by Sarah Fox
“Of course.” I noted that she had a cup of coffee in front of her. “Can I get you anything to eat first?”
“The girl with the turquoise streaks in her hair already took my order, thanks. I’m looking forward to trying the food here. I’ve heard nothing but great things about it.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I sat down across from her. “Is this about the letters?”
“It is. Aunt Winnifred told me you were interested in learning more about them like she is.”
“That’s right. If you don’t mind sharing what you know.”
“I don’t mind at all,” she said, to my relief. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you all that much.”
My hopes, which had started to rise, sank back down again. “So you didn’t read them?”
“I read some of them,” Krista clarified. “I was cleaning out my grandmother’s attic a few months ago when I came across the box of documents. I took a cursory look at everything in that box, including the journal, before donating it, and I skimmed through a few of the letters. I asked my grandmother about them at the time, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen them before. It’s possible she did know about them once, but her memory’s not as sharp as it used to be.”
I nodded in understanding.
“I didn’t grow up in Wildwood Cove,” Krista continued. “So I didn’t realize the significance of the signature on the letters. Aunt Winnifred filled me in on the story of Jack O’Malley. It’s exciting to know he might have penned letters to someone in my family. I’m almost wishing we’d held onto them, although the museum will probably do a better job of preserving them.”
“Do you have any idea who received the letters?” I asked.
My hopes started to rise again when Krista nodded.
“That’s one of the few things I do know,” she said. “I noticed in one of the letters I read that Jack used her name—Flora.”
“And you have an ancestor name Flora?” I guessed.
“Flora Penrose. She was my great-great-grandmother.”
“And she lived here in Wildwood Cove?”
“Yes. According to Aunt Winnifred, she was born here in town in 1888 and died in 1982.”
I digested all that information while Krista took a sip of coffee.
Sienna arrived at the table with a smile and delivered Krista’s raspberry orange pancakes and a side of fruit salad. I glanced around to make sure I wasn’t needed elsewhere. Evangeline was alone at her table, focused on her phone. Diana hadn’t finished her meal yet, so I assumed she’d gone to the restroom. Dean and Frankie were nearly finished with their food but hadn’t quite emptied their plates. Dean caught me looking his way and his lip curled in a slight sneer. I ignored him and swept my gaze over the other remaining diners. Everyone seemed happy, so I turned my attention back to Krista as Sienna left us alone again.
“Was Winnifred surprised to find out that Flora had been the recipient of the letters?” I asked.
“I’ll say.” Krista added syrup to her stack of pancakes. “But she didn’t have a chance to tell me anything else about her. She was on her way out to an appointment when we talked on the phone. She asked me to fill you in, since she wouldn’t be around for the rest of the day.”
“I appreciate that, and it was kind of Winnifred to think of me. I’m curious by nature,” I admitted, “and I was with Jane Fassbender when she discovered the letters. Jack O’Malley sounds like he was an interesting character, so I was eager to know more.”
“I’m told there are some great stories about Jack.” Krista’s face sobered. “I heard about what happened to Jane Fassbender. It’s so sad. And scary.”
I agreed with her. “Did you hear that the letters have gone missing from the museum?”
Krista washed down a bite of pancake with a sip of coffee. “I did. That’s so strange. Do you think Jane put them somewhere else shortly before she was killed? Maybe she took them home with her.”
“It’s possible. If that’s the case, hopefully someone will come across them while sorting through her belongings.” I paused to consider that. “Do you know if she has any family members in town?”
“I have no idea,” Krista said. “I didn’t really know her.”
Jane had likely taken the letters home, even though she’d said she’d keep them at the museum. The other possibility—which involved her killer or some third party taking them—seemed less plausible. I doubted that Jane would have willingly handed them over to anyone other than Winnifred or Dolly, and I couldn’t see how the letters would be worth stealing. But if they had been stolen, was that why Jane was killed? It seemed even more farfetched to think that the letters could be worth killing for. Then again, I really didn’t know much about their contents.
Maybe I could still find out more from Krista.
“Do you remember anything else about the letters aside from Flora’s name?” I asked.
“Mostly, they were expressions of Jack’s love for her. He mentioned them being together one day. I got the feeling they were planning to run away together, which apparently never happened.”
I recalled what Jane had told me. “Because Jack was shot and killed not too long after the letters were written.”
Krista nodded as she speared half a strawberry with her fork. “I know he was a criminal, but I still can’t help but feel sad that their love story was cut short so tragically.”
“It must have been hard for Flora.” I wondered if she had to grieve in silence or if anyone else knew about her relationship with Jack. I redirected my attention, reminding myself that I wanted to know if the letters could somehow be connected to Jane’s death, even if that did seem unlikely. “Do you remember anything…I don’t know…scandalous about the letters?”
“Scandalous?” Krista seemed surprised by the question. “How so?”
I shrugged, not entirely sure what I was searching for. “I guess I’m wondering if there was anything in the letters that made them worth stealing.”
“Not that I recall,” she said. “Although I didn’t read all of the letters. I was running late for a date with my boyfriend at the time.”
Maybe I was heading toward a dead end. It really didn’t seem like the letters would have been worth stealing. “Do you think there could be any more letters at your grandmother’s house?” I asked, not quite willing to give up hope of learning more about what Jack had written to Flora about.
“That’s a possibility. There’s still a bunch of stuff up in the attic.” Krista thought for a second. “I can have a look around and see if I can spot any more. That could take me a while, though. There’s still a lot of boxes up there.”
“I guess there’s no reason to rush,” I said, even though I was itching to know if there were more letters or not. “But if you do find more, I’d love to hear about them.”
“I can keep you in the loop.”
We exchanged phone numbers, and I thanked Krista for all of the information she’d shared. As she focused on her pancakes and fruit salad—which I’d insisted were on the house—I got back to work. While I remained hopeful that she would find more letters, I figured I needed to follow other avenues of investigation. As fascinated as I was by Jack O’Malley and Flora Penrose’s love story, I was more interested in seeing Jane’s killer behind bars.
Chapter Seventeen
To my disappointment, I didn’t have a chance to talk to Diana, the caterer, before she left the pancake house. I knew she’d worked at Evangeline’s charity gala, and I’d hoped to strike up a conversation with her and guide it in that direction. She might not have known who had attended the event, but I figured it was worth asking. I could have asked Evangeline, but I preferred to avoid that. I had the feeling she wouldn’t be receptive to my questions. Even though I didn’t know Diana, I thought I might have better luck with her.
Fortunately, when I asked L
eigh if she knew Diana, she supplied me with her last name—Gladwyn—and she also told me that Diana had a website for her business. After closing the pancake house, I ducked into the office and did a quick Internet search using Diana’s name. I easily found the website for Diana’s Catering, and it took only another few seconds to find her contact information, including an email address and telephone number.
I dialed the number, but the call went to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message and jotted down the contact information on a scrap of paper for future reference.
Leaning back in my chair, I considered how to move forward in terms of investigating Jane’s murder. As Dean had left The Flip Side earlier, he’d stared at me one last time. Although that had sent a chill up my spine, I’d applauded myself for not allowing my reaction to show.
Dean was most definitely an untrustworthy and unsavory character. It really wasn’t that hard for me to picture him killing Jane. I still didn’t have a concrete motive to attribute to him, but he’d certainly been up to something shifty when Brett and I had walked Bentley past the museum. I didn’t know how to find out if Jane had caught him in the act of something illegal or underhanded. Dean was probably the only one who knew if that had occurred.
I wanted to find out more about Dean, but in a way that kept him from knowing what I was doing. If he found out that I was looking into him as a murder suspect, I didn’t doubt that he would step up his intimidation tactics, or worse. I didn’t even like to think about that happening.
A quick Internet search didn’t turn up much information about Dean. A couple of social media profiles popped up in the search results, but Dean obviously didn’t use them much. The most recent activity dated back nearly two years.
I gave up for the time being. I’d have to figure out another way to find out more about Dean because he occupied the prime spot on my list of murder suspects.
I tried my best to focus on other things, but I wasn’t very skilled when it came to forgetting about mysteries. I’d received two responses to the advertisements for the new positions at The Flip Side, so I contacted the applicants and set up interviews. That evening, after I’d returned home, I called Winnifred to thank her for asking Krista to share what she knew with me. Winnifred told me she was planning to search the museum for the missing letters, in case Jane had secreted them away somewhere other than her desk before her death. When I offered to help with the search, Winnifred readily accepted, and we arranged to meet at the museum on Monday.
I spent the rest of the weekend working at The Flip Side and helping Brett paint the building façades for Wild West Days. With the event less than three weeks away now, preparations had ramped up throughout the town. I hoped that by the time Wild West Days rolled around, at least one of the town’s recent crimes would be solved.
* * * *
On Monday morning, I had some time to kill before meeting up with Winnifred at the museum, so I decided to go for a run. Brett had gone to his parents’ house to help out with some yard work, so I decided to take Bentley with me as my running companion. The morning was cool enough that he wouldn’t get too hot, and I didn’t plan to go too far.
We set out along Wildwood Road, heading toward town. I decided we’d go that way first and then walk home along the beach later. When we reached town, we headed in the direction of the community center. That was intentional on my part. I’d texted a few friends the day before, asking if they knew Diana Gladwyn, the woman who’d catered the charity event. I wanted to know if she could help me figure out who’d hit Tommy.
It turned out that Lisa knew Diana. Not only that, Lisa had given me some valuable information. She said that Diana attended a spin class at the community center on weekday mornings, whenever she wasn’t busy with a catering job.
I crossed my fingers that today was one of those days. I’d checked the community center’s website before setting out and had timed my arrival to coincide with the end of the morning spin class. Bentley trotted beside me while I jogged, but I slowed our pace when the two-story building that housed the small community center came into view. I slipped my phone from my armband and checked the time. It was two minutes past the scheduled end of the class.
Two women dressed in exercise gear descended the front steps as I approached with Bentley, but I didn’t recognize either of them. Bentley and I paused at the base of the steps for a couple of minutes and watched the door. Two men and another woman exited the building, but Diana had yet to make an appearance.
Bentley grew bored, whining as he looked up at me from where he sat at my feet. I decided it would be best if it didn’t look like we were lying in wait for Diana, anyway, so I walked with Bentley to the end of the street, glancing over my shoulder now and then to make sure I didn’t miss the caterer.
When we reached the corner, we turned and headed back. I wondered how many times we’d have to walk up and down the street before I decided it was time to give up and move on. On my third pass by the front steps, the door opened, and the woman I was hoping to see appeared. She paused at the top of the steps and chatted with another woman dressed almost identically to her, in leggings and a tank top. They said goodbye after a moment, and Diana’s friend jogged down the steps and off down the street. Diana descended more slowly, and I gave Bentley a pat on the head as he sat on the sidewalk.
“Diana?” I called out when she was halfway down the steps.
She looked my way without recognition.
“I’m Marley Collins,” I said. “I own The Flip Side pancake house.”
She stopped on the bottom step and smiled. “Right! I ate there on the weekend. The food was delicious.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Your dog is so cute. Can I pet him?”
“Sure,” I said with a smile.
Bentley wagged his tail as Diana fussed over him.
“I understand you’re a caterer,” I said as she gave him a smile and one last pat on the head.
“That’s right.” She turned her attention to me. “Are you looking for one?”
“Not at the moment.” I hurried to get to the point of why I’d stopped to chat. “I understand you catered the charity gala at the banquet hall recently.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you hear about the hit-and-run that happened that night?”
What remained of Diana’s smile faded away. “I did. I couldn’t believe it when I heard. I’d just met Tommy at the gala that night.”
“He’s a friend of mine,” I said, “and he works at The Flip Side.”
“Of course. I remember Tommy mentioning that. We chatted for a few minutes that evening. How’s he doing?”
“He’s got a broken leg and some broken ribs, but he’s doing well, considering.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Diana said. “I’m so relieved he wasn’t hurt any worse.”
Bentley nudged my hand with his nose, so I stroked the fur on his head while I continued my conversation with Diana.
“The driver who hit him hasn’t been identified yet, and I was wondering if it could have been someone who attended the gala. Maybe someone who had a bit too much to drink.”
Diana’s brown eyes widened. “Oh, my gosh. I never thought of that, but it’s possible, isn’t it? I heard the hit-and-run happened not far from the banquet hall.” She paused to think for a second. “But I don’t know who it could have been. The guests were definitely consuming alcohol, but I didn’t notice anyone who was visibly impaired. Of course, that doesn’t mean they weren’t too impaired to be driving.”
“Do you know who all was at the event?” I asked, knowing it was unlikely that she’d be able to provide me with a full guest list.
“I recognized a few people, but there was a decent crowd, and I was mostly focused on the food.”
That was pretty much what I’d expected her to say. �
��That makes sense.”
Diana continued unbidden. “Evangeline and her husband were there, of course. They hosted the event. I recognized Juliet and Desmond Harper, as well as Winnifred Woodcombe and Helena Angelopoulos.”
I didn’t know the Harpers or Helena Angelopoulos.
“Do you know Frankie Zhou?” I asked.
“Of course,” Diana replied. “He was there too.”
I perked up at that. “Really?”
“He was helping me with the food. He does that sometimes,” she explained, “for my evening jobs, when my assistant is unavailable, or we need extra help.”
“So, he was working, rather than attending as a guest.”
“That’s right.”
“Which means he wouldn’t have consumed any alcohol?”
Diana looked at me more closely. “Hold on. You can’t be thinking Frankie was the driver who hit your friend.”
“I’m just trying to consider every possibility,” I said, avoiding a direct answer.
She shook her head. “Frankie definitely wasn’t involved. He’s a good guy. Even if he did accidentally hit someone on the road, he wouldn’t have left them there. Besides, Tommy left the gala well before Frankie and I did.”
“About how long before?” I asked.
She considered the question. “At least forty-five minutes, I’d say. Tommy left as soon as the guests started heading out. Frankie and I waited until all the guests had gone, and then we had to pack up the leftovers and clean up.”
“Frankie was there with you the whole time?” I checked.
“He didn’t leave until I did.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. I didn’t want Frankie to be the guilty party, but I did want the hit-and-run driver to be identified and brought to justice.
Clearly, the case wouldn’t be so easy to solve. Despite the dented bumper, I had to strike Frankie’s name from my suspect list. Even if Tommy had lingered outside the gala venue to chat with someone, it was unlikely that he’d been walking along the stretch of road where he was hit forty-five minutes after the end of the event.
