by Meri Allen
Pru shaded her eyes as she followed his movements.
“What’s he doing on the roof?” I gasped.
“Goats like to be up high,” she said.
Cars stopped in the middle of the lane as a crowd gathered and held up their cell phones to shoot video. This caused traffic to back up onto the main road.
“Will he come down by himself?” I asked. “He’s causing a traffic jam.”
Just then Houdini disappeared over the peak of the roof. I remembered how Rocky had gotten down by jumping onto the dumpster and the stack of crates on the other side of the shop. “Quick! He’s going around.” I ran to the front of the building, and the chattering crowd followed.
Willow ran up to me, shading her eyes as she followed the tiny goat’s movement. “I’ll get him. Don’t worry. I can climb up the dumpster.”
Pru tugged Willow’s arm. “No, don’t go up there, Willow. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“There’s a black cat up there!” A man pointed. “Bad luck for the goat!” Many in the crowd chuckled.
Rocky sat at the very edge of the roof grooming a paw, unconcerned with the clamor from the crowd. When Houdini clopped over to him, he turned tail and disappeared from sight. I knew he’d jumped onto the stack of crates. Houdini picked his way over to the spot where Rocky had disappeared. My heart jumped into my throat. Goats were surefooted, but Houdini was just a kid. He paused as if deliberating, his little tail wagging.
Someone shouted, “He’s going to jump down the pile of crates!”
Willow and I ran, edging through the spectators. As I passed Jasper, he tilted his hat back to follow the action on the roof, then popped the trunk of his Cadillac and reached in.
“Come on, Houdini!” Willow called as we pushed our way to the front of the crowd. The goat teetered on the edge of the roof, then leapt down onto the dumpster, then onto the crates. I didn’t see Rocky, but I was sure he was watching. Willow raced forward to catch Houdini as he jumped from the last crate, but a burly man pushed her aside, calling, “I’ve got him!”
He didn’t. Houdini spurted from his arms and zipped into the parking lot.
Shouts and shrieks of laughter spread as the goat zigzagged through the crowd, but my heart leapt into my throat. I hoped he wouldn’t head into the road. Traffic was at a standstill, but if Houdini ran very far away, a moving car could hit him. Willow and I again pushed our way through chattering customers.
As Houdini cleared the crowd and dashed for the road, a circle of rope whirled through the air. In a blink, the circle landed around the little goat’s neck. Houdini pulled up short and gave a puzzled bleat as Jasper Yeaton pulled the rope taut and raced up to him.
Jasper knelt next to Houdini, calming the little guy with soft words. Zach aka Stretch doubled over, laughing. Willow ran up and threw her arms around Houdini. The crowd cheered and applauded.
I realized my mouth was hanging open. Flo stood at the shop window, hands clasped by her cheek. I felt the same way. Damn, that man was full of surprises.
I thanked Jasper and returned to the shop, shaking my head. This day was full of surprises. Good surprises. What a nice change.
At closing time, I washed the empty tub that had held Brandon’s toxic red experiment. “It sold out in one day. How is that possible?” I dried my hands and flicked off the lights.
Caroline laughed. “No idea.”
We headed up to the house. “Pru’s bringing over some interns to work in the shop tomorrow night so we can have a nice dinner to celebrate getting through the festival. And you’re taking tomorrow off, Riley. I insist.”
I rubbed my sore right arm. “No argument from me.”
In bed later that night, I thought I’d fall asleep instantly, but I tossed and turned for an hour. I couldn’t even lose myself in a book. My mind was like the broken chiller—I couldn’t turn it off.
Making lists always calmed me. There’s nothing as satisfying as crossing a task off my list, except, perhaps, a hot fudge sundae. I pulled my notebook from my bag, a beautiful handmade leather creation with marbleized endpapers I’d bought in London. I flipped to the last written page, my packing list for Italy.
Rocky slunk into the room and climbed into bed next to me.
I turned to a fresh page and clicked the pen. The notebook had quotes at the top of each page. This page had a quote from Louis Pasteur: “Luck favors the prepared mind.”
Think, Riley. Organize your thoughts.
I wrote “Who Killed Mike Spooner” at the top of the page. Who had something to gain by killing Mike? I wrote “MOTIVE—GAIN?” Well, “gain” wasn’t the right word. Caroline and Darwin would retain what they had. Eliminating Mike would eliminate the chance of losing their beloved farm. Neighbors who wanted to stop the development? I couldn’t believe any of them capable of murder, but added “NEIGHBORS” to the list. I had to keep an open mind.
CAROLINE
DARWIN
NEIGHBORS
I hesitated.
My friends in the military talked about “unknowns” in a way that other people didn’t. In the military and intelligence fields, one talked of “known knowns,” “known unknowns,” and “unknown unknowns.” What you knew, what you knew you didn’t know, and what you didn’t know you didn’t know.
“X” was what I didn’t know, who I didn’t know.
I added “X” to the list.
But “gain” didn’t seem like the right motive. Mike’s death had been brutal. Emotional. Angry. A crime of passion. I wrote MOTIVE—PASSION. Who fit that profile?
ANGELICA
DARWIN
EMILY
Again I added “X”.
I realized that if the crime was driven by emotion, I’d have to put my name on the list. I’d want to help Caroline. “RILEY.” After a moment I wrote “PRU” and added her to the “GAIN” list. Pru loved Darwin. Darwin loved the farm. Would she kill Mike to keep Darwin on the farm? Again, I had to keep an open mind, and I remembered how distracted Pru had been after Mike’s murder, how fraught with worry and disbelief the conversation I’d overheard.
I remembered Gerri’s impassioned speech at the planning meeting. That woman was passionate about stopping the development. I added her name to my list. “GERRI.” I laughed. Gerri would lecture someone to death, but hefting that pitchfork? Then I remembered Mike had been drugged to make him an easier target. That made me think the killer was someone who wasn’t confident of their strength. I shook my head. Anyone would have to drug Mike to even the odds—he was strong, big, athletic.
Who had opportunity? Anyone could’ve driven up to the Love Nest, or even walked there, maybe someone camping nearby in the cemetery. “X.” The camper, who I felt in my gut was Stretch. What was his story? He was odd, but was he a killer? I added “STRETCH” to the list.
The only person who wanted the development to go through was Aaron. Great. I just proved the most suspicious and squirrely person in the neighborhood was most likely innocent.
I put the notebook on the nightstand and turned off the light. Beside me, Rocky was already asleep.
Chapter 32
Monday morning came too soon, but I’d slept well. Now I had a whole day for sleuthing. I had places to go and people to talk to, but first, a cuddle with Rocky. I reached out, but the spot next to me on the bed was empty, the sheet cool.
Rocky sat at the window with his paw on the screen. His head jerked around and he gave me a guilty look.
“Rocky, what are you up to?”
He jumped to the floor and trotted from the room. I rose from the bed and looked more closely at the spot on the screen where Rocky’s paw had been. When I pressed, it gave way and a whole flap opened. The space was just big enough for one determined little cat to squeeze through onto the roof of the porch. I looked down. An old lattice was angled against the porch and next to that was a trash can. Altogether they made stair steps for a determined feline.
Rocky wouldn’t be fenced in. Mayb
e I shouldn’t try.
* * *
After breakfast, Caroline headed to the shop as I jogged up the hill. I turned west and ran through a row of sunflowers. The bright yellow of the flowers’ petals made a dazzling contrast with the bright blue sky.
At the end of the row I looped back, then jogged toward the Love Nest. The crime scene tape across the porch and the barn door sagged. Mike’s car was still parked by the door and I peered inside. It was pristine, the complete opposite of Buzzy’s hoarder-on-wheels car.
Hoarding made me think of Aaron. His yard was completely hidden by a solid line of woods that faced the road, and most of the trees were choked with vines so thick they blocked the sun. As I ran, I noticed with alarm that barbed wire was strung between the trees, making a nasty, almost invisible fence around his property.
I ran farther up Farm Lane to the narrow opening in the trees that was the entrance to Aaron’s domain.
I scanned the yard as I walked up his rutted driveway. There were two decrepit vehicles in the driveway, what New Englanders called “beaters”: one a van, one a Buick with Florida plates. A stone patio with flagstones to one side of the house had probably been a pleasant spot years ago, but was now crowded with broken patio furniture, a splintered wooden picnic table, and plastic chairs speckled with mold.
Dozens of rusted hulks of old cars on blocks crowded the other side of the yard. I recognized the bodies of several vintage models, including a Mustang, now reduced to an empty shell.
My skin prickled; I felt watched. I looked up and noted floodlights and cameras on the eaves of the house, another camera by the front door. A wire crossed the yard. With my eyes, I followed it up into the leafy canopy of trees. More cameras.
How many did he have? And why? I knocked on the front door.
The blinds were drawn except for one window, where McGillicuddy barked. I waited but there was no further sound within the house. I turned and jogged away, eager to leave.
Aaron had mentioned that his security cameras weren’t on the night of Mike’s murder. Though with all these cameras, I doubted if he was telling the truth. But why would he lie?
I recalled the extra security camera in my office at the embassy, the one even Paolo the IT guy hadn’t know about, how it had exonerated me. I wondered if the cops would get an order to search Aaron’s security footage anyway, despite what he’d told them.
As I left the yard, I thought one thing was certain. It looked like Aaron could use some money. He’d be receptive to a pitch to sell his property. He’d said everyone has a price. If he sold, there might be a domino effect with other neighbors following suit.
The thought of Emily or Kyle trying to coerce Caroline into selling, taking advantage of her fragile state of mind, made my blood boil. I took a deep breath, wiping sweat from my brow. I decided to talk to Emily and tell her to stop bothering Caroline once and for all.
I showered and dressed, then got into Sadie and chugged down Farm Lane. How I missed the Mustang.
In Penniman, all the parking spaces around the town green were taken. That was the trouble living in a tourist destination. Many people stayed in the area after the Sunflower Festival to take advantage of Penniman’s lake, organic restaurants, antiquing, and hiking. I swung around the green and parked in the driveway at Dad’s house. It would be a quick walk to the green. As I passed the shop, Dad waved from the window, so I went in.
“Riley! You survived the weekend!” Dad grinned.
“It was super busy, but the shop did really well.”
“I’m so glad. So did we,” Dad said. “I heard you even had music from a famous country singer?”
“Famous? Cadillac Ranch, I mean Jasper Yeaton?”
Dad chuckled. “JD Yeaton. Paulette’s gaga for him.”
“Really, Riley, you have to keep up.” Paulette put a stack of books on the counter and took her cell from her pocket. She had the newest and most expensive model in a prettily decorated gold case. She turned the screen to me.
Someone had posted on social media: “JD Yeaton at Penniman’s favorite ice cream shop. Sweet tunes and sweet treats.”
Paulette said, “That would be a good slogan for Udderly: Sweet tunes and sweet treats.”
“I had no idea he was this well known,” I said. “Everyone at the shop calls him Cadillac Ranch.”
“He’s staying at Moy Mull. He also paints. He came here because he wants to be viewed as just another painter.” At first I was surprised that Dad had this scoop but then I remembered he was vice president of the Arts Guild. “We’ll oblige him.”
It was true. Penniman’s peaceful isolation plus the Yankee propensity to mind one’s own business made the village a perfect escape.
“How’s Caroline?” Dad said.
I filled him and Paulette in, lowering my voice as customers passed by. That reminded me of my errand.
“I’m going to talk with Emily Weinberg right now,” I said. “She and Kyle are pressuring Caroline to sell, and I want them to lay off. They’re even pressuring Darwin to try to influence Caroline.”
Dad said, “Darwin’s a man who knows his own mind.”
“That might be true.” I didn’t say it out loud, but maybe the pressure was getting to him. Pru was worried and she knew him best.
A customer approached with a stack of books. I waved goodbye and headed to Emily’s office.
Chapter 33
My footsteps slowed when I saw Emily’s pink Mini Cooper in the parking lot of Penniman Properties. What was the only thing Darwin remembered about the car that passed him the night of the murder? It was small. Not much to go on. Still …
I walked up the sidewalk lost in thought, hardly seeing the charming building. It would be very convenient for Emily if Darwin came under suspicion of murder. It would be hard for him and Pru to live in the area, with the talk, the looks, the gossip. I knew what it felt like to have people gossip about you. Maybe he’d want to move away.
What was Emily doing on Farm Lane the night of the murder? I remembered her flirtation with Mike after the funeral. Was it business or pleasure she’d had in mind? Both? Or just plain murder?
She was my top suspect, but as I climbed the porch to her office, I hesitated. I needed answers, but was a direct confrontation the best way to get them? Think, Riley. If she’s guilty, confronting her would put her on the defensive.
I decided to take a walk around the green. As I did, I fell into my old habits, scanning for security cameras and surveillance tails, and checking license plates. I saw nothing besides my favorite tea shop, Lily’s; specialty stores, many sporting sunflower shaped flags in honor of the festival; and lots of window shoppers. Relax, Riley. You’re in Penniman now.
I stopped on the sidewalk to let a group leave a coffee shop. “Good morning, Riley,” Gerri’s voice boomed.
“Hi,” my voice trailed off. I still couldn’t bring myself to call her anything but Mrs. Hunt.
“I know it’s difficult to change ingrained habits, but you must try to remember to call me Gerri, now that we are colleagues at Udderly.” She adjusted a gauzy yellow scarf that matched her linen tunic. “Day off? You deserve one.”
“You too. The weekend wouldn’t have been so successful without your help.”
Gerri slid on jeweled sunglasses, and I had to stifle a smile. How could I have put this woman on my list of suspects?
“My pleasure. The ice cream shop is a Penniman institution and Buzzy was like a sister to us. Well, with all the intermarriages long, long ago, we are related, albeit distantly.”
“Your family goes way back.”
We walked past the war memorial. “Founders, with the Baldwins. Many in our family served. Yours too. Many of our neighbors. They all did their duty.”
“The Baldwins?” Baldwin was Nina’s maiden name. “Nina Baldwin Aldridge?” I said.
Gerri nodded. “Beautiful girl. Her family owned much of the land here for generations and the thread mill too. Of course, that’s closed now
.” She rearranged her scarves. “She’s very active in the community, though I imagine she’ll pull back while working on her husband’s campaign.”
I remembered Nina telling me about organizing the Sunflower 5K and the Memorial Day Run. Memorial Day. That’s when Angelica had sailed to Block Island with Mike, running into Kyle and his secretary.
Gerri leaned closer. “Are you okay, Riley?”
“Oh, sorry.” Perhaps I didn’t have to dig too far for information. This talkative woman knew everything about everyone in Penniman. Instead of asking questions, sometimes it was better to simply let people talk and listen closely.
“I was wondering”—I still couldn’t bring myself to call her Gerri—“about Aaron Tuthill. What do you know about him?”
“Aaron? Sit here for a bit.” She pointed to an empty bench with her cane. Flo had told me that Gerri had started using the cane after a knee replacement. She didn’t need it now, but liked having another accessory.
“The Hermit! I know that’s what people call him, but he’s no more a hermit than I am. His house is a fortress, not a hermitage. He goes out to the casino often enough. Flo’s seen him down there several times when she goes on her church bus trips.”
Gerri nodded to a guy pushing a baby jogger. “He might not go out much, but he has lots of unsavory characters visiting him. Florida plates. Dropping off or picking up boxes. And those cars in the yard and that house”—she sniffed—“what a disgrace. His family would be distraught if they could see its current state.”
“Has his family been in Penniman long?” I asked.
She shook her head. “The Tuthills came to Penniman in 1920. Newcomers.”
“Newcomer” was a relative term.
“And the Aldridges, well, they don’t acknowledge him.” Gerri waved her hand. “He’s the black sheep of the family.”
This was a surprise. “He’s related to the Aldridges? Kyle Aldridge?”
She took a deep breath. “A distant cousin. Well, his mother was the original black sheep of the family. They disowned her for marrying against her father’s wishes. Aaron worked at the family’s Ford dealership, but was fired ages ago by Kyle’s uncle Nick.” She made a gesture that looked like she was sipping from a teacup.
