Murder on Old Main Street (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Read online

  My heart skipped at least one beat, and I clutched the phone to my ear. Poor Abby.

  “I need your help once again.”

  Not that I’ve been much help so far, I thought, chagrined at this new development.

  “Because I’m the sole caretaker for my mother, and I have a business in town and all, they’re willing to release me if I can post bail. It’s five hundred thousand dollars. I’ll have to put up the diner and my house as collateral. Please, Kate …” Abby paused again to try to pull herself together, “… do what you can to find a bail bondsman. I tried your cell phone, but you didn’t answer there either. My neighbor is in the house with Mom, but I can’t impose on her much longer. I really need your help. I don’t know how much longer I can keep silent.”

  Nine

  On Sunday morning I went to meet Margo for late breakfast at the Town Line Diner, so named because it was located in a shopping plaza on the line between Wethersfield and Rocky Hill. Armando and I often lingered over a big diner breakfast at the counter most Sunday mornings, served ably and cheerfully by Janice or Angie or Sherri, because the coffee was good enough to please even a particular Colombian.

  This morning I particularly enjoyed the familiar bustle and chatter as I followed the hostess to a booth in the large back room.

  I wasn’t in a good mood. It had taken me half the night to arrange for Abby’s bail and get her released. Her bond had been set by the arraigning judge at $500,000, as she had told me, and she had to put up her house and the diner as collateral. If this thing went wrong, Abby would lose everything and spend many years in prison. Who would look after her ailing mother then?

  While driving Abby back to her house, I attempted to bolster her spirits with an abbreviated account of my activities since she and I had first talked. It was hard to gauge her frame of mind. She sat stiffly in the seat beside me, hands gripping each other, staring straight before her. She had aged ten years in the last week. By the time I got her home to her mother, it was well after 2:00 a.m.

  In addition to being sleep deprived and worried sick that Emma’s name would soon be given to the police as an alternative suspect, I was tired of avoiding Ephraim Marsh and Mavis Griswold, both of whom had good reason to be full of anxious questions. I was tired of the no-smoking ban protestors who continued to pace and shout and clutter the sidewalks. And I was tired of quarreling with Armando, who was still pouting about last night. We had plans to take his Tia Estella to a late afternoon performance at Hartford Stage today, and I wasn’t looking forward to hearing more from him on the subject of silly women who have, but refuse to use, cell phones.

  Emma had been unavailable by phone since we had separated the previous evening, so I had no idea what she was up to, and Joey was in town looking for a home-cooked dinner, which I would be unable to provide because I’d be out with my pissed-off man and his auntie. At the moment, Joey was sleeping in my guestroom, so I left him a note about my having breakfast with Margo at the diner.

  In the meantime, there was the open house to get through, as well as Harriett Wheeler’s diaries. Arriving only a moment behind me, Margo lugged them to the diner in an elegant leather tote, which she deposited beneath our table. “Whew, these things are heavy. Where’s the coffee?” An obliging waiter appeared with a filled cup, and she busied herself with a packet of sweetener. “What’s wrong, Sugar? You’re wearin’ a mighty long face for a Sunday mornin’.”

  I enumerated the events of the previous evening. “On top of everything else, Armando and I aren’t speaking,” I finished up.

  She smiled sympathetically. “Nothin’ worse than gettin’ into it with your honey bun to start a day off badly,” she agreed.

  I sipped my coffee. “That doesn’t seem to be a problem for you these days,” I noted recklessly. “Ready to talk about the big romance yet, or must I really keep pretending not to have noticed that you and John Harkness have become an item?”

  Margo regarded me levelly over the rim of her cup. After assessing me for a moment, she decided not to pick a fight. “Well, since you ask.” She put down her cup. “The situation is this. Yes, John and I are seein’ quite a lot of each other. He is an absolutely darlin’ man, and I enjoy his company tremendously. And no, we are not discussin’ Prudy Crane’s murder investigation. That topic is completely off limits. Except for that first time I went to the police station, we do not ask each other about it, and we do not tell each other about it. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Basically, thanks. Sorry I’m in such a foul temper. Cheer me up with some juicy details, since I’m getting my romance vicariously these days.” I grinned apologetically, and Margo grinned back. Peace restored, we ordered bodacious omelets and girl-talked all the way through them and two more cups of coffee apiece before reluctantly turning our attention to the tote bag at our feet.

  “How many diaries are there?” I asked, prodding the tote with my toe. It felt heavy.

  Just four, but they’re heavy going, literally and figuratively. All that spidery longhand to wade through, and it gets wobblier as Harriett ages. Thank goodness she didn’t write in them every day. These go back to the 1960s. I didn’t have time to do more than flip through the earliest one, but the first entry is in 1967. Mavis’s daughter would have been born and given up for adoption long before that.”

  “Mmmm,” I agreed, “but we already know about that scandal. If Harriett did write anything about that, which I doubt, it will corroborate what Mavis told me, but that’s really not what we’re looking for. We need to know what other small-town intrigues Harriett might have documented, unintentionally giving Prudy Crane extortion fodder all these years later.”

  Margo nodded and sighed deeply. “So how do you want to do this? Should we split them up and each take two?”

  I pulled one of the heavy, leather-bound volumes out of the tote. Murder on the Orient Express was imprinted on the spine, followed by the name Agatha Christie, but when I lifted the front cover, Harriett’s shaky penmanship was revealed.

  “Interesting,” I observed. “I wonder where she came up with the idea of false covers for her journals and why she went to the bother of being so secretive? From what I know of her, she had very few visitors and no close friends or relatives, once Mavis left. Who was she hiding these from?”

  “I haven’t a clue, but she may not have had any specific reason. I think it was just her nature to be secretive. It’s a bit extreme, I admit, but some old ladies are just like that, you know. They take their girlish peccadilloes to the grave.”

  “If that was her intention, then why write anything down? Or at least you’d think she would have burned these things when she got up there in years so nobody would ever get their hands on her secrets, assuming she had any.”

  Margo smiled. “Now that one I can answer. There are very few old people in my experience, especially women, who can bear to think of themselves as really old. Why, everybody is twenty-two years old inside their heads, Sugar, you know that. Harriett Wheeler was simply in denial about her advancin’ years, just like everyone else. She probably thought she had lots of time yet before she had to give any thought to cleanin’ out that old barn, which is why poor Will and Janet had such a job doin’ it when they inherited the place.”

  I turned a few more pages, my heart sinking. “How are we ever going to get through these things quickly? And we need to do it quickly. The police are convinced that Abby’s guilty,” I said and paused in case Margo had more information to offer. Apparently, she didn’t. “So we need another suspect to offer them a viable alternative as fast as we can find one. If we can’t find the truth, she’ll have no choice but to give up Mavis and Ephraim and …” I paused for emphasis. “… Emma. She’ll have to in order to buy more time.” I had already told Margo of my suspicion that Millie Haines was actually Mavis Griswold’s long-lost daughter and the contacts Emma and I had photocopied the previous evening by way of researching that possibility. “I’ve got all of those contacts to w
ade through for any possible connection to Mavis, let alone reading diaries, and there’s the open house and taking Armando’s aunt to the theater tonight.” I heard myself beginning to whine.

  “I know, I know. We’ll read as much as we can between visitors at the open house, but frankly, I don’t see there bein’ many lulls. Every curiosity seeker in town will turn out for this one.”

  “Hey, Mom, Margo,” boomed a familiar voice. I looked around to see Joey waving at us as he made his way through the crowded tables to our booth. “I found your note. Looks like I’m getting cheated out of my home-cooked dinner tonight, so I thought I’d let you buy me breakfast to make up for it.” He kissed Margo’s cheek and ruffled my hair before sliding into the booth next to me. “Whatcha got there?” He helped himself to the last sausage on my plate and looked from one to the other of us. “Helloooo, anybody home?”

  Margo and I looked at each other for a second. Then we both smiled broadly.

  “Joey!” I greeted him effusively. “Did you sleep well, dear? Here, I’ll get you some coffee.” I waved eagerly to Sherri, who had thought we were finished and was approaching with our check. “We need another breakfast for my son here. Anything he wants, just add it to our bill.” I snatched a menu from its holder on the table and put it in Joey’s hands.

  He looked at us suspiciously. “Why do I feel like a fly that just walked into a big, sticky spiderweb?”

  “Got big plans for today, Sugar,” Margo inquired pleasantly, “or do you feel like doin’ a little readin’ for your mama and me?”

  By noon Joey was hunkered down on the family room sofa with a cat tucked on either side of him, engrossed in the first of Harriett Wheeler’s diaries. As a little kid he had always been snoopy, ransacking the house for his Christmas and birthday presents, reading Emma’s diaries and that sort of thing, so I felt confident that this assignment was no hardship on him. And despite his youthful nosy streak, I had complete faith in my now adult son’s ability to keep his mouth shut. It had always been the discovery of the secret that intrigued him, not blabbing it. As long as he was in the know, he was capable of remaining silent until hell froze over, I knew. Margo and I agreed that it was the perfect solution, solving our time crunch while sparing us the knowledge of anyone else’s past indiscretions. Joey was under strict orders not to reveal the contents of the diaries to anyone, not even to his sister or us, unless in his judgment the documented offense was something worth paying a blackmailer to keep silent about.

  As I rushed around collecting what I would need for the afternoon, I became aware of a ruckus going on outside the house and opened the front door to see what was happening. A knot of my neighbors, including self-appointed rule enforcer Edna Philpott, stood in the yard across the street. They seemed to be vigorously debating the source of a stream of water that was spouting next to the driveway. Within a minute, Edna disappeared inside along with the owner of the house. I hoped they were calling someone who would be equipped to deal with what was rapidly becoming an emergency. In the few moments I had been watching, the puddle forming in the street had grown into a small pond and was spreading rapidly in the direction of my unit. With no time to investigate the situation, I charged Joey with finding out what was going on and letting me know.

  “Sorry to leave you holding the bag, but I haven’t got a lot of other choices. I’ve got to get over to the Wheeler house. Thanks, Honey, and let me know if you have any leads for us, too,” I reminded him as I headed out the door to the garage. “If Armando calls, tell him I’ll meet him here at five-thirty. My cell phone will be on, if he needs to reach me,” I added guiltily. I fished it out of my handbag and punched it on so I wouldn’t forget.

  “Got it. Bye.” Totally engrossed, he turned another page without looking up. I took the hint and left. When I raised the garage door, I noted with alarm that the storm drains on both sides of the street were already overwhelmed, and the water level was steadily rising. The situation was not improved by the piles of leaves that had been raked into the gutters ready for removal. The flow of the water had combined with the already sodden leaves into a thick, clogging soup. A couple of men were attempting to clear one of the drains, but it looked like a losing battle. What else can go wrong? I wondered and immediately regretted the thought. No doubt I would find out soon enough. I backed out cautiously and headed for Prospect Street, wondering if I would be able to get back into my driveway later in the afternoon.

  When I made the final turn onto Wolcott Hill Road, I knew we were in for a hectic afternoon. The open house wasn’t scheduled to begin until 1:00, but cars already lined both sides of the street, and the curious roamed freely around the yard. Some even had the nerve to climb the steps to the front porch and peer into the windows, hands shading their eyes for a clear view. Reminding myself that I was there to help Margo sell the place for Will and Janet, I bit my tongue and nodded as pleasantly as possible as I let myself in the front door. Margo had already opened the lockbox, the secure container that held the front door key and was affixed to the house’s front doorknob.

  Margo met me in the foyer. In time-honored realtor fashion, she had turned on nearly every light in the place to warm it up and avoid the appearance of hiding something. Colorful brochures about the house, freshly printed at Kinko’s, were fanned out on the hall table next to a stack of Margo’s business cards. The brochures contained several appealing photos and basic information about the structure’s age, square footage, mechanicals, property taxes, heating and electric costs, and so on. A sign-in sheet for visitors completed the display.

  In the sitting room, an instant fire log burned softly in the fireplace grate, making a homey glow, and a bowl of fresh flowers graced the coffee table. From the kitchen wafted the aromas of freshly brewed coffee and something made with cinnamon warming in the oven.

  “Apple crisp bars,” Margo announced. “Easy to serve and not too sticky. After all our hard work yesterday, I don’t want to spent the whole afternoon wiping finger marks off the woodwork. Shall we get this show on the road before the little darlings beat down the door?” She gave me a big wink, plastered a professional smile on her face, and hauled open the door.

  “Hello, folks. I’m Margo Farnsworth, and this is Kate Lawrence, from MACK Realty. Come on in and sign the visitors’ sheet over here, and then we’ll be just tickled to answer all of your questions. Oooh, I just love that little suit you’re wearin’. Very becomin’. Did you know that a famous local author lived right here in this house?”

  I groaned inwardly at the effusive patter and the southern accent, both thickly applied on selling occasions, and retreated to remove the apple crisp bars from the oven and pour coffee for the crowd. In the kitchen I was startled by the sight of half a dozen more of the curious standing in the backyard, peering up at the second floor, no doubt eager to tour the former abode of a recent murder victim. People’s appetites for the details of others’ misfortunes, the gorier the better, always astounded me. I braced myself for a long afternoon.

  At 3:30 my cell phone rang, and I excused myself from a woman who was clearly not a serious buyer to answer it. I stepped out the back door onto the small stoop to be able to hear myself think. So many people were crowded into the downstairs rooms that it sounded like we were having the mother of all cocktail parties. A few ghouls lingered in the back yard, including an old lady clutching a camera. She stood, unsteady but determined, snapping photos of the second floor. Is that even legal? I wondered.

  “Hello, this is Kate,” I said, trying to grip the tiny telephone without pushing its volume controls, which were located maddeningly on one side where my fingers needed to be.

  “So you are alive. I am glad to know it,” said Armando in the haughty tone he reserved for our spats.

  Oh, boy, here we go, I thought and struggled to keep my temper in check. “Yes, alive and kicking, or more accurately, trying not to get kicked in the crowd we have here. I’m really sorry about last night, Honey, but it simply couldn’t
be avoided, and you know how forgetful I am about turning on the cell phone. Anyway,” I rushed on in an effort to change the subject, “I’m looking forward to this evening. Are you picking up Estella before you get to my place, or do you want to get me first and pick her up together?”

  “You still plan on attending with us, then?” More attitude.

  I tried to keep in mind that I had, in fact, stood him up the previous evening, and he had a pretty good reason to be snippy. Still, it was an effort not to throw the phone as far into the neighbor’s yard as I could hurl it. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Of course,” I managed to say and leave it at that. There was no reason to ruin Estella’s evening. We had planned this little outing for her many weeks ago, and I was sure she was anticipating it with pleasure.

  “Then I will see you at the house at five. You will be ready?”

  “I’ll be ready,” I assured him. “See you then. Oh! By the way—“ Too late, I remembered about the broken water main, or whatever the problem was, on my street. I disconnected and mentally counted to ten while I considered calling Armando back. I decided against it. Joey hadn’t called to deliver any particularly dire news, so the problem must have been cleared up, I reasoned. At least, I hoped so. Thank goodness Estella would be with us this evening. It was definitely going to be a good idea to have a buffer tonight. Not for the first time, I cursed Armando’s tendency to pout. I far preferred a forthright, air-clearing quarrel to the icy silence he assumed on these occasions. We didn’t fight often, but when we did, I always got the silent treatment for several days. Once again, I experienced doubts about moving in together. Being given the cold shoulder from a separate residence was one thing, but sharing a roof under those circumstances would be very uncomfortable.

  I returned to the house, unplugged the coffee machine, and cleared away the remains of the apple crisp bars in an effort to start closing down. We had limited the open house to three hours, knowing it would be difficult to clear the house right on time, but by 4:30 we finessed the last of our visitors out the front door and closed it firmly.