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

  Emma smirked. “I have a feeling he learned a thing or two from Margo, too.”

  I shot her a look but decided to overlook her implication. My head wasn’t up to a quarrel this early in the day. “Then, if the police don’t appear to have Harriett Wheeler’s diaries, we’ll have to contact the Copelands and fabricate a reason to get some time alone in that house to search for them.” I sighed. “And last but not least, I have to make an appointment to talk with Ephraim Marsh. Whoever else may be mentioned in Harriett’s diaries, we already know that Prudy was blackmailing Ephraim.” My head throbbed at the thought of another awkward interview.

  Emma was silent for a moment as we walked along. Then, “I might be able to help you out there. That is,” she amended somewhat diffidently for her, “if you think I should.”

  I dragged my eyes up from the sidewalk to search her face. “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve met the Marshes before. Remember, Joey and I went to school in Newington, and the Newington kids and the Wethersfield kids all hung out together. Big football rivals. There were always big parties after the games, and we went to each other’s mixers, you remember.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, I know Amy Marsh, his daughter. I went to a couple of parties at her house when we were in high school, met her parents. I haven’t seen Amy for years, but every now and then, I’d run into her Thanksgiving weekend at the homecoming game when she was home from college visiting her folks like everyone else.”

  More likely, they ran into each other at a bar in Hartford, I thought. Local tradition called for the younger alumni to barhop on Thanksgiving night to blow off some steam after a long, full day with their relatives. It was the only time many of them got to catch up with each other after they graduated from high school and dispersed to jobs and colleges all over the country. As did most of the other old fogies, I understood the custom without condoning it.

  “So I remember one Thanksgiving night about three years ago. A bunch of us, including Amy, met up at City Steam and decided it would be a hoot to go up on Cedar Mountain to our old hangout, build a bonfire, drink some beer, you know.” She glanced sideways at me.

  I knew what she meant all too well. Emma had been quite the wild child for a few years following her father’s and my divorce, and a lot more than beer drinking had gone on at those woodland get-togethers. We both had some painful memories of those days, but I kept mine to myself for the moment.

  “I don’t understand how that helps me to get Ephraim to open up to me,” I said cautiously. “’My daughter used to go drinking with your daughter’ doesn’t strike me as a big confidence-inspirer.”

  Emma had the grace to look uncomfortable. “The thing is, something happened that night. I hadn’t thought about it for a long while, but it popped into my head yesterday, and I think it might be important.”

  I tried to look encouraging without being nosy, a trick I had never quite mastered.

  Emma continued. “Amy fell that night, badly. We had all had a few beers, and we were stumbling up the mountain in the dark. Everybody was laughing and shushing each other and walking into trees … and then Amy yelped and went down on both knees. For a few seconds, we tried to pull her back up on her feet, but she started screaming and crying. Then we knew she was really hurt. It was bad.”

  I pictured the scene in my mind, a dozen or so tipsy young people crashing around in the woods on Cedar Mountain in the dark. It wasn’t surprising that someone had been hurt. “What did you do?”

  Emma got a faraway look in her eyes, remembering. “It was a tough spot. We had all been drinking, and we didn’t want to call the cops at first. But then we remembered that we were all of legal drinking age, not like the old days.” She stopped and chewed her lip, but I let it pass without comment. “So I got out my cell phone and called Joey, and he remembered that Rick Fletcher was on the job, so he called him, and Rick called a buddy on the Newington force, and, well, they fixed it.”

  I looked directly at her for the first time since she had started this story. “Fixed it?”

  Hearing it come out of my mouth, Emma realized how that sounded. “Oh, no, not ‘fixed it’ the way you mean it. They didn’t do anything illegal. It just so happened that Rick was off duty that night, so he got his buddy from Newington, and they came up the old mountain road as far as they could in Rick’s personal car, and then they walked in with a stretcher and big torches and carried Amy out.”

  “And took her where?”

  “To the emergency room, of course! She had torn the tendons in her left knee. We all just thought it would be nicer for Amy’s parents to think she had done it falling down the stairs at someone’s house than walking into a tree, drunk. So Rick and his friend disappeared, and that’s what we told them.”

  “Huh, Your brother never said a word to me. No wonder you and Rick Fletcher are so friendly. It’s an interesting story, Em, but I doubt that Prudy could blackmail Amy’s father with it.”

  “I haven’t finished.” Emma paused to choose her words as we turned into the Law Barn’s driveway. “It was about a year later, I think. It might even have been the following Thanksgiving weekend, I can’t remember. But for some reason, Amy’s name came up, and we were talking about that night. Somebody said—and honestly, ‘Cita, I don’t remember who it was—that Amy’s knee had given her a lot of trouble. They had to do a second surgery, and the physical therapy afterwards was very painful. The doctor prescribed a strong painkiller, Vico-something.”

  “Vicodin.”

  “That’s it, Vicodin. And Amy got so dependent on the stuff that she started helping herself to it out of her dad’s pharmacy. She worked there part-time. I don’t know for a fact that it’s true, but if it was, that could mean big trouble for Mr. Marsh, right?”

  “The worst,” I agreed. I stopped at the entrance. “Aside from having a daughter who’s an addict, which would certainly be trouble enough, Ephraim could lose his license. Vicodin is a narcotic, a controlled substance. He could be prosecuted, lose his business, everything.” I put my hand on her arm for emphasis. “I’m glad you told me, Emma, but it absolutely cannot go any further.”

  “You know it won’t, at least not from me. But if that’s why Mr. Marsh was on Prudy’s hook, somebody else must have told her, Momma.”

  There was that name again, another bad omen on an already gloomy morning.

  Emma disappeared up the stairs to her loft, and after checking to be sure Jenny’s back was to me, I tiptoed to the Reading Room to wash my face and regroup. Moving quietly to the left end of the coat rack, I pressed the paneling, and the door popped open half an inch with an almost inaudible click. Checking over my shoulder one more time, I slipped my fingers into the crack and let myself in. Once inside, I used the decorative pull cord on that side of the door to pull it shut. I splashed some cold water on my face and swallowed two Advils from the bottle we kept in the cupboard under the sink, then switched on the table lamp and sank into the overstuffed chair to review what Emma had told me about the Marshes.

  It was dispiriting, to say the least. I had been having my prescriptions filled at the pharmacy, and the homey, old-time atmosphere of the place took me back to my childhood in the ‘50s. Back then a quarter would buy you a hot fudge sundae, with three scoops of ice cream and real whipped cream, at the counter in Nelson’s Drugstore. Marsh’s didn’t have a counter, of course, but the feel of the place was the same. The wooden floor boards creaked cozily under my feet, and the magazine rack reminded me of Nelson’s comic book stand. Ephraim Marsh himself stood behind the prescription counter much of the time, backed up by two young graduates of the UConn School of Pharmacy and a couple of part-time clerks who divided the store’s thirteen-hour days among them. Though it wasn’t really expected anymore, Ephraim still wore a crisp, white smock on duty, no doubt freshly laundered by his good wife Betsy. On the few occasions I had seen Ephraim and Betsy together, they had looked happy. I rubbed my throbbing temples. Was I going to
be the one to put an end to their contentment, perhaps ruin the rest of their lives?

  I was jolted out of my reverie by Jenny’s voice, which resonated in my left ear as clearly as if she were standing next to me. “Hey, Margo, how’s it going?” I grabbed the arms of the chair and leaned forward.

  “Not too bad, Jenny,” Margo answered her just as clearly. “Always good on a Friday, right, Darlin’?” Jenny laughed in answer, and I heard every nuance of her giggle. Wildly, I looked around me. Could they be in the coatroom on the other side of the wall? I held my breath and waited. Months ago, Margo and I had checked to be sure the light from the lamp wasn’t visible under the door hidden in the paneling, so I wasn’t worried about that, but where were the voices coming from?

  A telephone rang, and Jenny answered it, somewhat farther removed from her original position. “Law Barn, Jenny speaking. How may I help you?” She had to be at her desk in the lobby, then. I resumed breathing, but how in the world was I hearing her? I had never heard anything from inside the reading room before. In fact, I assumed that it had been at least partially soundproofed so that those outside wouldn’t hear water running from inside the room.

  I sank back into the chair and looked around me more carefully. For the first time, I examined the elaborate pattern of the wallpaper that surrounded the door and covered the wall above the vanity. Beyond noticing that the floral print seemed too large for such a small room, I had never taken much note of it, but now I peered at it closely. The pattern featured blowsy cabbage roses of dark magenta set against a forest green background. The center of each flower was almost black, and it was from one of these, positioned slightly above the left arm of the chair in which I sat, that the sound seemed to emanate.

  Gently, I rubbed my fingers across it and was startled when a black disk of some kind dropped to the carpet. At the same time, Jenny’s voice came through even more clearly as she laughed and chatted with a caller on the telephone. I picked up the lamp and held it above the arm of the chair. A round opening in the center of the cabbage rose became visible. It appeared to be a conduit of some kind. Cautiously, I picked up the object that had dropped to the floor and examined it. On closer inspection, it was made of rubber or soft plastic of some kind, wider at one end than at the other, and appeared to be made to fit into the opening in the wall. I experimented with it and found that by inserting the narrow end into the opening first, it became a perfectly fitted plug that projected only minutely from the wall when in place. Even more interestingly, it silenced the voices.

  Suddenly, I understood. Mr. Watercolors, who had had this hiding place constructed, did more than startle his guests by disappearing and reappearing at his social gatherings. He used this diabolical listening device to eavesdrop on them from the comfort of his private den. In all this time, none of us had ever noticed the plug in the cabbage rose. I must have bumped it partially loose when I dropped into the chair this morning. I started to giggle, then clapped a hand over my mouth. If I could hear voices at this end of the tube, could I be heard at the other end? Then I remembered that the plug was back in place. But where was the other end of the conduit? I switched off the lamp and listened at the door to make sure the coast was clear, then scurried out into the coatroom. I could hardly wait to tell Margo and Emma about my discovery.

  Barely flipping a wave to Jenny in passing, I bolted into the office and startled Margo, who was checking messages on our land line. “Pssst! Hey, put that down,” I hissed, flapping my hands at her. “You are not going to believe—“

  She held up a warning hand and frowned into the receiver. “Hush!” Her frown deepened. She reached for the pad and pencil next to the phone and began to make hurried notes. She scribbled furiously for another few seconds while I tapped my foot impatiently, then finally put down the receiver. “Damn! The financing on the Hurlbut deal fell through at the last minute. There’s a lien that should have been removed from the last re-fi. Is it eight-thirty yet? Oh, good, it is! I just have time to nip over to the town hall and get this cleaned up before the closing.”

  “But wait—“

  “Is Emma in yet? Oh, of course she is, it’s the thirtieth. Listen, Sugar, be a pal and get Rhett into his pen, would you? I’ve got to dash upstairs.” While she talked, she pulled a stuffed file folder out of her carryall, tore off the sheet of notepaper she’d been writing on, and handed Rhett’s leash to me. He’d follow Margo anywhere without one, but he needed the extra encouragement of a tug on the leash to accompany anyone else. Margo flew out of the office, completely frustrating me.

  It was awful to have such a juicy secret and no one to share it with. I stared at the dog, who had not missed the transfer of authority his mistress had executed on her way out the door. I clipped the leash onto his collar, and he didn’t bother making a fuss, just stood up and prepared to follow me wherever I led him.

  I was tempted to hand Rhett over to Jenny and take advantage of her absence to try to locate the lobby end of the listening tube, but I knew that would be futile. The Law Barn phones were ringing off the hook today, and it wasn’t fair to Jenny or our clients to take her away from her job. It would have to wait until two of the five of us who were in on the secret of the reading room had the time and privacy to pursue it. As eager as I was to solve this little mystery, another, more compelling puzzle was already on my agency. I remembered that I hadn’t asked Margo what she’d learned from John Harkness the previous evening, either.

  Resigning myself to waiting, I settled Rhett outside in his pen with a chew toy and a water dish. The sun was trying to come out, and he had a yard full of squirrels to enjoy. The lids were still on the trash cans, I noticed. Emma’s peanuts had apparently had the desired effect on Fat Squirrel, who scolded me soundly from a maple bough that drooped over my head from the combined weight of F.S. and the bird feeder Emma had already begun filling for the winter ahead. Spilled seeds littered the ground, and I glared at him. No wonder we had mice. Still scolding, he fired a peanut shell at me, and I retreated to the relative peace of my office.

  By midday the phones had quieted down. The remaining closings, scheduled for this afternoon, were in Emma’s hands now. Margo had apparently gone directly from the town hall to her closing this morning, since she hadn’t reappeared. Feeling at loose ends and a little wired from all of the coffee I had consumed, I switched on MACK’s answering service and left the building. The sun had finally broken through, burning off the cold mist of the morning, and a few tourists had ventured forth to admire the parade of scarecrows along Old Main Street. For once, the smoking ban protestors were not in evidence in front of the Keeney Memorial. Not knowing what else to do, I crossed the street and walked slowly toward Marsh’s Pharmacy at the end of the block. I had no idea how to approach Ephraim. I only knew that for Abby’s sake, I had to try. At least the information Emma had given me was a place to start.

  The pharmacy, when I entered it, was quiet. Most of the historic district’s business workers were at the diner or Dory’s, or maybe the tea room, enjoying a bite of lunch. A couple of customers I didn’t recognize were browsing among the cosmetics and toiletries, and Mort Delahanty stood at the magazine rack, thumbing through a copy of Field & Stream before his afternoon shift at the diner began. As always, Ephraim stood at the prescription counter in his starched white smock, restocking the rows of vitamin supplements in the glass cases beneath the ancient cash register. One of his young pharmacists, a pretty young woman, was busy filling prescriptions at the other end of the work space, but no customers waited for attention. I swallowed hard and walked up next to Ephraim, my heart pounding.

  “Ephraim?” He looked up from his work and smiled welcomingly. Thinning red hair framed a comfortably craggy face. He looked as honest and friendly as an old setter dog. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Kate Lawrence from MACK Realty down the street. I need to discuss a personal matter with you. Would it be convenient for you to give me a few minutes now, or may I set an appointment for later i
n the day?”

  He stood up, managing to conceal any surprise he may have felt. “Why, hello, Kate. How have you been? I hear you’ve got a hot real estate market these days. Good for you.” He rubbed the small of his back. “Either these shelves are getting lower, or my back is getting creakier, but let’s not go there,” he said ruefully. “Sure, I’ve got some time right now, if you like. Ellie,” he signaled to the pretty young pharmacist, “I’ll be in the back room on a consultation. Just let me know if you need me.”

  “Sure thing, Ephraim, but it’s pretty quiet right now. I’ll take care of the phones.”

  I smiled and nodded to her as I followed Ephraim the few steps behind the partition that concealed his private workspace and accepted the straight chair he cleared off for me. No doubt he thought I was here to consult with him on some embarrassing medical problem, like hot flashes or a scaly rash. I felt like the fraud I was and gulped audibly. “I guess I should say straight out that I’m not here for professional advice, Ephraim,” I began, keeping my voice low. The partition that separated us from the register area didn’t quite reach the store ceiling, and I didn’t want to risk being overheard.

  “Oh? What then?” he asked kindly, and I launched into my tale, just wanting to get it over with. I started by reminding him about the circumstances of Prudence Crane’s death, then explained Abby Stoddard’s dilemma, which was the real reason for my visit.

  “Abby doesn’t want to point a finger at anyone else, but the fact is, she may be arrested at any moment, and she knows for a fact that Prudy was blackmailing you. She saw you paying her off, Ephraim. You’re not the only one she saw, but I need to know why, if only to eliminate you as another likely suspect besides Abby. I swear to you, anything you say will go only as far as it absolutely needs to go and no further. Can you help Abby out here? Can you trust me?”

  It pained me to watch Ephraim’s face change as I rattled on, his open smile fading to weariness as the light went out of his eyes. I squirmed under his scrutiny but managed to keep silent. Could I be trusted, or was I another opportunist trying to glean details of his misfortune? His inner conflict raged on his face.