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

  I chuckled. “I know what you mean, and that situation doesn’t improve with age, believe me. I love the taste of good wine, but one glass, and it’s ‘night ‘night, Kate.’ What made you decide to change coasts, Millie?

  She shrugged. “Middle-age crisis, I guess. I was pushing forty-five and felt stuck in a rut, needed to shake myself up a little. A mortgage broker can do business anywhere—have phone, will travel. So I decided to take a look at the Atlantic Ocean, and here I am. By the way, I really wanted to mention how much I like your Emma. You must have done something awfully right for her to turn out to be such a peach, Kate, and so good at what she does. I don’t know what my clients would do without her. They all just love her to pieces.”

  This was music to a mother’s ears, of course, and I warmed to the woman on the spot. Obviously, she was both intelligent and perceptive. “How nice of you to say so,” I murmured, trying unsuccessfully to appear modest.

  “Anyway,” Millie chirped, “gotta go, but I just wanted to take a minute to say hello, at least.” She turned the phone in her hand back on, and it rang immediately. “Bye now.” And off she went, leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with my cooling coffee. A glance at my watch confirmed that I had been away from my phone for too long already, and reluctantly, I returned to the office to let Margo off the hook for a few minutes.

  By 8:30 we were both exhausted. Margo could no longer put off Rhett, who was whining for his overdue dinner, and my brain was oatmeal. By mutual consent, we packed it in and dragged our bulging briefcases out to the lobby, which was lit only by the lamp on Jenny’s desk. I poked my head into the stairwell and listened for Emma, but all was silent, and her car was gone from the curb when we walked out into the night. I remembered to mention my appointment with Mavis Griswold and begged Margo to recruit Jenny and cover the office for me when I went to the rectory the next afternoon. The thought of it filled me with dread.

  “If Abby Stoddard wasn’t such a really decent person,” I grumped, “I never would have agreed to do this. I hate snooping. I don’t want to know other people’s secrets.”

  “I know what you mean, Hon. I can hardly bear up under the weight of my own past sins without havin’ to deal with anybody else’s messes.” Rhett whined softly, and she patted his head. “You’ve been a darlin’ to wait for your dinner this long. I’m goin’ to take you home right now and feed you up properly.” Rhett panted happily, and they headed for the BMW while I let myself into the Altima. A final tootle of the horn, and they were off. As the BMW’s taillights receded in the distance, I became aware of how dark the night sky was and how deserted the street. The click of a man’s heels sounded somewhere nearby. I shivered, not entirely with the cold, and quickly shut and locked my car door.

  Traffic was light at that hour, and the ride home took only a few minutes. I was surprised, but glad, to see Armando’s car in my driveway. At least Jasmine and Simon would have been fed, and if I was very lucky, dinner would be waiting for me, as well. Things were looking up.

  “Hello!” I called, letting myself into the kitchen, but there was no answer. The cats’ dish on the floor by the window had obviously been recently emptied, but the stove was cold, and the big, wooden salad bowl was empty. No wine, no candles, no nothing. Instantly, my mood soured. “Huh!” I said to nobody and thumped my briefcase and handbag down on the counter before hanging up my coat in the hall closet. Armando’s jacket had been tossed over the back of a kitchen chair.

  “Anybody home?” I tried again, heading for the family room, where the blaring television signaled Armando’s presence. The man seemed incapable of existing in a silent room or car. The first thing he did when he entered either one was to turn something on. As I came into the room, both cats looked up at me sleepily from where they were curled snugly next to Armando, one on each side. It was clear that their bellies had been filled, and the TV didn’t seem to bother them a bit. The light of my life lay sprawled in the big recliner chair, mouth agape, snoring gently. Frankly, it wasn’t a good look for him.

  “Hey!” I said loudly. “I’m home.” No response. I plucked the remote control from his slack hand and clicked off the TV. Instantly, his eyes opened, and his fingers clutched reflexively for the missing remote. He stared uncomprehendingly at the dark TV before looking around to see me sitting on the sofa with my legs crossed, remote dangling from one hand.

  “What time is it?” he asked groggily, and I tapped my watch with a fingernail.

  “Nearly nine o’clock. Have a nice evening?” My foot twitched back and forth with annoyance. Would a sandwich have been too much to ask? Surely, he didn’t think I was going to cook for him at this hour.

  “Oh, my, I was totally out of it. I must have been really tired.” He yawned widely. “How was your day?”

  He was tired? I had left the house before 7:30 this morning and had consumed only two cups of coffee and half a container of cold soup all day. “My day was long, that’s how it was, and now I need some food and a hot bath so I can get up tomorrow and do it all over again,” I snapped. I stood up and tossed the remote into his lap, startling Jasmine. Back in the kitchen, I yanked open the refrigerator door and began rummaging. A package of not-quite-thawed ground meat sat on the top shelf, and some limp veggies languished in the bin. I picked up the meat and stood staring at it stupidly, too weary to think what to do with it.

  Armando came into the kitchen behind me and pushed the refrigerator door shut, taking the package out of my hand. Deftly, he slid the cork out of a bottle of Australian Shiraz on the counter, poured a small glass, and put a handful of wheat crackers from their canister into a napkin. He handed me the glass and the napkin and turned me toward the hall.

  “Have your bath, Mia,” he said, “but don’t fall asleep in the tub. Get into bed, and I will bring you a tray in a little while. Go, go!” He made shooing motions.

  Too tired to argue, I went.

  Ten minutes later, submerged to my chin in fragrant bubbles and the worst of my hunger held at bay by the crackers in my tummy, I sipped my wine in a much more positive frame of mind. The bathroom door stood open a couple of inches, and a very appetizing aroma wafted in from the kitchen. I caught myself just before I nodded off and emerged from the soothing suds reluctantly. I pulled one of Joey’s old football jerseys over my head and slid between the sheets just as Armando arrived bearing dinner on a tray. I sniffed appreciatively at the two bowls that steamed under my nose as he pulled a wing chair next to my bed. He had added some diced potatoes to the meat, chopped up the limp vegetables, added a dash of the Shiraz and some spices, and let everything simmer together. Could there be nutmeg in there?

  The stale Portuguese rolls he had found in the bread drawer had been sliced in half and slathered with olive oil and onion salt, then toasted for a few minutes. A big bunch of green grapes and a chunk of jack cheese completed the menu.

  Greedily, I grabbed a spoon and dug in while Armando settled into the wing chair. He tucked a napkin tidily into his collar before he helped himself to the remaining bowl of stew or goulash or whatever it was. For a few minutes we ate in a companionable silence broken only by the chink of spoons on pottery. By the time I reached for the grapes, I felt almost human, my previous exhaustion replaced by a pleasant lassitude. Simon and Jasmine had come looking for us and lay curled up together at my feet. It might not be everyone’s idea of a family, but it worked for me.

  “So,” Armando asked for the second time, “how was your day?”

  This time I answered him civilly. “Let’s just say it ended up a whole lot better than it began.” He served himself a few grapes and a piece of cheese while I filled him in on my unsettling conversation with Emma, whom Armando adored. He called her “Her Serene Highness” because of what he called her princess profile, and she called him Stepdaddy, only partly in jest. Now, his brow furrowed as he heard about Emma’s refusal to explain her payoff to Prudence Crane. He reached out to take my hand in his.

  “D
o you think she needs our help?” was his first comment, and I smiled at him. How like him to cut right to what was important. What dreadful thing Emma might have done, or to whom she might have done it, were simply insignificant compared to the possibility that his princess might need rescuing. First things first.

  “If she does, she knows where to find us,” I reassured him. “In the meantime, I have to figure out a way to avoid having suspicion pointed at her, and that means finding out who really murdered dear Prudy.” I sighed as I remembered my upcoming interview with the minister’s wife the following day.

  Wisely, Armando stayed out of it. “And if you need my help, you know where to find me, am I correct?” He released my hand and got to his feet. “And now I will leave you to your sleep.” He picked up the reloaded tray and bent to kiss me. Feeling warm and cozy and loved, I took his handsome face between my hands and rubbed the end of his nose with my own.

  “Eskimo kiss. Thank you for my delicious dinner—and for feeding the felines.” I gave him a proper kiss and tried to pinch his backside, but he was too quick for me. He dodged my hand nimbly and backed out of the room, laughing. I switched off my bedside lamp and slid deeper under the covers, listening to him rattling dishes into the dishwasher for a few minutes. Is there a more welcome sound, I wondered sleepily, than listening to someone else do the dishes? I could definitely get used to it.

  “Sleep well, Cara,” he called softly down the hall. The lights went out, and then I heard the click of the kitchen door as he let himself into the garage. Immediately, I missed him and felt bad about his thirty-minute drive home to West Hartford. We really should move in together, I thought. And then I fell into a dead sleep.

  Six

  Thursday was yet another impossibly gorgeous day. Too bad I can’t enjoy it, I groused inwardly and tried to distract myself from my upcoming interview with Mavis Griswold by dealing with the accumulated paperwork of the week. At the appointed hour, I left Margo on the phones, Rhett Butler lolling at her feet, and walked the two long blocks down Old Main Street to the white clapboard church.

  Across the street a pod of protestors paced silently outside the Keeney Memorial, cigarettes dangling from their mouths and fingers. The poster-board signs they held aloft proclaimed, with various levels of spelling success, their unhappiness about the proposed smoking ban in the old business district. The uproar had prompted the Village Business Association to schedule a public hearing the following Monday evening, and debate promised to be spirited.

  As I approached the corner of Church Street, I looked up at the spire of the old edifice, appreciating its clean, white lines against the blue sky. Behind the church was the ancient burying ground where half the town’s forefathers lay, presumably at peace, in graves dating back centuries. Most of the names etched on the monuments and headstones were still readable. They included many I recognized, if only from local street names. It was difficult to imagine a more peaceful vista. It seemed incredible that I was about to knock on the door of the residence and ask the minister’s wife, with whom I was barely acquainted, if she had an alibi for the night of Prudy Crane’s murder, but there it was. The police were nipping at Abby’s heels, my daughter was involved in something so dreadful she couldn’t tell me about it, and however reluctantly, I was investigating a murder. Again. It’s a good thing I don’t write mystery novels, I thought. I couldn’t make this stuff up.

  The sheltered flower beds that flanked the residence’s door were still fragrant with blooms, and a few late summer bees bumbled among them and enjoyed their bounty. I let the ornate brass knocker fall against its backplate. Looking every inch the proper minister’s wife in a dark blue shirtdress, low heels and pearls, hair pinned into a smooth bun at the nape of her neck, Mavis Griswold opened the door promptly. Her smile was gracious, and I returned it as warmly as I could. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Griswold. I know how busy you are.”

  “Not at all, my dear. Do come in and make yourself comfortable,” she invited. She led me down the wide center hall to a cozy study at the back of the house. It overlooked a tidy back yard and the cemetery beyond. Fresh flowers filled a cut glass bowl on a coffee table between two Queen Anne chairs slip-covered in a rosy print. They faced each other in front of a diminutive fireplace. Next to the flowers sat a china tea service, obviously a cherished heirloom, and two impossibly thin cups and saucers. “I thought you might enjoy a cup of tea with me. I generally have one about this time.” She gestured to one of the chairs, and I sat, feeling large and clumsy amid the dainty furnishings, while she seated herself and poured out a cup of fragrant herb tea. Cinnamon something, I thought, wrinkling my nose appreciatively. “Lemon? Milk?”

  “Just a little sugar, please.” I accepted the proffered cup and stirred my tea silently as I struggled to find a way to begin. “Mrs. Griswold, I’m sure you were surprised at my call yesterday, since we don’t know each other and I’m not a member of your church. The truth is, I’m not here to talk about running a fundraiser, but I preferred to tell you the real reason for my visit in person.”

  I took an unladylike gulp of my tea. “The fact is, I’m here at the request of Abigail Stoddard in connection with the murder of Prudence Crane. Abby is aware that Prudy was blackmailing you, but she prefers not to share that information with the police unless she absolutely must. We are both hoping that you will discuss this with me so that we can eliminate you as a suspect, rather than suggesting you as one to the police. I assure you that both Abby and I can be trusted. Whatever you choose to tell me will be held in complete confidence.”

  I had expected shock, anger, or perhaps stammered denials. What I got was none of the above. For a long moment Mavis sat gazing at me through her long fringe of eyelashes, the sweet smile undimmed. Her brown eyes were tranquil, and I was reminded yet again of a friendly cow.

  “I’ve been wondering if anyone would come to ask me those questions,” she commented matter-of-factly, as if I had just asked her where she bought her groceries. “I just didn’t know it would be you.” Then she put down her cup and rose to look out of the window. It had been raised a few inches to let in the sweet autumn air.

  “It will seem off the point, I’m sure, and your not being from around here may make it more difficult. You see, I really can’t answer your questions until I tell you a bit about Harriet Wheeler.” She looked back over her shoulder at me. “Have you heard that name before?”

  I had. “Being in the real estate business, I’ve learned quite a bit about many of the older homes in Wethersfield, Mrs. Griswold. If I remember correctly, Mrs. Wheeler owned one of the lovely Victorians on Wolcott Hill Road. She was something of a local celebrity—a writer, I think—until her death last winter. Have I got it right?”

  Mavis nodded and turned back to the window. Harriett Wheeler was widowed at the beginning of World War II. She wrote a couple of dozen romance novels, very prim, not like the ones you find out there today, that were quite popular years ago. She also raised a daughter, Sarah, by herself. It was just the two of them in that rambling old house. The day after Sarah graduated from high school in 1960, she took off for the West Coast, and nobody seemed to know for certain what happened to Sarah after that. There was a rumor that she had married a man in California and they had both been killed soon thereafter in an automobile accident.”

  I sipped some tea and refrained from interrupting.

  “The royalties from Mrs. Wheeler’s books allowed her to live out her years in comfort, although nobody saw much of her. She preferred to live in semi-seclusion, tending to her perennial borders, surrounded by her books and music. She died as she had lived, quietly and without a fuss. The rumors of her daughter’s death seemed to be confirmed when Harriett left her house to her neighbor, Will Copeland, a local firefighter who had helped Harriett out over the years. He took care of the lawn and shoveled the snow and generally maintained the exterior of the property.

  “Having struggled to raise and educate four children on a fireman�
�s salary, Will and his wife were delighted with their good fortune. They lost no time converting the house into two flats, upstairs and downstairs. They rented the smaller upstairs unit to Prudy Crane while they worked on restoring the first floor to its original glory. That part was a real labor of love. They planned to sell their house next door and move into the downstairs of the Wheeler house themselves.”

  Mavis returned to the chair opposite me and picked up her cooling tea. “As a part of all this, Will worked for weeks to clean out the cavernous cellar where Harriett had kept, along with her personal papers, every word of every draft she had ever written. The back porch of the old house was stacked with cartons waiting for the recycler. Prudy being Prudy, she snooped through them all. In one of them, she found Harriett’s personal diaries, which recounted in detail a high school relationship between Harriett’s daughter Sarah and a local minister’s son. Very soon thereafter, Prudy started demanding money from me.”

  I hadn’t seen that one coming. “But why? What did you have to do with any of what you’ve just told me?”

  “My maiden name was Sarah Mavis Wheeler,” she replied. “Harriett Wheeler was my mother. Apparently, my youthful indiscretions were all laid out for Prudy in Mother’s old diaries. She was a compulsive chronicler. More tea?”

  “Not just yet, thanks,” I said, astounded by this revelation. I struggled to straighten out my face as Mavis returned to her chair. She sat back and continued her story, her eyes occasionally distant as she reached back into her memories.

  “My husband Henry, who is now the minister here, succeeded his father in that position. When Henry Senior held the post, my Henry was in high school with me right here in Wethersfield all those years ago, and we fell in love. The fact is, we had a love affair of the sort Mother never would have written about, I’m afraid. Of course, I got pregnant.” She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands loosely in her lap, every inch the composed matron. “Fortunately, I was only weeks from graduating when I found out, so I was allowed to remain here long enough to get my diploma. But the very next day, I was banished to a facility in California, where I stayed until I had the baby, a little girl, and gave it up for adoption.”