by Elise Sax
“My Miss Marple is gone,” I told Lucy, finally.
“Don’t say that.” She gave me a little shake. “Come on, Gladie. You can do it. Who stabbed this poor girl forty times and what does it have to do with Bridget?”
“I don’t know,” I said, giving up. I had never felt lower in my life. I was useless.
We returned to the lobby. “All done?” the clerk asked.
“I think so,” I said.
“I forgot to tell you, there’s one thing the police forgot to take with them,” he said. “I guess they’re not interested in it.” He handed me a small, wooden paddle board with a ball attached to it with an elastic band. “I heard she was real good at it.”
“How good?” I asked.
“Like she could paddle the hell out of the ball for days without stopping.”
I grabbed Lucy’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Lucy, my Miss Marple just returned.”
CHAPTER 16
When I was a little girl, my mother fell into a deep depression. That happened to her now and then because her third eye came with a big dose of empathy that was just too much for her. She felt others’ pain, you see, dolly. Anyway, it got into her head that if the weather changed hard, it would wash her depression off her and blow it far away. So, she waited for a storm with her last glimmer of hope, and two weeks later, the storm came. I think it was the biggest storm in Cannes’ history. It blew roofs off of houses, and it flooded the lake. The orchards were nothing but mud. Some people thought it was the end of the world, but my mother thought it was the beginning of hers. She wrapped a shmata around her shoulders and danced outside, welcoming the rain and wind to make her happy, again. And wouldn’t you know it, bubbeleh? It did. She was happy for years afterward. It was a big lesson for me as a child. It taught me that sometimes we need a powerful storm to shake us back to where we need to be. A little destruction can heal the heart and soul. Tear it down to build it up. Sometimes that’s the only way to a happy ending. That’s some wisdom from me to you. Pass it on.
Lesson 133, Matchmaking advice from your
Grandma Zelda
By the time Lucy and I got back to Cannes, the sun was coming up. I had called Spencer to let him know that I was with Lucy, and he told me that an alien broke into a house and was chased off by a dog.
“I think our alien problem is a home invader from planet Earth, Gladie. I want you home where it’s safe,” he told me on the phone.
“If he’s breaking into houses, home isn’t safe.”
“Okay, then. I want you with me until we catch the bastard. I’ll keep you safe. I have big muscles, you know. You want to see my muscles?”
“I’ve been intimate with your muscles,” I said. It reminded me of Alice and her bragging about how strong she was.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Come home.”
“I’m on my way,” I told him.
I got off the phone and told Lucy about the home invader.
“Home invasion in Cannes? We’re becoming a big city, Gladie.”
I didn’t think we were becoming a big city. I thought evil liked small towns, too. But I wasn’t surprised about the home invader not being an alien because it fit with my working theory about the murders.
The Mercedes swerved, and Lucy got the car under control. “Wow, the winds are strong,” she said. “They’re moving the car. And look at those clouds.”
The sky was full of dark clouds and they were moving fast. “I think Grandma was right about the storm.”
“It’s supposed to be a beautiful Easter Sunday without a cloud in the sky. How’s your Miss Marple doing? Do you know whodunit, yet?”
“I’m getting close.”
“I can’t wait. I want to be there when you tell the killer, ‘You did it!’ Maybe he’ll make a run for it, and I can shoot him with my pearl-handled pistol.”
“We can only hope,” I said.
Lucy had to park her car away from Main Street because it was closed off for the Easter egg hunt. The wind had whipped up, and volunteers were fishing some of the decorations out of the trees. Lucy had to walk holding onto her dress because the wind was so bad, and it kept blowing it up over her head. “I feel like Marilyn Monroe,” she said, happily. “Look, Gladie, the hunt has already started.” She was right. Even though it was just after sunrise, the Easter egg hunt had already begun, but it wasn’t like any Easter egg hunt I have ever heard about.
“Where are the kids?” I asked.
There were no kids. The town square was full of people, but none of them was less than seventy. There were old people in wheelchairs, old people pushing walkers, and a few walking with a cane. Each of them was holding an Easter basket, and they were collecting eggs at a painfully slow pace.
“Tell me I’m not going blind,” Lucy said. “Tell me that I don’t have cat scratch fever like Terri.”
“I think I’m seeing it, too,” I said.
“They’ve got my baskets. Gladie, what the devil’s going on?”
We walked across the street to the small park. The mayor was watching the old people collect eggs. Next to him, the world record guy was taking notes.
“What the devil’s going on?” Lucy repeated to the mayor.
“Hello! Hello! Mighty fine day. The Easter egg hunt is a big success. We’re on our way to a world record. Isn’t that so, Mr. Jones?”
“At this rate, I think you’ll make it just under the wire,” Mr. Jones said while he continued to scribble notes. “Good idea starting it at sunrise. You’ll need the extra time, considering the physical limitations of your Easter egg hunters.”
“Where are the children?” I asked.
“Little hiccough,” the mayor said. “They decided not to come on account of Buckstars’ front door.”
We turned and looked at the door. The dildos were still stuck to it. “Superglue is amazing,” Lucy said.
“The police won’t let us remove them until the case is closed,” the mayor said. “Obviously, the chief doesn’t care about Easter,” he said, looking at me.
I shrugged. “I don’t know about police procedure.”
“Not important. Not important,” he said. “We don’t need children for our Easter egg hunt. I found replacements. The Cannes Retirement Community was only too happy to help us out.”
“This is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” Lucy said. “I love this crazy town.”
“We’re going to break this world record, you mark my words,” he said. “Come by in a couple hours. We’re having live accordion music.”
“And there’s a celebrity from England, too,” I said.
“Yes, well…” the mayor said and turned away.
The wind whipped up, and one of the old folks’ wheelchairs went flying down the street. “We got another runner!” one of the volunteers yelled, and about five people ran after the chair.
“I think I’m ready for coffee,” I told Lucy. We hadn’t slept all night, and the cold wind was chapping my lips.
We crossed the street back to Tea Time. Inside, it was doing bang up business. There must have been sixty people crammed into the small shop and no place left to sit. Every person had one of Lucy’s baskets filled with eggs. We squeezed our way to the bar. Ruth had worked up a sweat from waiting on everyone and Julie was serving the tables, dropping half of the cups and squeaking “Uh oh!” each time one crashed to the floor.
“I’m going to be bankrupt at this rate,” Ruth complained to me. “Whose idea was this stupid thing, anyway? They’re all resting their titanium hips in here, pretending they’re searching for eggs.”
“And Grandma says a storm is coming,” I said.
“Well, that’s just perfect, then. So, they’ll be hiding from that, too. Old people like me can’t be out in the weather all day, you know. If that mayor of ours was any dumber, his brain would be made of vanilla pudding. Hell, it probably is made of vanilla pudding. The sugar free kind with the aftertaste.”
“Ruth, where’s my tea?”
an old man demanded next to me. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
Ruth scowled at him. “You’ve been waiting forever? That’s a long time, Christopher. How long is forever exactly to you? More than two minutes?”
“I’ve never met a woman more unpleasant than you, Ruth Fletcher,” he growled.
“Trust me, I can get a whole lot more unpleasant if you don’t wait patiently for your tea, Christopher.”
The man blanched. “All right. All right. I’ll wait over there, patiently.”
“Here, take these cookies with you,” she said, handing him a plate. “No need for you to starve.”
Ruth might have been unpleasant, but she had a good heart. The door opened, and the mayor walked in, along with a big wind that blew through the shop. “Let’s keep the hunt going. We’re falling behind schedule,” the mayor sang.
There was a chorus of grumbling, but the group began to get up and walk outside. “We should probably help them,” I told Lucy.
“Don’t bother,” Ruth said. “This thing is going to last another forty-five minutes. An hour tops.”
“I don’t mind hunting for some eggs,” Lucy said. “But let’s get caffeine in us first.”
With most of Tea Time cleared out, Ruth served us quickly and then sat with us at a corner table. The celebrity from England was sitting at the next table and telling a story to some locals.
“My record has held for the past ten years,” he said. “And they measure me each year to make sure I haven’t grown at all.”
“Doesn’t that beat all,” a man at the table said.
“Someone measures you?” a woman asked. “With a measuring tape?”
Ruth leaned closer to Lucy and me. “That man over there is a Paramount World Records holder, but you’ll never guess for what.”
“Longest tongue,” Lucy said.
“Longest toenail,” I said.
“Are you two playing with me?” Ruth sneered. “It’s not the longest. It’s the shortest. Guess what’s the shortest.”
“Shortest,” Lucy repeated. “Shortest, shortest, shortest. Nooooo…” she said, staring at the celebrity from England.
“Yes,” Ruth said. “The emcee celebrity for our Easter egg hunt’s claim to fame is that he has the world’s shortest how do you do. That’ll put this town on the map for sure. The mayor had no idea, of course, until yesterday when it was too late to find someone else. Once he found out, he almost swallowed his tongue.”
“There seems to be a penis theme to our town, lately,” Lucy said. “Have you noticed? Gladie? Gladie, are you listening?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sorry, I was drifting.”
“Gladie has figured out who the killer is,” Lucy told Ruth. “She’s got a brilliant investigative mind.”
“Well? Spit it out, girl. Who’s the killer?” Ruth asked.
“Not Bridget,” I said.
“Well, of course not Bridget. Only an idiot would think that girl would stab a man. So, who did it?”
There was a loud crack of thunder, and the wind whistled loudly. “I have to give it to Zelda,” Ruth said. “That’s going to be some storm.”
There was more thunder, and then we could hear screaming. “What on earth is that?” Ruth asked.
We walked outside to see what was going on. The rain was coming down in sheets, and the wind was howling. “I’ve had enough!” a man shouted. “Screw Easter!” He threw his basket onto the ground and marched away with his cane. He wasn’t the only one. There was a rebellion going on with Easter baskets being thrown to the ground all over.
The mayor headed off one of the men and tried to stop him, grabbing onto his arm. “We’re almost there. Don’t stop now. Come on, townsfolk! We can do this!”
“Get your hands off of me,” the man said, but the mayor wouldn’t let go. The rest of the egg hunters stopped what they were doing. The tension was palpable. It looked like the enthusiasm for volunteering had flown the coop, and it was replaced by good, old-fashioned irritation. I looked around as more than one person held up an egg like it was a baseball, and they were ready to bean the mayor in the head.
“We probably should go inside,” Ruth said just as the eggs started to fly. One after the other, the eggs became projectiles, as the egg hunters threw them with all of their strength. It was a free for all. Every tired senior citizen on Main Street was launching painted, hard-boiled eggs.
“My eggs!” Josephine yelled. “I spent a week preparing those eggs! Oh, my poor eggs.”
She broke down in sobs, and I had to admit to myself that I was slightly happy to see it, considering that she had painted me blue.
The egg fight degenerated quickly, and I was hit in the stomach with one. “Take cover!” Lucy yelled. “Hey, this dress is from Neiman Marcus!”
There were police sirens and Main Street was invaded by most of the police force. Spencer spotted me and marched in my direction. “Get inside, Pinky. Get inside, now.”
Everyone without an egg went into Tea Time for shelter. “Didn’t I tell you to go home?” Spencer demanded from me.
“I wanted a latte first.”
The mayor, the world records guy, and the entire Easter egg hunt committee came into Tea Time, and they all had a look of total defeat on their faces.
“It was a good try,” the world record guy told the mayor. “You almost made it.”
“But the day isn’t over,” the mayor pleaded.
“Give it a rest,” Josephine said. “It’s the Battle of the Bulge out there.” She plopped down on a chair. “I’m done with committees. Done with volunteering. From now on, I’m doing the quilting bee and the book club, and that’s it.”
The lights flickered, and the wind howled.
I sat down at a table, too. Alice sat down next to me. “So, have you seen any more dead people?” she asked me.
“Just the three this week,” I said.
“She knows who the killer is,” Lucy said. “She’s Miss Marple, you know.”
“Oh, she does, does she?” Spencer asked.
“Nosy Parker,” Josephine grumbled.
“She knows you so well,” Spencer told me.
“I think I know who the killer is,” I said. Everyone in the shop turned to me. Spencer smirked his little smirk, stretched his legs out, and laced his fingers behind his head.
“I’ve got time while my men clear up the mess outside,” he said.
“Oh, yes, tell us who the killer is,” Alice said.
“We were so close to breaking the record,” the mayor moaned.
“I’ve held a world record for ten years,” the celebrity from England said.
Lucy shushed them both. “Go on, Gladie. Show them what you’ve got.”
The group adjusted their chairs, as if I was the headliner at a Vegas show. I didn’t like to be the center of attention, but I had been rolling around my suspicions in my head since the night before, and I was dying to let them out.
“I may be wrong,” I started. “I’ve been wrong a lot this past week. “It started with the dead woman in my bed.”
There was a gasp in the room.
“They said her husband had killed her, but I didn’t believe that. And I was right. But I couldn’t focus on that because my best friend was accused of killing Bradford Blythe. I knew she didn’t kill him, but I couldn’t figure out who did. The obvious suspect in my mind was Ford Essex. He had looked at Brad sideways, and Ford told me that he was in business with him. Funny business, I thought. Then there was my contractor. He was in business with Brad, too.”
“He was?” Spencer asked.
“Then, we found out that Ford was smuggling drugs, and I figured that the three of them, along with Liz, were doing it together and Brad’s murder was just business. But Josephine had mentioned seeing a dead body, and I wondered if she was talking about Ethel’s dead body, which she said was under Buckstars. And then there was Alice, who liked to talk about how she would kill someone.”
“I like the sta
bbing idea,” Alice said.
“And the voice,” I continued.
“What voice?” Josephine asked.
“There was a voice in Buckstars, talking about killing someone. Later I realized it was Griffin. So, I figured he was the killer, but who killed him? Ford and Liz were in jail, so it wasn’t them. Again, I knew it wasn’t Bridget. Did I leave anything out? Oh, yeah, the aliens. Why were people complaining about being attacked? None of it tied together. None of it made sense. Everything seemed upside down and backward.”
“It was random,” Spencer breathed, catching on.
“It was random,” I agreed. “At least sort of.”
“So, that’s when I went back to the first murder, and it became clear when I saw this.” I pulled the paddle out of my purse and held it up. “See? You get it?”
“What is it?” Alice asked.
“Is this a joke?” Josephine asked.
“It’s a paddle. She was good at…” I started.
The lights flickered and went out. Someone grabbed me from behind and began to drag me. I fought against him and screamed, but he was stronger than me. A shot rang out, and I felt a sting in my arm.
“Gladie!” Spencer yelled.
The lights came back on. I had been dragged behind the tea cozy rack, and the killer was holding a knife to my throat. “I knew it was you,” I said.
“Be quiet,” he said.
“Good luck with that,” I heard, and I looked up to see Spencer pointing a gun at my attacker. “Put down the knife, or I’ll blow a hole through your head.”
“Mamie Foster could paddle a ball for days,” I explained with the knife still to my throat. “Get it? Paddling a ball for days was a world record, and then it all fit. Gregory Jones, representative of Paramount World Records travels to verify records. He was at the Inn to see Mamie paddle, and he killed her there.”
“Why?” Lucy asked from across the tea shop.
“Because he likes killing. Don’t you see? He’s a serial killer. He killed Brad. He killed Griffin. And half the time he was terrible at it, and he would miss when he tried to break into houses and sometimes he got so frustrated that he would kill an animal. It was him, not aliens. That’s why it didn’t make any sense in my mind. Because he’s crazy and doesn’t make any sense. Except for the first murder. That murder tied him in perfectly. I guess I needed a little logic before I could solve the mystery.”
