The Ginseng Conspiracy (A Kay Driscoll Mystery) (9 page)

“He is a handsome man. I remember wearing the costume you chose in
A Midsummer’s Night Dream
.”

I smiled. “I thought that’s where it came from.”

“What did everyone else wear?” A look of interest grew on her face. “Tell me all about the party.”

We spent time talking about costumes, the imaginative decorations, and whom I saw that she knew. When I mentioned seeing Al and his wife, I saw her grimace. I didn’t understand the reaction, but did not feel it was appropriate for me to ask what was behind it. Continuing on, I talked about what a great time we had, all the time thinking about the frightening events of the nerve-wracking evening. I decided I had had enough. I needed to leave. From seeing her reactions to my mentions of Bill and Al, I could see Margaret knew more about what happened to Walters than she was letting on. I would have to find a way to get more information from her later.

The phone rang. When Margaret answered it, she didn’t seem too pleased with the person on the other end. I motioned toward the door and waved good-bye. She gave a halfhearted wave back, and I let myself out. I stood outside her screen door for a few seconds.

“Just got back,” I heard her say. “I couldn't believe it....Why is he coming here?...Do you think that's necessary?”

When Margaret started to turn in my direction, I left and walked down her sidewalk toward the street. I wished I knew who Margaret was talking to and what the other person was saying. As I reached the front of Margaret’s yard, I saw Dr. Anders' car approaching. Perhaps I should talk to him about what I saw and find out what he thought. I waved to get his attention, but he must not have seen me. His mind was probably elsewhere. He looked tired this morning. He always worked so hard and with such dedication for the free clinic.

I walked back home, thinking about Margaret’s involvement in all of this. She said she just came back this afternoon. When Phil and I walked back from the Ball last night her car wasn't in the driveway, where she had to park because of Earl's two vintage cars in the garage. She wasn't one of the six in the vacant store, but she had the same robe as the others wore up in her attic, which meant she had to be connected somehow.

Phil came home around five o'clock while I was making chicken parmigiana for dinner.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened,” I said, and I proceeded to tell him about discovering Walters. “He drowned. They say it's an accident.”

Phil looked up from his folder of guitar music. “And you just saw him last night in the vacant store?”

“I'm impressed you remember that.”

“I’m sorry, Kay. I know how it upset you. I wonder if they will need a band for the wake?”

I just shook my head, something I seemed to do a lot of, as of late. Phil went back to arranging his sheet music.

Monday, October 31

Halloween finally arrived after the harrowing weekend. On our walk this Monday morning, we saw lots of excited, boisterous children waiting to climb onto the yellow school buses in their Halloween costumes.

“Look at all these kids,” I said, surveying the throng of monsters and movie stars. “They're already bouncing up and down!”

“I don’t know how the teachers will contain all that energy,” Deirdre added. “It doesn't look like they can wait to start their school parties any longer.”

“Pity any teacher trying to get work done today,” Elizabeth said, looking unenthused at the scene.

“Why even bother? It’s Halloween. Today is about having fun,” I said. “All they're going to think about is trick-or-treating tonight anyway.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I thought back to our Halloween party Saturday evening and the murder.

The last of the buses with their open windows rolled past us, carrying their noisy passengers. The street grew silent, but an after-image of the children's excitement remained burned in the air.

When I arrived home from walking, Phil was packing up his things for class.

“I just finished making breakfast for you.” He took out a plate of pumpkin spice pancakes and maple sausages he kept warm in the oven for me. “Surprise! I hope this is a good start to a better day. I know how tough your weekend was. I’ll come home straight after class. It shouldn't be any later than eight o'clock.”

“Thanks. This is great,” I said, glancing at the plate of yummy-looking pancakes and sausages he put in front of me. “Did you get a chance to eat?”

“I inhaled a couple of the pancakes that didn’t come out right. Don’t have a whole lot of time. This morning I'm bending the ribs of my guitar. It’s tricky. A lot of the students have cracked theirs and had to start the whole process over, thicknessing new wood.”

I felt so smug whenever I thought of or used the word thicknessing. I had learned from Phil that all it meant was thinning the wood to the correct thickness, but why say that when you can make music, plucking the word thicknessing off the tip of your tongue? “Good luck. I hope you don't crack any ribs.” I hugged him.

“I think I just felt one crack right now.” He gave me a winning smile.

After finishing the last of the sausages and pancakes, I decided I would be skipping lunch today. I poured myself a second and then third cup of coffee, spooning in two sugars, and thought back to the professor’s death. So much to think about, so much to consider, and I had so many questions.

It seemed my scare the other night was turning out to be the beginning of a full-fledged murder mystery. I knew I needed to tell the authorities about the professor, but who could I trust to report it to? I thought about my friend, Thom Harris, a boyfriend from my college days who I had become reacquainted with while working together in Boulder on a case. After reestablishing our friendship, our families spent much time together. He was an FBI agent who worked out of the Denver office. I could contact Thom. He would know about the procedures and could advise me. But first, I needed to find some solid proof to substantiate my accusations. What could he or any state police do without proof? Until then, I would have to leave him out of the loop.

I cleared away the dishes and gave the house a thorough cleaning. I had a lot of nervous energy, or perhaps too much caffeine, coursing through my veins. The entire time, I thought about the professor, turning over in my mind what I should have done differently and what I needed to do now. The best place to start was from the ground up. I should dig into the backgrounds of the people involved and hope a pattern would emerge.

Two o’clock rolled around. With my mind racing and searching for answers, I decided to head on over to Marissa’s, the best place for me to think and sort things out. I figured a piece of chocolate anything could only help my frame of mind.

* * * *

“I’ll have another of the same,” I said to Marissa.

As Marissa brought me my second torte, her lips pursed a little. “You’ll regret this tomorrow. Is something bothering you, Kay?”

I took a bite out of the rich truffle torte covered with chocolate ganache and fresh raspberries. Creamy, luscious chocolate teased my taste buds.

“Yes, Marissa, I have a lot to think about, but this sure helps.”

The door to Sweet Marissa’s Patisserie opened, and Marissa left to greet her new customers. In all of my years, I had never found a place that would compare to Sweet Marissa's. I loved coming here with Deirdre and Elizabeth once or twice a week to sample Marissa’s shockingly rich pastries. This afternoon, needing solitude, I didn’t call them. So much had happened since Saturday night. I needed some time to think, and what better place than this, where the sugar could shoot straight up to my brain.

I glanced around the patisserie. There weren't many people, a couple of regulars sat at tables reading the paper. Across the room, my ex-yoga instructor with her spiky hair sat with her boyfriend, who worked at the health food store. They leaned forward closing the space between them, almost in a pose, and shared a light kiss over a spinach gruyere puff pastry. They looked like they didn't have a care in the world. At the table next to them, a comely middle-aged man, buried his nose in a thick tome. His fingers walked across the table, searching for the chocolate éclair sitting on a plate. Finding it, he drew the pastry behind the book momentarily and, not paying attention, placed it back on the table near his plate with a large bite missing.

I mindlessly bit into my own chocolate torte. My mind drifted back to that night, only two days ago, when I witnessed the murder (well sort of) that gave me a glimpse of a different side of Sudbury Falls, a frightening side that wasn’t safe and secure as the one I had come to know and love. I came to the realization that this was not the utopia I envisioned it to be. Only two days, but it had been a long time to be with my memory of what I should have done but felt powerless to do. In a sugar-induced reverie, I reflected on Sudbury Falls and the people inhabiting this sunny-on-the-outside, perilous-on-the-inside little town.

When we moved to Sudbury Falls, the “old guard” families who had lived here for many generations regarded us as incomers. They were friendly enough on the surface and greeted you on the street, asking how you were or talking about the weather. That was as far as a conversation went. They tended to be tight-knit and socialized more in their own circles. I had made many friends here, but most of them were incomers. My friends Ted Michaels and Margaret MacAlister were the exceptions. Margaret had the silk gossamer hooded robe up in her attic. Was the old guard involved in Sherman Walters' murder? He was an incomer. Who were all the people in the vacant store?

I looked off to the side, out the window, and saw Ted Michaels standing by his car talking to Bill Murphy and making exaggerated motions. Must have just gotten a parking ticket. Bill Murphy...the murderer...

“Kay? Kay? Can I get you anything else?” Marissa stood in front of me, playfully waving her hand in front of my face. When I took notice of her, she laughed. “Would you like more tea? Or
another
piece of torte?”

“Oh, sure,” I said in jest, then smiled. “No, I think I'm fine for now, Marissa. Thanks.”

Who was in the vacant store? I decided to make a list of everyone who could be involved. I didn’t know a lot of people in Sudbury Falls or how far I could take the list. Should everyone be suspect, even Deirdre and Elizabeth? How did I know they greeted people at the Halloween Ball like they claimed? No way they would be involved. I needed to focus on people who demonstrated the classic traits of a murderer. I thought about this for a while. Those involved in this web would have an overwhelming ego and lack a sense of empathy and affiliation to others outside of the group. They'd have to be clever, leading a double life, and since they succeeded in killing the professor, they would think of themselves as having control over the lives of others. I was certain of that, if nothing else.

It took a good hour of unhurried thought and two large pieces of Marissa’s rich chocolate raspberry truffle torte to help me realize the first step in my plan. I probably could have figured it out with just one piece, but there was nothing like Marissa’s confections to make you think you could conquer the world.

Tomorrow I'd go over and talk to the professor's widow. I needed a clearer idea of who her husband was. Other than knowing his position at the college, I didn't know anything else about him.

As I ate the last forkful of my second piece of the sweet chocolate delight and wiped some chocolate from around my mouth, I reflected on Sudbury Falls. Death had visited our picturesque little town.

“Goodbye, Marissa,” I said as I headed toward the door. “I've got to go home and get ready for tonight. I still need to carve my Jack-O’-Lanterns. As always, it's been a real pleasure.”

Marissa intercepted me and gave me a big hug. “See you soon, Kay.”

It was a good thing Phil wouldn’t be home tonight for dinner. I couldn’t eat another bite.

* * * *

After I got home and carved my Jack-O’-Lanterns, I set them outside on the stoop. Both had comical grins, reminiscent of Alfred E. Neuman. I lit them with several tea candles each. I had experienced enough darkness already this Halloween weekend, and it was time to bring some light into being. I walked down to the driveway to see how they looked from the curb as dusk crept through the streets. I heard eerie music weeping out of Ted's house and blending in with the Fairport Convention music I was listening to. I glanced over to his house and saw Ted standing on his porch watching me. His face was pure white and he wore a Dracula cape. He pulled his cape up to his chin with his left arm and extended his right arm to point at me.

“Good evening, Kay. Happy Halloveen,” Ted said with his best Transylvanian accent. He smiled a toothy grin. I could see his protruding canines from where I was standing. “Vant to come over and see my coffin? Leave your garlic and crosses at home.”

I hesitated for a few seconds before responding. “Tempting offer, Ted. Almost too good to pass up. Maybe later.”

A police car came down the street. Bill Murphy was behind the wheel. I tensed up as he drove past, but he didn't even glance in my direction. After the engine noise dissipated, my ears caught the advancing wave of trick-or-treaters approaching. Their laughter carried over from the next block. Black Cat firecrackers sounded off in the distance. Halloween night in all its glory had begun.