Murder on Old Main Street (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 5

  “So we assume it’s not Abby, but can you honestly picture any of the three people whose names are on that piece of paper stabbin’ Prudence Crane to death and then hackin’ out her tongue? Oh, sorry, Sugar,” she apologized hastily as I covered my mouth with my hand and set my wineglass down hard. “It’s difficult to believe that the mother of two can go all wobbly durin’ any discussion involvin’ blood.”

  “Margo!”

  “Okay, okay. All I mean is, if it’s not Abby, then who could it be? The minister’s wife? That absolutely lovely man who owns the drugstore? Way too Gothic for me, hon. Or how about your own daughter as a likely suspect? What in the world is Emma doin’ on that list anyway?”

  “Believe me, she and I are going to have a conversation about that very soon,” I assured her. “Obviously, it’s a mistake of some kind. Abby thought she saw something she didn’t, that’s all. I hope,” I muttered into my wineglass.

  Margo drained her bottle of beer and belched genteelly. “Well, naturally,” she said and then got down to business in typical Margo fashion. “Now tell me, Sugar. How can I help?”

  “I only wish I knew,” I said, then almost immediately had an idea. “We need information that will keep Abby from being arrested, and that means redirecting the police department’s attention, right?”

  Margo’s eyes began to glitter lasciviously. “Why, I believe I’ve redirected the attention of a police officer or two in my time,” she smiled.

  “Mmmm, I’ll bet you have,” I agreed, “and I need you to do it again. Do you remember my telling you about John Harkness, or Lieutenant Hardnose, as he’s known around town?”

  Margo nodded. “That nice young Fletcher fellow’s boss, the one who’s directin’ the investigation.”

  “That’s the one. Harkness has a reputation for being close-mouthed, won’t talk to the press any more than absolutely necessary, that sort of thing. So the public, which in this case is us, knows very little about the progress of the investigation. Oh, we know the approximate time and cause of death, what the medical examiner had to say, the stuff that’s public information, but beyond that, we’re clueless. We don’t know how close they are to making an arrest, or who besides Abby might be considered a suspect or even anyone else who’s been questioned. We don’t know what Prudy’s movements were the night she was killed or who else might have been with her. For that matter, we don’t know if the police know she was blackmailing anybody besides Abby, because Abby hasn’t told them yet.”

  “And you want to know if they already know that.”

  “Yep. Because if they do, then there’s no percentage in Abby keeping what she knows about these other people to herself. In fact, keeping her mouth shut could make her look like Prudy’s accomplice.”

  “You’re not makin’ any sense, hon. How could Abby be accused of bein’ Prudy’s accomplice and her murderer at the same time? Oh!” she said as she suddenly understood what I meant.

  “That’s right. What better motive for murder than getting rid of your partner in extortion and keeping all the payoffs for yourself?”

  “I do see your point.” Thoughtfully, Margo stroked Rhett between his silky ears. He groaned with pleasure, causing Jasmine and Simon to open their eyes and assess the situation. The dog didn’t move, and the cats downgraded from orange alert to yellow caution.

  “So what do you think? Can you manage to get an interview with Harkness on some ruse or other and loosen up his tongue so we have a better idea of where to go on this thing?”

  Margo held her empty beer bottle out to me, and I rose to get her another. “That extraordinarily good-lookin’ lieutenant?” She winked. “Why it’ll be like fallin’ off a log, Sugar. You just leave the good commander to me.

  I had no doubt that Margo’s conversation with Lieutenant Harkness would be productive, but my own conversation with Emma didn’t go exactly as I had hoped. The next day was particularly rushed, it being the last week of the month, and I practically had to drag Emma out of the Law Barn for a mother-daughter tête-a-tête. We were further delayed by Emma’s detour to put out some peanuts for Fat Squirrel, another of her rehab cases. The peanuts were his reward on days when he stayed out of the Law Barn’s trash cans, which he raided regularly. Emma had decided to try positive reinforcement. I had my doubts.

  Eventually, we headed for a take-out lunch from The Spicy Green Bean, a little eatery down the street from the diner. The menu changed daily, depending upon such ephemera as a bumper crop of zucchini (soup and pasta), a crate of citrus shipped by an auntie in Florida (fruit salad), and the culinary whims of its owners. (“It just felt like a macaroni and cheese day!”) About the only thing you could count on was that whatever was on the menu would be tasty and reasonably priced. Apparently, that was enough, because the lunch-hour business boomed, especially on a day as nice as this. The September sun warmed our shoulders as we queued up at the take-out window, and a breeze flirted with the weighted-down napkins of those lucky enough to find seats at the half-dozen round tables set out on the wide, brick sidewalk. A few were occupied by defiant smokers, determined to enjoy their dwindling opportunities to puff in public.

  As we waited, I smiled nervously at my daughter and wondered how I was going to broach the subject of her alleged payoff to Prudy Crane. Emma smiled back sunnily, her eyes clear, her brow unfurrowed, the picture of innocence. Is she, I wondered as do all parents who have the sense God gave a goose, or am I being blind and stupid?

  Eventually, we secured our chicken-and-basil salads and paper cartons of homemade split pea soup and carried them across the street to the Methodist churchyard, where we sat on the lap robe I kept in my car with our backs comfortably against a tree at the edge of the peaceful cemetery. Emma turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes, enjoying the respite from the telephone. She knew better than to turn on her cell phone when she was with me, knowing how I loathed the intrusive things. I sipped my soup and wondered how to begin. I needn’t have worried.

  “So what’s up, ‘Cita?” Emma inquired without opening her eyes. “We don’t ‘do lunch,’ so something is obviously on your mind. Let’s hear it.”

  I couldn’t help smiling at her untroubled countenance. Right to the point, as usual. I responded in kind. “It turns out that Prudy Crane was a blackmailer. I know it’s true, because Abby Stoddard was among her victims, and she told me so herself.” I paused to assess Emma’s reaction to this news. She opened her eyes and looked closely at me but said nothing. I sipped again, my heart beating faster.

  “That revelation, the fact that Prudy was poisoned with a cleaning solution Abby kept in her cupboard, and the further fact that Prudy’s tongue was cut out with a knife from the diner’s kitchen pretty much puts Abby at the top of the suspect list.” Again, I waited for some comment, but Emma stayed silent. She dropped her eyes and busied herself by pushing her salad around with a plastic fork. Suddenly, I was filled with dread. “So what do you think, Em?”

  For a moment, Emma continued to push cucumber chunks and cherry tomatoes around in the plastic container. Then she raised her eyes to mine. The sadness I saw in them did nothing to allay my fears. “I think Abby Stoddard probably had every reason in the world to murder that vicious gossip. I also think she didn’t do it.”

  A wave of nausea washed over me, and I lowered my soup to the grass. My hands began to shake, and I clasped them together in my lap.

  If she’s about to confess to the murder of Prudence Crane, I’ve got to keep it together so that I can help her get through this, thought Hysterical Kate wildly. Oh, get hold of yourself. Emma didn’t kill anybody, chimed in Rational Kate. She saves mice from the neighborhood tomcat, for crying out loud.

  I took a deep breath and held it, waiting. Miriam Drinkwater emerged from the diner across the street and strolled back toward the Keeney Memorial for her afternoon shift. She lifted a hand to us, and I controlled my trembling long enough to return her wave.

  “Wh—“ I cleared my throat and
tried again. “What makes you think so?”

  “Because too many other people had better reasons to do it without putting so much at risk,” Emma said steadily. “I’ve worked in this town longer than you have, remember, and I’ve heard more of the gossip. Abby needs to make a living for herself and her mom. She couldn’t afford to jeopardize that. It was just a matter of time until somebody else took her off Prudy’s hook. She just had to wait.”

  I spoke carefully, my eyes searching hers. “And what do you know about being on Prudy’s hook?”

  For the first time, Emma smiled. “I didn’t do her in, if that’s what you’re so worried about. Oh, don’t get me wrong. There were many days when I could have strangled Prudy Crane cheerfully, but Sunday wasn’t one of them. She was as annoying as hell, but she didn’t have anything on me.” She reached across my lap and retrieved my soup cup from the grass, where it was about to tip over. “So unclench your fists, and have your lunch.” She handed me the cup with a reassuring pat and picked up her salad again. “You really are being ridiculous, you know.”

  Relief swept through me, followed quickly by anger. “If I’m so ridiculous, why were you seen paying Prudy off at the diner two weeks ago?” I said brutally and was gratified when she choked on the chicken she was chewing and had a coughing fit. I thumped her between her shoulder blades rather harder than necessary and handed her a tissue from my purse. She stopped coughing and blew her nose. I waited for whatever the benign explanation was for the “payoff” Abby had supposedly witnessed, but none was forthcoming.

  “So you know about that, too,” Emma said resignedly when she could speak again, and my emotional rollercoaster hit the downslope once again.

  “Cheer up. Apparently, there’s still quite a bit I don’t know,” I said tersely. “I don’t suppose you care to enlighten me.”

  Emma regarded me somberly. “No can do, ‘Cita. Not this time.”

  I stared at her. “You’re kidding, right? No,” I plowed on as a particularly mulish expression I recognized from Emma’s adolescence swept over her features and turned her eyes stubborn, “I can see that you’re not kidding. Well, listen up. This isn’t high school, Emma, where the worst thing that could happen is a couple of days’ suspension. This is a real-world, in-your-face murder investigation, and the stakes are a whole lot higher. No matter how extreme the provocation may have been for murdering Prudy Crane, someone is going to jail for life—or possibly heading for a lethal injection. I’d just as soon it wasn’t you. I didn’t ask to get involved in this situation, but Abigail Stoddard asked for my help, and I am surely going to give it to her. Doing so means I have to find out why several other people were allowing themselves to be extorted over the past few months. You’re on that list. Now are you going to help me out here by explaining why?”

  Carefully, Emma repacked her untouched soup and remaining salad in the paper sack provided by the restaurant and dusted imaginary crumbs from her lap. “I haven’t been in high school for quite a few years now. But as much as I hated it at the time, I wish I was right back there, because from I sit now, it looks pretty damned good.” She blinked back tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “I know you’re in a tough spot, and I’m sorry about that, truly. But I can’t tell you what you want to know without putting someone else in the jackpot, and I just won’t do that.” She looked at me pleadingly. “Please try to understand.”

  As quickly as it had come, my anger disappeared, only to be replaced by the dread I had felt ever since Abby had handed me that slip of paper bearing Emma’s name. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to find out some other way, Emma.”

  “No, you really don’t have to do that.”

  “What are my options?”

  “You could simply take my word for it that I’m not involved in Prudy Crane’s murder.”

  I was silent for a moment. Honest, Mom, I wasn’t drinking last night. Nobody at the party had drugs. Trust me. “I do take your word for it, but the police won’t.”

  “How are the police going to know, if you don’t tell them?”

  “For God’s sake, Emma, they’ll know about it the same way I know about it! Abby Stoddard is days from being arrested for murder. She is hoping against hope that in order to save herself, she doesn’t have to point suspicion at anyone else, which is why she’s asked for my help. But if there’s no other choice, she’s going to have to tell the police about the other people she knows for a fact were paying Prudy off, and that includes you!”

  It was Emma’s turn to be silent. Then, “Well, then there’s only one thing left to do,” she said. To my utter astonishment, she smiled, her brown eyes mischievous.

  “I can hardly wait to hear this,” I said faintly. “What?”

  “We have to find out who the real killer is. That way, Abby will be cleared, and no one else will have to be implicated except the murderer.”

  I stared at her some more. “We?”

  “Sure. I’ll help you. It’s only fair.” She sprang nimbly to her feet and held out a hand. “Besides, it will be fun.”

  “Fun.” I allowed her to haul me to my feet. I really had to stop sitting on the ground.

  “Okay, interesting, then.” She stopped to retrieve the remains of my lunch. “So where do we start?”

  My head was starting to spin again. How had I lost control of this situation so completely? This conversation hadn’t turned out at all the way it was supposed to. I put a hand on the cemetery fence to steady myself and gazed at the church beyond it. Doing so reminded me of the other names on the list Abby had given me and Mavis Griswold’s strange smile when she saw Prudy Crane’s body outside the Blades Salon. What choice did I have? Emma was right. If I were to help Abby and avoid pointing suspicion at my daughter, I was going to have to discover the real murderer. I sighed.

  “Mavis Griswold,” I said. “That’s where we start.”

  Five

  As if we didn’t have enough on our minds, the end of the month crunch was upon us, and Emma and I were sucked back into the madness as soon as we returned to the Law Barn. Margo cut off all but essential showings and pitched in on the phones and scheduling with Jenny and me while Emma and her colleagues cranked out packages for the fourteen closings that were scheduled over the next two days. As always during these periods, we were only marginally aware of what was going on in the outside world, but every so often, when the front door opened, we could hear the chanting of the protestors in front of the Keeney Memorial across the street. It was a subdued protest, but a protest nonetheless, and business owners up and down the street experienced the effects of these bad feelings in the reduced foot traffic on Old Main Street. It wasn’t looking good for the weekend, either. Not only would the protestors still be at it, discouraging visitors and local customers both, but the weather forecast called for rain.

  With difficulty, I managed to find two minutes to telephone the church rectory and arrange an appointment with Mrs. Griswold for the following afternoon. She was understandably bewildered by my request, since I had never set foot in the church, but I made up a story about wanting her advice on running a fundraiser for the local animal shelter, and since she had so much experience with that sort of event blah, blah, blah. She was gracious enough to agree to see me, and I hung up, certain my karma would suffer from all of this deceitfulness.

  After spending the better part of two hours on the phone, I signaled to Margo that I was taking a break. I headed out through the lobby, intent on taking a mug of coffee out into the sunshine for a few minutes, remembered the protestors, and redirected my steps toward the coat room and the blessed peace of the reading room beyond. Millie Haines came through the front door, ear glued to her cell phone, as always. I waved, intending to walk on by her, but to my surprise, she put a hand over the phone and mouthed, “Wait just a sec, okay?” She dispatched her caller within a few seconds and promptly turned her phone off. “Well, hey! Look at us two days from the end of the month with a few minutes to say he
llo to each other like real human beings. I feel as if we’ve hardly had a chance to get acquainted, and it’s been nearly two months!”

  I shifted uncomfortably, thwarted in my desire to escape to the reading room. No way to do that with Millie right there in my face, the intelligent brown eyes fringed in long lashes anxious to make nice. Might as well make the best of it, I decided, sighing inwardly. “Has it really been that long?” I responded with a half-hearted smile, my eyes straying over her shoulder into the coat room. “How is it going for you so far? Are you finding Connecticut to your liking?”

  “It’s a change from California, that’s for sure.” The way she said it, it sounded like “fer sher.” An aging Valley Girl, I wondered? “I could do without all the humidity in the summer. Thank goodness for air conditioning, huh? But I’m just blown away by these autumn colors. I’ve never seen anything like it. Are the trees always so beautiful?”

  For a moment I couldn’t think what she meant, and then I realized that Millie Haines was one of those rare creatures, a native Californian, who had never before experienced a New England autumn. I tried to imagine that and couldn’t. It was like trying to imagine being blind. “Why, yes, pretty much. I mean, they’re not always the same. It depends on how much water is in the ground when the hours of sunlight start decreasing and things like that, but it’s always beautiful. This year, the trees have been especially vivid. I guess they’re putting on a show to impress you.”

  “Well, they’re doing a great job of it.” She grinned, and for a second, she reminded me strongly of someone, but I couldn’t quite think who.

  “So you lived in California all your life?”

  “Born and raised in the Napa Valley. If you have any questions about California wines, consider me your source. I was raised in wine country. I think the stuff runs in my veins, which is funny, because I can’t drink more than one glass without falling sound asleep.”