by Meri Allen
“Let me show you where they are,” Dad said. “Paulette refreshed the bedrooms and some of your things were, ah, moved.”
I pushed away a pang of foreboding as we climbed the narrow wooden stairs. If Paulette had ditched my stuff it wasn’t really a big deal. I hadn’t lived here in years. Still, I took a deep breath as I opened the door to my old bedroom.
Where there’d been a single brass bed with a crazy quilt crafted by my Granny Rhodes, there now stood a queen size-bed with a plaid comforter in soft shades of camel and blue. The walls were no longer covered with travel posters nor were they painted my favorite color, emerald green. Now they were a stylish navy blue and hung with subtle seascapes. The decor was quietly tasteful and impersonal.
I searched my feelings. I truly didn’t mind. “I mean it, Dad. It’s nice. I shouldn’t have left my stuff here. Time to clear it out. I’ll go through it while I’m here in town.”
Dad’s shoulders relaxed and he opened the closet door. Four large plastic bins were stacked with my stuff, including my collection of Nancy Drew and Harry Potter books. My quilt was folded on the top shelf. I ran my fingers along its age-softened fabric, relieved to find it hadn’t been discarded.
I popped the top of one box and reached in. With a surge of relief I fished out a navy blue cardigan. A librarian always needs a cardigan.
Dad helped me move two boxes into the Mustang and I promised to come back for the rest. As we stepped back into the house, I could hear Paulette comforting Caroline in the kitchen.
“We’d better go,” I said.
As we gathered our things to leave, Paulette said, “Be sure to keep your doors locked. There’s talk of bums living in the woods behind the farm. Setting fires! Can you believe it?”
That was right near the Love Nest and the barn where Mike was killed.
Caroline’s hand jumped to her throat.
I gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “The police have been up there. I’m sure there won’t be any problems.”
“Campfires,” Dad said mildly, “probably kids camping and having a bonfire.”
Paulette folded her arms. “Those homeless people shouldn’t be in Penniman. This is a nice place.” My mind flashed to Stretch. Was he homeless?
Dad put his hand on Paulette’s shoulder. “My only worry is that we haven’t had much rain and those acres of sunflowers are dry. They could go up quickly with just a spark. Keep an eye out, girls.”
Chapter 9
I didn’t want to show it on the way home, but Paulette’s comment about people in the woods behind Buzzy’s house unsettled me.
Riley, you are in peaceful Penniman, Connecticut. Shake it off.
How had I gotten so suspicious? Because you work for the CIA. I took a deep breath. Barely worked. I’d been put on leave and had a note of reprimand in my personnel file now.
Still, I’d internalized the mindset of my coworkers. Caution kept a person alive. It wasn’t melodramatic to be wary, to be careful.
I’d learned this the hard way. I hadn’t been wary enough in Rome.
My assignment had been simple. During the day, I helped a group of archivists create a database to inventory the artwork in the embassy and the ambassador’s spectacular palazzo. For one glorious day, I toured the art collections, then I spent the rest of the time staring at computer screens in my little office down a drab hallway far from the ornate front façade of the embassy. The room had been repurposed from a parlor and retained a few decorative, fussy touches from its earlier function: a gilt edged painting of a forgotten general brandishing his saber, a chair with curvy legs and ruby silk upholstery, and on a dusty shelf, a small marble statuette of a Roman goddess who kept watch as I worked at a battered metal desk.
At night, I enjoyed delicious local food and nightlife with friends. In the morning I had one mission: jog along the Tiber River. Innocuous, right? Despite what we see in flashy Hollywood movies, real spy work is subtle. Messages could be sent in so many ways, ways beyond phone calls or texts or letters. A message could be sent by a card propped in a car window. A book left on the table of a coffee shop. Or even a jogger wearing a particular color on a particular day.
One morning I found a package on my desk, wrapped in plain white butcher paper. Inside was a shirt. No note. No note was necessary. I knew what to do: wear this shirt on my next daily jog. It was red with the word “equipe” across the back, French for team.
No doubt I was sending a signal to a watcher on my route, one I’d never see but who’d be watching me. They would see this shirt, this message, and act on it.
I never saw anyone I knew on my jogging route, but that next morning, in the window of a little café, I recognized Paolo, a handsome local who worked in IT at the embassy. He’d waved. He’d never spoken to me before. I had earbuds in but no music playing. I pretended I hadn’t noticed him, dismissing the coincidence, but I sped up to lose him in case he decided to try to catch me.
The next morning, a body was found floating in the river by an ancient bridge called the Ponte Rotto, the Broken Bridge. I had no way of knowing if my message had played any part in that, but the embassy buzzed all day with repressed excitement. Paolo stopped by my desk and asked me out for a drink. I accepted.
A week later, he asked me to accompany him after work to the Isola del Cinema, an international film festival on the Isola Tiberina, the tiny boat-shaped island in the middle of the Tiber, not far from the Vatican. Impossible to get tickets, but he had two. Just as he arrived to pick me up, I received a call asking me to come to the human resources office two floors away and in another wing of the building. Paolo said he’d wait in my office. When I got to HR the office was dark, closed for the day. When I ran back to my office, heart pounding, he was gone.
So was the little marble statuette, which turned out to be worth a lot of money.
* * *
When Caroline and I returned to Buzzy’s house, we found two floral arrangements and a boxed coffee cake on the front porch. I remembered Paulette’s warning and glanced up the dark road. Everything seemed peaceful but the quiet and the beautiful gifts didn’t dispel my apprehension. Could one of the strangers in the woods have killed Mike? I wondered where Stretch was now. Leave it to the cops, Riley.
I turned my thoughts to the farmhouse in front of me and considered how secure it was. Improving our security was something I could do.
Buzzy’s home was sturdy, a farmhouse built by one of her great-great-grandfathers in the 1800s. The front door was crafted of solid oak but it had a lock that any ten-year-old with a bobby pin could open. Despite her bad disposition and biting the cop earlier, Sprinkles was hardly a guard dog. Why couldn’t Buzzy have a dog? I sighed. Sprinkles probably hadn’t allowed it.
Caroline and I carried the flowers and coffee cake into the kitchen and set them on the table, then I went back to the door and twisted the knob, making sure it was locked. “Caroline, where are the house keys?”
Caroline bent over the flowers, inhaling their fragrance. “Keys? I think there are some keys hanging in the mudroom.”
The mudroom was a narrow closet-sized space by the front door. One wall was covered with various coats, sweaters, and shopping bags hanging on hooks. I pushed them aside until I found a ring with several ancient-looking metal keys under a yellow rainslicker. Some were skeleton keys, like something that would unlock a wardrobe that led to Narnia. I went back into the kitchen and held up the keyring in disbelief. “These are the keys? Are you kidding?”
Caroline shrugged. “Buzzy never locked the doors. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll start.” She selected two from the keyring and gave me one. I slid it into my pocket.
I poured a glass of water while she opened the cards with the flowers. One bouquet, lush with pink and yellow roses, scented the air.
“Who’s that bouquet from?” I said. “It’s gorgeous.”
Caroline smiled. “Dandy. They’re from her garden. Wasn’t that sweet? And she even offered to help in
the shop.”
“We’ll need help in the shop.”
“Riley.” Caroline’s smile faltered and she lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table.
I steeled myself. This was the moment I’d dreaded.
Caroline’s voice was steady. “I want you to tell me everything you saw. With Mike in the barn. Everything.”
* * *
Later that night I lay in bed, trying to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy old mattress, remembering my conversation with Caroline and wondering if I’d held back too much or too little of what Mike’s body had looked like. Wondering if I’d done the right thing telling Caroline I’d seen her scarf in Mike’s pocket.
I hadn’t mentioned the scarf to the police.
I’d reassured Caroline. I was pretty sure Mike had picked up the scarf when he’d taken his jacket from the back of her chair. He’d been so angry I was sure he hadn’t noticed that he’d also grabbed her scarf by mistake. But would the police believe me? The police knew Caroline and I were friends. I was her alibi. She was my alibi. But right downstairs in the kitchen she’d said she could kill him and soon enough the police would discover that they’d fought about Mike’s real estate deal.
I closed my eyes and let details of the discovery of Mike’s body, of what I’d seen in the Love Nest, replay. Angelica’s lipstick on the wineglass. The crumpled note. That wasn’t from Caroline.
The money jar. I had to tell the police about the missing money jar. I’d go to the police department early, before the shop opened. Or should I call? The card the officer had given me was on the nightstand.
I turned it in my hands. Jack Voelker. He was probably the local liaison to the state police. Like most small New England towns, Penniman wasn’t big enough to have its own homicide team.
I scrolled my phone. Mike’s murder was news, but Angelica Miguel was headline news. I pressed START on a video.
Behind the newscaster, a photo showed Angelica holding up a trophy at center court. How vibrant she looked, so powerful, so full of life.
“In our top story, the quiet village of Penniman was rocked by the brutal slaying of real estate entrepreneur Michael Spooner. His body was found in a barn on Fairweather Farm early Saturday morning. Police say one of the most mystifying aspects of the case is the disappearance of Spooner’s girlfriend, tennis star Angelica Miguel. Police are looking for her red Porsche, a vintage model, license plate 10IS. Anyone with information on the vehicle is asked to contact the police at the number on the screen.”
I shut down my phone and turned off the light, but I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, trying to quiet my mind. Of course the police wanted to talk to Angelica. She was probably the last person to see Mike alive. Plus she’d be strong enough to wield the pitchfork. Don’t they say that the killer is always the one closest to the victim?
But I’d seen them together and I couldn’t believe Angelica would kill Mike. The phrase “golden couple” was made for them.
Could the murderer have kidnapped and maybe killed her too?
Pale sunlight brightened the windows and burnished the old trophies on Mike’s shelves just as I fell asleep.
Chapter 10
Nine o’clock! I’d overslept. I dashed into the bathroom to wash, threw on some clothes, and began pulling my hair back into a ponytail as I hurried into the hallway. Caroline’s door was ajar, her curtains open, and her bed made. A laptop and a pile of folders covered half her bed. Sprinkles darted out of Buzzy’s room, tangling in my feet and sending me sprawling. “Darn cat!” Sprinkles gave me a haughty look and sashayed downstairs. I tossed my hair elastic after her.
“Are you okay?” Caroline called from downstairs.
I eased to my feet—nothing broken—retrieved my elastic, and followed the aroma of brewing coffee down the stairs.
“Sprinkles ambushed me. Again.” The little minx sat by her food dish grooming her paw. At her name she looked up, her offended expression saying, Who, me?
“Pru called and said she’d open Udderly today with some interns from the farm.” Caroline turned down the volume on the small television on the counter. She wore plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a navy blue long sleeve T-shirt. “We don’t have to go in until lunchtime.”
I poured a cup of coffee and sank into a chair. “That’s so nice of her. I know they must be busy getting ready for the Sunflower Festival too.”
Caroline bent over a stack of papers, holding her head in her hands. “Buzzy’s bills,” she groaned. “I gathered them from her office. Some are from two years ago. She didn’t exactly have a system.”
I looked around the kitchen. Buzzy’s level of organization reflected her level of interest. The spices on the rack were arranged in alphabetical order. Family photos were hung with military precision on the walls. Her plants were watered and tended within an inch of their lives.
Another headache for Caroline. “Are things, ah, okay? Financially?”
“I can’t tell.” She pushed her thick curls from her forehead. “I wish I were an accountant, not an art appraiser. Buzzy has an accountant, Wilmer Reyes. I don’t think he’s seen these.” She sipped her coffee. “Remember when she had the farm stand? She’d leave a cigar box on the table and people would take their veggies and leave money in the box?”
That was something you still saw on the back roads here. “Is that still her system?”
“Close.” She smiled. “She could’ve used you, Riley. Librarians are so organized.”
I returned her smile but busied myself cutting the coffee cake that had been left on the porch last night. She didn’t know about my occasional assignments. No one did, that was part of the game. I longed to tell Caroline everything. This was a sign that I wanted a change, I knew it.
I cut a thick slice of coffee cake for Caroline and set it in front of her.
She continued, “I’m going to meet with Wilmer tomorrow. And Buzzy’s lawyer.”
I took a bite of the coffee cake—divine—and sipped my coffee. “Who’s Buzzy’s lawyer?”
“Kyle.”
I set down my mug. “I forgot to tell you, Kyle and Nina stopped by to see you yesterday, but you were,” I hesitated, “sleeping.” When you were sedated, after learning your brother had been murdered. I scanned Caroline’s face. She looked tired and her soft brown eyes were bloodshot, but her pointed chin was firm, determined.
Caroline winced and rubbed her glasses on the hem of her T-shirt. “Kyle and Mike were so close. Buzzy didn’t even have a lawyer until a year or so ago. Mike insisted, he even made the appointment for her. One good thing Mike did,” she muttered. “Will you go with me, Riley?”
“Of course,” I said.
“And … I talked to the police on the phone. They can’t”—she swallowed—“release Mike’s body yet.”
Sprinkles materialized by Caroline’s chair and Caroline scooped her up. “I took a week off, for Buzzy. Now this. I don’t know what to do.”
I squeezed Caroline’s arm. “You don’t have to do anything right now.”
“Except deal with the ice cream shop,” she said. “All part-time workers. No one wants to be manager.”
“You could close … until you find someone.” A thought began to take shape. I’d worked in the shop. I knew what to do. It would be nice to disappear for a while.
“The shop’s the only thing that makes me feel normal. And the Sunflower Festival is coming,” Caroline said, “but I’ll have to go back to work in Boston next Tuesday.”
Staying in Penniman and running the shop was an opportunity. It felt right. “I can run the shop,” I said.
“Oh, Riley, you’ve done so much already!” Caroline shook her head. “And your job”—
I held up my hand. “I have tons of leave.” That was true, plus I doubted I’d have another covert assignment after what happened in Rome.
Caroline’s eyes shone. “That would be amazing. Of course, you could stay here in the house rent free and we could work out
your pay.”
I’d always been good at living and traveling on a shoestring. The shop closed October through March. I’d have all that free time to travel and really put my heart into my travel blog. A fresh start. Maybe the ice cream shop was the answer.
“I’ll do it.”
Caroline threw her arms around me. “Thank you, Riley.”
Caught in the hug, Sprinkles yowled, jumped to the floor, and stalked into the powder room.
“Don’t celebrate yet, okay? My salary will totally bankrupt you.” I grabbed my running shoes from the mudroom. “I’m going for a run.”
Sprinkles stuck her head out of the powder room and meowled.
“Coming, your majesty.” Caroline stepped into the powder room and flushed the toilet.
I stopped short. “Did you just flush for Sprinkles?”
“She prefers the water from the powder room toilet.” Caroline avoided my eyes.
“You’re serious. She can reach?”
Caroline nodded.
I laughed. “You’re nuts.”
“No, Buzzy was nuts,” Caroline said. “I’m just carrying on the tradition.”
As I tightened the laces on my running shoes, I remembered Sprinkles’ friend, the scrappy black kitten. “Have you noticed a little black cat hanging around? Kind of torn up, poor guy, like a boxer who’s gone too many rounds. Sprinkles was talking to him the other night.”
Caroline shook her head. “Sprinkles has a friend? Maybe she’s mellowing. Part of the reason she had to retire from the show circuit was because she’d fight with her competitors.”
My mind swirled with questions as I jogged up Farm Lane. There was something about the wine bottle in the Love Nest that bothered me. I’d stop at the winery and ask some questions.
As I passed the turn to the Love Nest, I saw a single police vehicle and a white SUV with a state police shield decal parked by the barn. Yellow tape was strung across the doorways of the Love Nest and the barn.
