With that war cry, Patti made herself at home. Holly stayed overnight, too, since her husband Max was out of town as usual. The three of us sat up late, talking through possibilities and various scenarios while sipping wine.

I drank more than usual.

And ended up dreaming about beads, barf, and bullets.

The next morning I had a monster headache. Patti and Holly were sharing a bed in the spare room and didn’t wake up when I peeked in. Dinky’s head poked out of the covers between them, but she nestled back down. The hairless dog loved the warmth of a nice thick blanket more than anything else.

After having a light breakfast of coffee and toast with honey butter, I went right to The Wild Clover where I found Carrie Ann in the back room playing games online.

“I thought I shut down that computer,” I accused. “And I have a secret password. How did you get online?”

Carrie Ann’s eyes were definitely darting. “Uh—uh, you forgot to shut it down?”

She had the password! How had she found it out? Before I could continue my interrogation of the computer hacker, a siren wailed close by. So of course we had to go investigate that instead.

By the time Carrie Ann and I burst through the front
door, Johnny Jay’s chief car and two other squad cars were parked just down the block, in front of Tom Stocke’s antique store. And when they got out of their vehicles and approached the building, they did it cautiously and furtively like they didn’t want the occupant to know of their approach. Which was ridiculous considering all the noise they’d made coming into town.

The antique store wasn’t even open yet, so they slunk around the back side of the building where we couldn’t see them anymore. But we didn’t have to. They were obviously heading for Tom’s attached apartment and, based on their serious body language, weren’t paying a friendly social call.

If that wasn’t enough bad news, I saw Grams’s Caddy come down the street, do a U-turn in slow motion, and pull up next to Johnny’s car. I heard the crunch of metal connecting with metal. When Grams pulled forward, the car’s side mirror came loose, dangling from a few wires.

Mom got out of the passenger seat with a covered dish in her hand. “For cripes’ sake,” she said, shades of the old Mom popping to the surface. “Next time, I’m driving. You better get out of here before the chief spots you.”

Grams, taking Mom’s advice, peeled rubber, something I didn’t know she could do. The only bad part was that she took off while Mom’s passenger door was still open and it banged against one of the squad cars before slamming shut.

“Unbelievable,” my cousin said as we watched Grams disappear. Then Carrie Ann said, “I’ll cover at the store.” And she took off.

I was already moving in my mother’s direction.

Mom was staring at the three cop cars as though she was trying to absorb the implication. By then, I was at her side. “Where are you going?” I asked her.

“I’m taking breakfast to Tom.” Her head continued to swivel. “What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know. The cops arrived a few minutes ago and headed around back toward Tom’s apartment.”

“This can’t be good.”

“No, it can’t,” I said. “Why don’t you come to the store until we find out what’s happening?”

“Why would I do that,” Mom said, “when I can just go to Tom’s and find out firsthand?”

She had a good point.

Mom started marching. I followed.

Officer Sally Maylor was guarding the door to Tom’s apartment. She wasn’t a large woman but I always thought of her as a tough, strong woman if she ever had to be. I imagined she had all kinds of weapons at her disposal—mace, a nightstick, a stun gun, a firearm, and lots of legal authority to apply them as necessary. But Sally had always treated me well and I didn’t want that to change.

Mom wasn’t about to let Sally stop her, though. “I’m going in,” she said, trying to hand her dish to Sally. “Here, hold this.”

“Sorry, Helen. I have my orders. Nobody gets inside.”

“We’ll see about that,” Mom said, pulling out her own authoritative tone. She edged closer. Sally looked ready to act.

“Helen, I have two choices,” Sally said. “I can let you in, in which case I’ll lose my job. Or I can keep you out and stay employed. Guess which one I’m going to pick?”

“Tom’s okay, though?” Mom asked, sounding worried now instead of bossy. “He isn’t hurt, right?”