Still Waters (16 page)

“A dramatic line,” he commented mildly. “Maybe you should be writing fiction.”

He straightened away from the desk and stretched, dismissing her, dismissing her line of questioning. He stepped past her without a word of apology and pulled the door open.

“Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Stuart, we've got a suspect to catch.”

TEN

T
HEY WERE DOING A BOOMING BUSINESS AT ELAINE
'
S
Coffee Cup. Though she hated to think of someone getting murdered—even Jarrold Jarvis—Phyllis Jaffrey had to admit it was good for business. The place had been full all day. Reporters running in and out, drinking coffee by the gallon and eating everything in sight. Townsfolk congregating for support and speculation over strawberry pie. She'd had to ask two tables of regulars to get up and leave so she could seat the tour group of elderly matrons from Edina for lunch. Between tourism and murder she was making enough money to contemplate a winter vacation to Phoenix to visit her predecessor, Elaine.

Elaine had taken her lumbago and her brace of poodles and flown south the day after her retirement party back in '72. She had left the restaurant business behind, but the restaurant itself still bore her name and probably always would. People in small towns didn't like change—Phyllis included. She had kept the same old booths, reupholstering them in the same serviceable brown vinyl when the need arose. The counter was the same one that had been installed in the late 1800s when the Coffee Cup had been the first ice cream parlor south of Rochester.

When the linoleum had finally given out in '83 Phyllis had intended to replace it with something as close to the same as possible, but, having a shrewd head for business and seeing that tourism was going to be the next big thing in these parts, she had told Bob Griege to tear up the old stuff and restore the original narrow-board oak floor beneath. No one had objected. If things had to change in Still Creek, folks generally preferred to go backward instead of forward.

She listened to the music of the cash register ringing up another few dollars and sighed a sigh of supreme contentment. There was turmoil in the air along with the scent of French fries and coffee. Invigorating stuff. She didn't even mind that her feet felt like two big throbbing snowshoes or that she'd missed her soaps. There was enough going on around her to make
All My Children
seem dull by comparison.

The reporters had run off after the press conference to write up their articles, but the booths and tables were still mostly filled. The clatter of silverware and china accented the steady undercurrent of murmured gossip. Then the front door swung open and for one long, taut second all sound ceased, as if the whole place had taken in a big gulp of air and held it.

Elizabeth Stuart stepped inside, and the tension level rose like the mercury in a thermometer plunged into boiling water. Every eye in the place swung her way. The men would have looked anyway, Phyllis thought. Men
always
turned to look at Elizabeth, no matter how old or how married they were. It was some kind of primal instinct. But the women looked too. The lead player of their conversations had just had the gall to show her face in the most public place in town.

Resentment had run hard against Elizabeth from her first day in Still Creek. News that a divorced woman had bought the
Clarion
had swept through the town like fire. That she was beautiful, wore tight jeans, and drove a cherry-red drop-top Cadillac added fuel to that fire. That she had a notorious past
and
an accent sent the fire raging out of control.

Being contrary, Phyllis had been determined to like Elizabeth. To her relief, she had discovered there was a lot to like. She watched now as her young friend stood in the doorway, absorbing the waves of hostility, and Phyllis's heart went out to her. She bustled out from her post at the kitchen door and wound her way through the maze of tables with the grace of a lifetime waitress, crepe-soled shoes swooshing silently across the polished floor, the ties of her ruffled muslin apron fluttering behind her.

Elizabeth caught sight of Phyllis bearing down on her, her mouth puckered into a plum-colored knot, determination blazing in her eyes, hair standing out like an abused Brillo pad around her head. Phyllis wasn't more than five feet, even in her thick-soled waitress shoes, but she projected the aura of a much larger person. She had to be sixty if she was a day, but age, while it had boiled her body down to sinew and gristle, had done nothing to diminish the power of her personality. She was ornery and outspoken and had a face like a Pekingese—round and flat with a tiny nose and big watery brown eyes. Elizabeth had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

“Jolynn has a booth at the back,” Phyllis said in a voice as rough as gravel. Grabbing Elizabeth's arm, she propelled her toward the rear of the restaurant.

Chin up, Elizabeth walked past the tables of townsfolk, pretending to ignore their hostile stares. Regardless of what they thought, she hadn't done anything wrong. She wouldn't pretend she had. Conversations resumed in her wake like the Red Sea closing up behind Moses and the Israelites.

“Guess I'm the talk of the town,” she said through her teeth.

Phyllis gave a growl. “Idiots. I told I don't know how many people—‘If she was going to have an affair with a rich married man, don't you think she'd have picked someone better-looking than Jarrold?' ”

“I don't guess they think I'm that discriminating.”

“Oh, for crying in the beer,” Phyllis grumbled. “They think just because Rosemary Toller Shafer had a fling with him way back before she let herself go, some other beautiful woman might too, but it's hardly the same thing, if you ask me. Rosemary did it only to spite Helen and Garth.”

Elizabeth turned and stared down at her, mouth dropping open.

Phyllis pinched Renita Henning's arm as they passed the mayor's table. The plump blond waitress nearly doused Charlie Wilder's lap with decaf as she yelped and jumped. “I'm taking a break,” Phyllis barked. “Go get Christine out of the storeroom and tell her to stop whining about her corns.
I've
got corns so big you could feed a dairy herd with them. I don't want to hear any more about her puny corns.”

“You pinched me!” the girl whined, rubbing her arm.

Phyllis gave her the evil eye. “Oh, for the love of Mike, I was just getting your attention. When I pinch you, you'll know it. Now, bring us three diet Cokes and don't be dawdling at the counter, talking to Alice Wilson about getting a home perm. Your hair is just fine the way it is.” Phyllis sniffed and swung around, bumping Elizabeth back into step like a goat herding a sheep through a pen. “I don't know what's the matter with kids these days,” she grumbled. “All they do is complain. Soft, that's what they are. Watch too much TV.”

They slid into the back booth—Jolynn and Elizabeth on one side, Phyllis across the table from them. The booths were old-fashioned with high backs that blocked much of the view, effectively swallowing up the occupants and keeping them from sight of most everyone else in the room. A blessing, Elizabeth thought, sinking down into the squishy-soft upholstery. She'd been as much of a celebrity as she cared to be for one day.

Renita brought their Cokes in tall glasses with ice and set them on the Formica-topped table, careful not to spill a drop, then pulled a damp cloth from the pocket of her ruffled apron and wiped the table anyway, earning herself a look of approval from her boss. After she had deposited three paper-wrapped straws in a neat row, she turned and marched away down the back hall, presumably to go in search of the corn-inflicted Christine. Elizabeth watched the girl disappear, then jerked around toward Phyllis.

“Are you telling me Jarrold Jarvis
did
have an affair with someone?” she whispered, leaning across the table.

Phyllis ripped one end off her straw wrapper and blew the paper tube across the table. “
An
affair?” She gave a little snort.

“With this Rosemary person.”

“Oh, that.” She waved a hand as she dunked her straw into her glass and took a long pull on her Coke. “That was nearly twenty years ago. Everybody in town knows that story.”

“Except me,” Elizabeth said as she watched Jolynn nod sagely.

“It was back when Jarrold was still in partnership with Garth Shafer in the road-construction business,” Phyllis explained. “Jarrold's wife and Garth's wife are sisters. The Toller girls. Like day and night, they always were. Helen was little miss everything in high school, but a tramp the likes of which you've never seen. She'd do anything on a dare.” She waved again and sucked on her drink. “Anyway, that was a coon's age ago. Helen married Jarrold and Rosemary married Garth, and they were all just famous friends. Then Helen started flashing diamond rings around like they were hen's eggs and getting pretty high on herself because Jarrold had taken her on one of them cruises to Aruba and bought them all new living room furniture and I don't know what all. They just seemed to be rolling in dough, while Garth wouldn't let Rosemary buy so much as a decent hat for Easter. Next thing you know, it's all around that Rosemary and Jarrold are going at it in his office after hours. And it was true too. That youngest Shafer boy is the spitting image of Jarrold, poor kid.”

Phyllis sat back, toeing her shoes off under the table and stretching her arches, her lined face relaxing into an expression of uncomplicated pleasure.

Elizabeth stared at her, amazed. “But that gives all kinds of people reason to kill Jarvis. Helen, Rosemary, the old business partner—”

Phyllis rolled her eyes. “It was twenty years ago. People might move that slow down south, but up here we take care of things a little quicker.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much. Jarrold bought out Garth's half of the business and got to be rich as Roosevelt. Garth started the Ford dealership. Helen and Rosemary haven't spoken to each other since.”

“That's it?” Elizabeth asked in disbelief. “There wasn't a fight or threats or a divorce or anything?”

“This is Minnesota,” Phyllis said. “We don't go in for big dramatic scenes. Too embarrassing. We keep our feelings to ourselves. And divorce . . .” She frowned. “Well, it's still more than a little bit of a scandal to get divorced around here. Back then it was practically unheard of.”

Elizabeth sat back and took a sip of her soda. Where she came from there would have been a fistfight at the very least and gunplay wouldn't have been a big surprise. Around Bardette people said what they thought and let their tempers run close to the surface. Steam was blown off and forgotten on a regular basis. She tried to imagine what it might be like for all those people to bottle up those kinds of feelings—hate, humiliation, resentment. What might happen after twenty years of bitterness fermenting inside a person?

“Phyllis is right,” Jolynn said. “That's all old news. Jarrold's done it with a zillion other women since then. Everyone knows he cheated on Helen—Helen included.”

“Maybe Helen got fed up with it,” Elizabeth suggested.

“And killed the fat goose that laid the golden eggs?” Jo shook her head.

“Fat geese have fat insurance policies.”

“True,” Jolynn conceded. “But I can't see Helen doing the deed.”

“I can,” Elizabeth grumbled, shivering.

Jo shook her head again. “She's too short.”

“You don't have to be tall to hire yourself a killer.”

“Like Carney Fox?” She sat back into the corner of the booth, crossed her arms over the front of her bowling shirt, and hummed a note of consideration as the wheels of her mind started turning. Fox's name hadn't been mentioned by anyone connected with the sheriff's department, but it hadn't taken anyone long to figure out who the “unnamed transient” being sought for questioning was. Carney Fox was the obvious choice. He had drifted into town in April and hovered on the edge of trouble ever since. His reputation, coupled with the fact that no one had seen him since Wednesday afternoon, made him the prime suspect.

“I don't see it, myself,” Phyllis muttered. She sucked her Coke dry and rubbed the wet ring the glass had left on the table. “Helen got too much mileage out of being Jarrold's wife. She's always had to be the center of attention, no matter if what's going on around her is good or bad. If you ask me, Carney Fox did it on his own just out of meanness.” She leaned across the table, her head tilted to an angle of conspiracy. “He's from the Iron Range, you know. They're peculiar up there.”

Elizabeth lifted a brow. “What's the Iron Range?”

“Up north,” Jolynn explained. “Northern Minnesota, where they used to do big business mining taconite—low-grade iron ore.”

“Hardly anything up there but wolves and Indians,” Phyllis said. “And people living on the dole.”

“Major unemployment problems,” Jo interjected. “Taconite isn't worth much anymore with the U.S. steel business being what it is.”

“Jantzen told me this guy came down here looking for work.” Elizabeth took another absent sip of her drink, tracing a fingertip up and down the side of the sweating glass.

“I guess he found it,” Jolynn said. “If you call slitting people's throats and stealing their pocket money a profession.”

“I just think it's awful easy to blame the stranger in town,” Elizabeth said. “There had to be other people who hated Jarvis.”

“Oh, you bet.” Phyllis chuckled. “Everyone with their name in that little black book of his. But I can't see anyone going to the trouble of killing him. Not anyone from Still Creek. That's just not our way. Get mad and don't say anything. That's how—”

Jo and Elizabeth leaned forward simultaneously, like a pair of bird dogs spotting a quail, eyes bright. “Black book?”

Phyllis smiled a cat-in-the-cream smile, the fine lines of her face creasing deeper. People didn't always realize it, but she was in a position to know most everything about most everybody in town, since the Coffee Cup was the place to talk things over and Phyllis had no moral compunction about eavesdropping.

“Jarrold loaned people money—people the bank wouldn't trust or people who didn't trust the bank, people needing money for things they didn't want anyone to know about. And he kept their names in a little black book.” She nodded toward the booth across the way, the only booth in the place that was empty now. “Jarrold did most of his business right there,” she said proudly.

Elizabeth turned toward Jolynn. “Jantzen said the glove compartment of Jarvis's Lincoln had been gone through. They figured the killer was looking for cash.”