“No, you don’t need to do that. It would only upset Dolly’s friends and bring back bad memories for some others.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help, Abby. I know you’re anxious to clear Sybil’s name, not that she’s officially been accused of anything.”
For the second time, Abby’s eyes burned, but she wasn’t going to give in to tears again. She’d learned the hard way that they wouldn’t fix a darn thing—not a broken heart or a wreck of a marriage, not to mention the reputation of a woman who wasn’t there to defend herself.
Only a determined effort to get at the truth would do that. Gage had promised to find out what really happened, but Abby wasn’t going to trust her aunt’s beloved memory to a man she barely knew. She’d wallowed long enough in her own grief and sense of loss. It was time to throw her shoulders back and take charge of the situation.
“You’ve been plenty of help, Glenda. Not just now, but in helping me to get my bearings here in Snowberry Creek. I couldn’t have done it without you smoothing the way.”
“It’s little enough to have done, my dear. We’ve all been through a lot lately. If I haven’t said so before, it has been gratifying to all of us who were friends of Sybil’s to see the work you and your young man have been doing to restore your aunt’s landscaping. She would love knowing the care you’re taking with her gardens.”
Abby was pretty sure Tripp wouldn’t appreciate being referred to as her young man. “Tripp has definitely done the brunt of the work on the yard, but that’s part of the rental agreement he had with Aunt Sybil. I will say he’s been a great tenant.”
That wicked twinkle that showed up in Glenda’s eyes every time she caught sight of Tripp was back. Abby didn’t have to look to know that the man in question was hard at work in the front yard. She took a peek anyway. What was it about that man and going shirtless, anyway? Didn’t he know that some old ladies had heart trouble? A few younger ones were evidently prone to having a few flutters, too, although that had more to do with hormones than age.
Time for a distraction.
“I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but I don’t know who else I can ask this. First, I’m not questioning the fact that my aunt and Dolly had their issues over the years. I also don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but I have to wonder if there was anyone else that Dolly had problems with that I should know about. If you’d rather not say, that’s fine. I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
Glenda slowly dragged her gaze away from the front window. If she’d seemed at all reluctant to speak, Abby would have to let her off the hook. She was about to do that when the other woman drew a long, slow breath.
“Dolly did a lot of good things for this community over the years, but she wasn’t always an easy person to please. She set high standards for her own behavior and expected everyone else to live up to them as well. When they failed, which most people do on occasion, she could be difficult to deal with and rather unforgiving. She also wasn’t above using her money and her clout to get her way.”
Abby had had her own experiences with the so-called movers and shakers using their money and influence in various ways. To give the people credit, most of them did a lot of good for their communities, supporting a wide variety of causes. The problem came when they used their money as an inducement to get their way, even if it wasn’t exactly what other people wanted.
“Can you give me an example?”
Up until that point, Glenda had been looking straight at Abby, but now her gaze slid to the side, and not so she could sneak another peek at Tripp. “I’ll have to think about it, Abby. If I come up with any names, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Then she was up and heading for the door, purse in hand. Abby caught up with her within a few steps. “I’m sorry, Glenda. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. Please don’t give the matter another thought.”
Her friend looked so relieved that Abby felt even more terrible. “Do you, Jean, and Louise still plan to come over tomorrow to finalize the details for the garage sale? I’ll understand if you want to meet somewhere else until the police take down that awful tape in the backyard.”
“If you’re sure you want us, we’ll be here. I think we’ll all feel better if things get back to normal.”
Abby smiled even if it felt a little forced. “Of course I want you. The three of you always brighten my day.”
Although maybe she should warn Tripp that his fan club would be coming, in case he wanted to make himself scarce. It would be interesting to see if one of them showed up with a dessert or even an entrée for him. It had happened before. The last time he’d glared at her for smirking when Jean handed him a pan of tuna casserole. After the ladies had left, he’d offered to share it with her, but she’d given it a pass.
As she and Glenda walked outside, she thought of one more thing. “I meant to tell you that I got sidetracked on clearing out space in the garage. I can work on that today, so I should have it ready to start taking donations by the weekend.”
“Are you sure you still want to host the garage sale? You know, with everything that’s happened?”
“I’m sure.”
Besides, the more people she had a chance to talk to, the more likely it was that she’d learn who in Snowberry Creek had failed to live up to Dolly Cayhill’s exacting standards, and maybe who had wanted her dead.
Chapter Six
All right, encouraging people to drop off anything and everything they wanted to get rid of for the garage sale hadn’t been Abby’s brightest idea. Maybe she should’ve put together some guidelines or set some standards for everyone to follow. Right now, she felt like she was hip deep in junk, with remarkably few hidden gems buried in the pile. If she had to guess, less than half of the items scattered around the garage were likely to sell. But then, what did she know? She’d never been involved in a garage sale of any kind, so her opinion on what would or wouldn’t sell was admittedly a bit suspect.
She sighed and went back to work, trying to bring some sense of order to the chaos. As she bent down to pull a handful of paperbacks out of a box of old magazines, a bottle of water appeared in front of her face.
Tripp waited until she took it out of his hand before stepping back out of her way. “You looked like you could use a cold one.”
Bless the man. A beer might have been better, but she’d take what she could get. When she opened the bottle, she was tempted to pour it over her head, but that would be tacky. Instead, she took a long drink and then screwed the lid back on before setting it aside. “Thanks. That helped.”
He looked around the garage and let out a low whistle. “I noticed a lot of people coming and going, but I had no idea you’d turned the garage into the new city dump.”
His assessment wasn’t far off the mark. “Glenda assures me that the garage sale earns quite a bit of money for the quilting guild every year. I don’t see how, though, if this is the kind of stuff they sell. I wouldn’t give you ten bucks for the whole mess.”
Tripp picked up a chunk of metal and studied it for a few seconds before shaking his head and setting it back down. Her best guess was that it was some kind of car part. Judging by Tripp’s expression, he wasn’t sure what it was either. “Let me know if you need any heavy lifting done.”
He started for the door and then stopped to root through a box of old action figures. A big grin spread over his face as he pulled out several and arranged them in a neat row. “I haven’t seen these since I was a kid. I had a whole set.”
She wound her way between the boxes to see what had him so excited. It was a bunch of plastic soldiers, all built along the same lines as Tripp himself with only minor differences in hair color and weaponry. “If you want those, I can set them aside until Glenda has a chance to price them.”
His face flushed a little as he quickly shoved them back into the box. “No, I don’t need a bunch of toys. Like I said, I just hadn’t seen any since I was a kid.”
> “Okay, but let me know if you change your mind.”
But even if he didn’t, she might just buy them for him anyway. Time to change the subject. She pointed to a box that blocked half the doorway and then toward the makeshift table she’d made with two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. “While you’re here, would you mind lifting that up onto the table? It’s too heavy for me.”
“Sure thing.”
Even Tripp strained a bit to pick it up, his impressive set of arm muscles flexing nicely underneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt. Not that she noticed or anything. Nope, not her. He set it down and backed away. “What the heck is in there? It feels like rocks.”
“No idea.”
She stripped off the packing tape and peeked inside. “It’s a set of dishes. They look old, but they’re in good shape. Maybe an antiques dealer will be interested in them.”
Rather than unpack them now, she closed the box up again and wrote “dishes” on the top. Tripp moved it off the table and set it back down on the floor near several other cartons that held other dishes as well as pots and pans. Without waiting to be asked, he set two more unopened boxes up on the table for her. One held more books, but the other one was far more interesting. It was filled with quilt squares. The pattern was a pinwheel of vivid, jewel-toned colors.
She spread several out on the table, rearranging them until they looked right to her. Lovely. “Someone put a lot of work into this project. I wonder why they never stitched these all together. There’s enough of them to make at least a nice afghan-sized quilt, and it wouldn’t take much to finish it. Who knows, maybe Glenda or one of the others will even recognize the work.”
Tripp picked up one of the squares and turned it over to study the stitches on the back. “They can do that?”
“Sometimes. Not everyone who quilts is part of the guild, but they all tend to frequent the same fabric stores and share pattern books.”
That got her to thinking about another quilt, the one that had been used as a shroud for Dolly Cayhill. She’d been trying to concentrate on other things the past few days, but the woman’s death was never far from her mind.
Tripp tapped her on the shoulder, dragging her back to the matter at hand. “What are you thinking about so hard?”
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to bounce a few ideas off him. “I can’t help but wonder how someone got their hands on one of Aunt Sybil’s quilts. Not only that, why that specific one? She always had several scattered around the house and not just on the beds. It’s expensive to heat a house that size, so she kept some handy to use as lap blankets if her visitors felt chilly. I used to love curling up under one in the bay window with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate.”
Tripp turned his full attention to her. “You’re thinking that if one of her quilts went missing, she would’ve noticed, especially one that was special to her. But since she’d already promised it to you, it seems unlikely she would have left it lying around for other people to use.”
Was he saying what she thought he was? That Sybil was the only one who had easy access to the quilt? Well, she’d set him straight on that subject right now.
“My aunt loved being involved in all kinds of groups here in town. She had people in and out of the house all the time. Even if she did pack that quilt away for me, someone else could’ve found it. With all the boxes of stuff in the attic and the bedroom up on the third floor, it’s possible she might not have even realized it was gone. She would have no reason to go looking for it unless I was due for a visit.”
His answering grunt was noncommittal, which stirred her temper to life.
“My aunt was not a murderer, Tripp.”
Another grunt, this one more like a sigh. “I never said she was, Abby.”
She reached for her water, more for something to do with her hands other than tear her hair out in frustration. “I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to think about anything else. My mind keeps spinning in circles until I’m going crazy. I’ve got to figure out what happened.”
Tripp was already shaking his head. “No, you don’t. That’s Gage’s job, and you need to stay out of his way while he does it.”
It was her turn to look disgusted. “The last time I talked to him, it sounded as if his entire investigation consisted of listening to a bunch of old gossip. How is that going to prove anything one way or another?”
“As I recall, he also told you that he was waiting for the autopsy report and to see what the forensics showed. Just because you haven’t heard anything doesn’t mean he isn’t working the case.”
Darn it, she knew that. “But what if he doesn’t learn anything from those things? It would be easier for him to place the blame on Aunt Sybil and close the case. Her reputation would be ruined, and the real murderer will go free.”
By this point, Tripp’s voice had a lot of gravel in it. “Gage is not the kind of man who takes the easy way out. He won’t stop searching for the truth until he finds it.”
She wanted to believe that; she really did.
“I can tell you think a lot of Gage, but how well do you really know him?”
“We served together for a while.” Tripp stared into the distance, his eyes looking a bit haunted, his mouth set in a harsh line. “The details about the circumstances don’t matter now. Just know that it was the kind of situation that shows a man’s real character. I trusted Gage Logan with my life then. I still do. Your aunt’s reputation is in good hands.”
Then he walked away, leaving her staring at his broad back and wishing she hadn’t managed to stir up what had to be some pretty ugly memories for him. It was tempting to run after him . . . and do what? Somehow, she doubted he’d appreciate either her sympathy or a hug.
Feeling as if she were failing not only her aunt but her tenant, she went back to sorting junk. Come tomorrow, though, she’d check in with Gage. If he didn’t have any answers for her, then she’d start hunting for them herself.
* * *
The birds were just starting to chirp outside Abby’s bedroom window when she finally gave up on sleep and sat up on the side of her bed. Zeke briefly lifted his head and blinked at her in the dim morning light but made no effort to get up. Who could blame him? She’d crawl back under the blankets herself if she hadn’t been tossing and turning for the past hour.
She ran a brush through her hair and put on some sweats before heading downstairs to the kitchen. The coffeemaker wasn’t programed to turn on for another two hours, so she flipped the switch and watched as the ambrosia known as dark roast began dripping down into the carafe. She’d heard somewhere that the first cupful was several times stronger than the last one to trickle into the pot. Normally, she’d wait until it finished brewing before filling her mug, but not this morning.
She took the steaming cup of coffee, a blueberry muffin, and a notepad out onto the back porch, hoping to enjoy the peace and quiet of the early morning. It was chilly enough that she dashed back inside to grab one of the lap quilts she’d mentioned to Tripp just yesterday. Before she made it back outside, Zeke came stalking into the kitchen.
“Sorry I woke you up so early, boy.”
To make it up to him, she quickly filled his bowl with kibble and gave him fresh water. She left the door propped open in case he decided to join her out on the porch instead of going back to bed. It wasn’t long before he was stretched out beside her chair, the quiet rumble of his snores playing in counterpoint to the birds’ early morning songs.
She’d just finished the last bite of her muffin when the sound of pounding feet coming her way drew her attention. Tripp rounded the corner on his way back to his place. He slowed at the bottom of the steps to jog in place.
He gave her a surprised look. “Wow, you’re up early.”
Well, duh. The sun was just beginning to light up the mountain ridge to the east.
She gave him a bleary-eyed glare. “Do you always run at this ungodly hour?”
He grinned. “Yep. Five miles every day. You should join
me sometime.”
She rolled her eyes. That was so not happening, especially since she hated spending a lot of time around morning people. They were too energetic, not to mention all smug and superior, like being able to smile before dawn somehow made them special. She waved her hand toward the door behind her. “There’s fresh coffee and more muffins on the counter. I’m not up to playing hostess this early, but feel free to help yourself.”
“Thanks, I think I’ll take you up on that. Want a refill on your coffee?”
Nice of him to offer. She handed him her mug. “Sure.”
As he passed by, she spotted a rolled-up newspaper in his other hand. “Hey, is that this week’s edition?”
He glanced at the paper as if surprised he even had it. “I found it lying under a bush out by the sidewalk and figured it was last week’s. I’ll just recycle it.”
Bless him. He was trying to protect her from what people were saying. She could only imagine what kind of lurid headlines Reilly Molitor had come up with to describe the events of the past week. When she held out her hand, Tripp reluctantly surrendered the paper.
Before letting go of it completely, though, he said, “Just so you know, the offer to find out how high that reporter would bounce off the pavement still stands.”
“Good to know.”
She waited until he disappeared inside the house before unrolling the paper. Even then, she averted her eyes for a few seconds, which left her looking out toward the crime scene tape and blackberries. They served as a stark reminder that this wasn’t about her delicate sensibilities. No, this was about a woman whose life was stolen from her, a woman who deserved justice.
The headline wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, simply stating the fact that a local woman had been murdered. The opening paragraph identified the victim as Dolly Cayhill and said she’d been missing for several months before her body was found. Okay, no surprises there. Her main worry was that Reilly might have given out Abby’s specific address. She quickly skimmed the rest of the article, her frustration growing with each paragraph.
Death by Committee Page 6
