Thread and Buried (8 page)

15

I
NEARLY FELL ONTO AN EXPENSIVE SEWING
and embroidery machine. Neil the baker was dead? Neil, who’d been nearly as sweet as the treats he’d baked? “Neil was sick, too,” I managed. “Cassie said he was one of several people who got sick at the picnic. Did the illness you had actually
kill
people?” The idea was frightening. Edna and Vicki had survived the disease, but the rest of us could come down with it. “Do you know yet what caused your illness?”

Wrestling with two kittens who seemed determined to search for prey underneath her hat, she told me that testing hadn’t been completed. “As I said before, people who didn’t attend the picnic are reporting similar symptoms, so we can’t be sure it was food poisoning, and we don’t know what virus it could have been.”

“It was so contagious that a whole bunch of you got it, while the rest of us didn’t.”

She glanced at me under half-closed eyelids and twisted her mouth to one side. “Not yet.”

I waved my hand in dismissal. “I feel fine.”

“I did, too. It came on suddenly. Don’t let yourself get too far from home.”

A home that, thanks to someone leaving a corpse in the backyard, was not as comfortable as it should be. I glanced toward the back windows.

Neil.
Who could have wanted to hurt sweet, gentle Neil?

“Maybe someone found Neil after he succumbed,” I guessed. “And then panicked and disposed of the body in a really strange way.”

Vicki maneuvered little kitty claws out of the heavy nylon covering her bulletproof vest. “You said that batting was stolen Friday night, right?”

I nodded.

“And you said Cassie told you that Neil became ill after the picnic, last night, which was Saturday. And he certainly seemed fine when I bought my strawberry shortcake from him.”

“He was fine when we bought ours, too. Maybe someone wanted to make a quilt, but then found a different use for the batting.” Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t a plausible explanation. But nothing was.

Neil.
I let out a sigh.

“People are strange.” She glanced at me sideways as if checking my mood, then added lightly, “And to think I wanted to be a cop so I could drive fast cars.”

I knew that joking could be one way of coping with the darker seams of life, so I teased her. “But hand-knit sweaters could slow your cruiser down with all that wind resistance.”

“Maybe I’ll let it wear its sweater in parades.” She faked a shudder. “And community picnics. I’m not sure I want to project a warm and fuzzy image, though.”

Sometimes she couldn’t avoid it, especially when cuddling a couple of black and white kittens.

She handed me the kittens and took out her notebook. “Do you know Cassie’s last name or where she lives?”

“No. I got the impression that she moved to Elderberry Bay recently, but I don’t know where. I met her for the first time Saturday night. She was serving strawberry shortcake—”

Vicki made another exaggerated shudder. “Don’t keep talking about strawberry shortcake! Tell me again about the two women you thought you saw her with—the ones who were going around starting commotions.”

I described the two women again. “I think the one with maroon curly hair was the same woman who was carrying empty bowls away from the salad tent at the picnic, but I didn’t get a good look at her. She hopped into the back of a white van and closed the doors.”

“I know who you mean. I bought asparagus salad from her. Did you notice what she was wearing that time?”

“A navy blue long-sleeved shirt, and, I think, jeans. Who is she?”

“I don’t know her.” Vicki gave me a stern look. “But I’ll do the investigating. You keep out of it.”

“Don’t worry.” I had no intention of snooping into Neil’s death and the subsequent peculiar disposal of his body. However, if I
happened
upon more evidence, it would be helpful if I learned as much as possible so I could pass it on to Vicki accurately, wouldn’t it? I had liked Neil. The entire community would mourn him.

Vicki gently lifted Bow-Tie away from my ponytail, confined him against her bulletproof vest, tickled him under the chin, and commented in tones that were painfully too casual, “I saw your posters. Has anyone phoned about losing the kitties?”

“No. If no one claims them, would you like them?”

She pocketed her notebook and rescued me from Mustache, who had apparently decided that one of my dangly earrings was a toy. “They’re tempting, but I’d hate to take them away from Sally-Forth. If anyone does claim them, though, let me attend the reunion. I’d like to see who managed to misplace kittens in your yard around the time someone dropped off a body.”

Speaking of dropping, I nearly had to pick my chin up off my knees. Surely, whoever dragged Neil into my backyard had not brought kittens along.

Vicki straightened her own ponytail and resettled her hat on her head. “First yarnbombing,” she murmured to the kittens. “Then quiltbatbombing.”

I covered my mouth. Despite the horror of Neil’s sudden death, I was finding cop humor funny. Maybe I was coming down with something. I spoke between my fingers. “I wonder if the supposed yarnbomber was wearing that quilt batting when he ran off and hopped into a motorboat.” If only I’d seen that cape on a running person, I might know if it had flapped like quilt batting or like an old sheet or blanket.

“Neil?” she asked. “And he wasn’t sick after all?”

“Probably not Neil. On Friday night, he turned green when Tom Umshaw teased him about going out in boats.”

“Tom Umshaw?”

“He sells fish down at the wharf. He had the fish fry tent at the picnic.”

“
Must
you keep reminding me of the things I ate last night? Including the perch I didn’t manage to finish so I’d have room for strawberry shortcake?” She groaned.

I grinned.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell Gartener. He’ll probably go find Cassie, the two fighting women, and this Tom Umshaw, and have a word with them all.” She pointed her pen at me. “And remember, Willow. Police investigate crimes. Civilians don’t.” She quickly amended that to, “At least they
shouldn’t
.”

“Sorry for reporting the treasure trove of jewelry,” I teased. “What’s happening with that?”

“Every item matches something in the insurers’ lists, so all of it will eventually be turned over to the insurance companies. At the moment, the jewelry and the box it was buried in are being kept as evidence during the investigation into Snoozy’s death. Sorting everything out could take a long time.” She cocked her head and gave me one of her police officer assessing looks. “Thirty years ago, rewards were posted for the return of the jewelry, so it’s possible that you and Clay may get a windfall.”

“I won’t hold my breath.” But I couldn’t help wondering if my dream of a cruise might come true, or if I would be practical, instead, and make early mortgage payments.

After Vicki left, I phoned Haylee. She was as shocked and sickened about Neil’s death and the disposal of his body as I was. “What killed him?” she asked.

“If Vicki knows, she’s not telling me. Maybe it was the gastrointestinal whatever that Vicki and Edna had. He must have had it, too. Vicki thinks it was the flu, not food poisoning, since people who didn’t attend the picnic also got sick.”

“So Vicki won’t be upset if you and I sort of
accidentally
look into the possibility of food poisoning?”

I played along. “How would we do that?”

“Visit local asparagus farms, for a start?” I heard the grin in her voice.

“I’m running low on fresh produce,” I said. “And I’m totally out of those cinnamon rolls from that one farm stand.”

“My nice red truck or your boring car?” Haylee teased.

“My car doesn’t call attention to us like your red truck does—your truck with its sissy automatic transmission.”

“You could teach me to drive a stick shift, but then you’d have nothing to act superior about.”

“Ha. We need to save my
boring
five-speed for times when we don’t want people recognizing us, like when we have to snoop around after dark.”

“We’d never do that,” she said.

I laughed. “I’ll walk the dogs and then meet you at your truck in a half hour.”

What was the point of fencing in my backyard if the poor dogs couldn’t run around freely in it? After a short outing with all four animals in the part of my yard we were allowed to use, I let Sally help me round up the kittens, then took the dogs for a brisk jaunt to the beach and back.

Hoping I wouldn’t return to shredded furniture, I shut the animals into my great room, and then Haylee and I set off in her cherry red pickup truck. She turned to me. “Have you talked to Tom Umshaw since Neil’s death?”

“No. I should offer my condolences.”

“I need to do that also, and I could use some fresh fish for supper. Mind if we head for the wharf, first?”

“We should,” I agreed.

She drove out of Threadville and west on Shore Road. “Do you know anything about Neil’s family and his other friends besides Tom?”

“Vicki said that his only family was his mother, in Florida. And he must have other friends besides Tom. But I think he usually started his working day around two in the morning, which would have kept him from many evening activities, like hanging around with the regulars at The Ironmonger.”

Haylee turned her pickup right on a road leading down a hill to the Elderberry Bay Lodge, the marina, and the wharf. “During sewing classes,” she told me, “Tom said that he heads out very early some mornings to get to the really good fishing spots. He was glad that our courses were held in the daytime. He said that even during the winter, he started yawning by seven. So he wouldn’t hang out with the Ironmonger crowd, either. No wonder he and Neil were friends. Our lunchtime would just about be . . . have been . . . their suppertime.”

Neil had seemed like an outgoing, contented, and generous man, but I hadn’t known him well. He’d lived in the apartment above La Bakery, and I’d never seen anyone else around who might have shared that apartment with him. I felt sorry for his mother. And for Tom and for Neil’s other friends, too, who would be grieving over his loss. Life was too short, especially for Neil.

To our left, the Elderberry Bay Lodge, resplendent in fresh white paint, nestled among trees above lawns sloping down to the beach. The bright blue sky reflected on water lapping at the sand. A couple of motorboats were tied up at a spanking new dock, while canoes, kayaks, and paddle boats were on the sand above the waterline.

Haylee turned right again, onto Beach Row. We passed a marina that was colorful with flags flying from yachts.

Beyond the marina, Haylee could have continued along Beach Row, which would have taken us back home. Instead, she parked in the lot that served the marina, the public boat launch, and the wharf.

Tom’s shop was the largest on the wharf, and the closest to Beach Row. It was built of weathered wood with a rustic sign over the door,
Tom’s Fish Shack
, and a hole or two gnawed through the wood near the pavement.

Head down, Tom came out of his shop and headed for a pickup truck with a windowed cap over the bed.

Jumping out of Haylee’s truck, I called to him.

His eyes were red-rimmed, his face puffy. With obvious effort, he turned the corners of his mouth up in a smile that didn’t match his sad eyes.

Haylee clambered out of her truck, too.

Awkwardly, we asked if we were too late to buy fish.

“Of course not. Come on in.” He turned around, led us to the building, and rammed the wooden door with his shoulder. “It sticks,” he apologized. “I was going to fix it, but . . .” His voice trailed off as if Neil’s death had robbed him of his energy.

“We’re sorry about Neil,” I managed.

Tom nodded, accepting the sympathy if not the reality. “We were friends since grade school. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

It occurred to me that Haylee and I should offer Cassie our condolences, also. I blurted, “Do you know what’s become of Neil’s assistant?”

Tom looked blank.

“Cassie?” I prompted.

“What’s become of her?” he asked. “Nothing, I hope.” He shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. “Sorry I’m so slow. I was laid up with the stomach flu ever since Saturday night, and then I heard about Neil, and I’m still not really on my feet. Maybe Cassie’s sick, too. Or maybe she went back home. Cleveland, I think Neil said.” He went around to the other side of his sales counter. “Poor kid. She seemed so eager to run that bakery better.” He opened the glass door at the back of the refrigerated display unit. “What kind of fish do you want and how much?”

It was a relief to discuss fish and not murder. He sprinkled ice chips over our fish to keep it fresh, wrapped it, and saw us out.

Sobered, we climbed into Haylee’s truck. She drove back past the marina and lodge and up the hill to Shore Road.

Years before, my Brownie leader took our troop on what she called “penny hikes.” The plan was that whenever we came to a crossroad, we flipped a coin and scampered down that street until the next crossroad, where we flipped a coin again. Sometimes, we ended up at my leader’s house in only a few rather disappointing minutes. Once in a while, though, the leader had to pocket the penny and direct us to the quickest route home to prevent concerned parents from laying siege to her house. After one memorably long hike, the leader began carrying a compass.

That was sort of how Haylee and I did our shopping at farm stands. We seldom flipped a coin, though. We tended to take routes we hadn’t traveled before, and if we found something particularly good, like those cinnamon and pecan breakfast rolls, we returned to that stand on our way to the grocery store for whatever was still on our shopping lists. So far, we hadn’t needed a compass.

Haylee drove south, away from the lake. Stands that had been selling only asparagus were closed for the season. We bought lettuce, spinach, strawberries, new potatoes, goat’s milk cheese, free-range eggs, and, of course, the cinnamon rolls we’d come for. We also bought muffins and artisanal bread at that woman’s stand, too, and cookies to supplement the baking that we would have to continue doing on Mondays.