"Good-bye, and thanks for your help, Sheriff Wilbur 'T like in Ted' Crabb," I shouted out my window as I drove away.
* * *
When I sat down to a platter of poached eggs and toast the next morning at six o'clock sharp, I knew I was going to have to come up with a tactful lie. I was getting awfully good at lying by now. It bothered me a bit that it no longer caused me to stutter or feel compelled to crack my knuckles. I hadn't even given my fingernails a second glance in a long while.
"Harriet, your cooking is so terrific that you're turning me into a naughty girl," I said.
Harriet took a deep drag off her Pall Mall and cocked her head in question. "Whatcha talking 'bout, girl?"
"Recently I got a checkup at the health clinic and my cholesterol level was sky high. My triglycerides were off the chart too, and I'd put on ten pounds. I really need to cut back, particularly on the eggs. As much as it pains me, I think I'm going to have to cut out breakfast entirely. That will free you up in the morning anyway."
"But that's what—"
"There's really no sense you cooking just for me," I continued.
"Yeah, but ya know—"
"You have enough to do around here, Harriet, without pampering me."
"But, breakfast's the most 'portant meal of the day. Ain't nobody told ya that?"
"Oh, I know, but skipping breakfast isn't apt to kill me. Got to follow doctor's orders, you know," I said, as I gave Harriet an affectionate wink.
"Bah," she spat. "I ain't been to no doctor in twenty years and look at me. They's all quacks anyway, iffing ya ask me," Harriet said. She patted her mop of white hair, then slid a wooden match across the side of her jeans, lightning fast, and lit another cigarette.
"Well, you're probably right. But just for the heck of it, don't fix me any breakfast from now on. Okay? I'm getting much too fond of your poached eggs, and I don't want to get spoiled to the point that I'll be craving them when I get back home to Kansas."
Harriet brightened at my last comments and nodded. "All righty, girl. Iffing that's what ya want. Price be the same, with or without breakfast, ya know."
"Oh, of course," I said, amused by her spunkiness. After I'd downed another cup of Harriet's gritty coffee, which I was actually beginning to enjoy, I went up to my room to check my e-mail. I had only one message. It was from my extremely enraged and alarmed daughter.
"Where are you?" her message read. "Get in touch with me right now! While I was over at your place, watering your plants, I found Stone Van Patten's number stuck to your computer screen and I called him. He wouldn't put you on the phone. Acted like he had no idea where you were, in fact. I'm not sure he even recognized your name. What's going on with you, Mom? This is just not like you at all. If I don't hear from you in the next couple of hours, I'm calling the Myrtle Beach police!"
Oh, goodness. What was I going to do now? I paced around the room frantically and finally decided to walk up and use the pay phone at the drug store up the street. I didn't want Harriet to hear me talking to Wendy, so I couldn't ask to borrow her phone. With any luck at all, Wendy would be too irritated with me to take notice of the area code on her caller ID box.
"Where are you, Mom?" Wendy's voice was anxious.
"I'm right where I said I'd be, honey. To call you, I've had to borrow a cell phone from a gal I've met from New York. What's wrong, Wendy?"
"That man said he couldn't bring you to the phone because you weren't there, hadn't been there, and had no plans of being there as far as he knew."
"Oh, Wendy, I'm s-s-orry. I'll bet you asked for Lexie, didn't you?"
"No, Mom. I asked for Roy Rogers. Of course I asked for Lexie! I told him I was your daughter." Goodness, from who had Wendy inherited her sarcasm?
"Oh, well, that explains it then," I said. "S-s-stone only knows me as Alexandria."
"I asked for Lexie Starr. He doesn't know your last name? Does he have so many girlfriends that he couldn't figure out Lexie was short for Alexandria? Mom, what is going on? And why are you stuttering, by the way?"
"Nothing's going on, Wendy. You know, a lot of gals named Alexandria go by Alex," I said. Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't going to convince Wendy that Stone had just misunderstood the name. "And I'm not Stone Van Patten's girlfriend. He just seemed like an interesting man when we chatted on the Internet. He doesn't know too much about me. I've been reluctant to share much about myself with a man I hardly know—"
"Like your name?" Wendy interrupted.
"Dear, please settle down. It's nothing like you're imagining. I probably never did think to tell him my last name, or that most people call me Lexie. I haven't even invited Mr. Van Patten to dinner yet, and it's quite likely I won't. I wanted to leave myself free to change my mind about meeting him. So, you see, he was being quite truthful when he told you he was unaware of my plans. Meeting Mr. Van Patten is not my main concern, just something I thought I'd consider while I was out here. I spent the first couple days driving around New England, enjoying the fall colors. Then I drove down the coastline to South Carolina. Now I'm in Myrtle Beach and I plan to spend a few days shopping. I thought maybe I could get my Christmas shopping done early, and there are some wonderful shops here on the Grand Strand." Good grief, what a liar I'd become!
"The what?"
"It's what they call the main stretch through town," I said. "It's a strip of land between the inter-coastal waterway, in this case the Waccamaw River, and the Atlantic Ocean. There are a lot of shops along the 'strand' and good seafood restaurants too."
I didn't know what I was talking about, but I thought I'd distract Wendy with a couple of details that I could recall from one of Stone's e-mails. "I've eaten so many crabs that I'm about to turn into one, I think."
I was more apt to turn into a poached egg, actually. But I did meet a Crabb—Wilbur T. Crabb, to be exact. The slivers of truth in my statements were getting harder and harder to detect. "When are you coming home, Mom?" Wendy obviously didn't care that I was turning into a crab. She was probably more concerned I might be turning into a blooming idiot.
"I don't know, honey. When I've seen all I want to see, I suppose. Why were you trying to get in touch with me in the first place? Is something wrong?"
"No, Clay and I just had some good news for you. I was too excited to wait for you to come home, so I thought I'd call and tell you on the phone."
Dread settled into the pit of my stomach. "So tell me, honey, what's the good news?"
"You're going to be a grandmother!" Wendy practically shrieked into the phone. "Sometime around the end of May."
"Oh Wendy—how wonderful!" I said. Oh, Wendy, how terrible, I thought. "When you get further along, are you going to try to find out what gender it is?"
"I haven't decided if I want to know yet. I'm kind of hoping our first child is a boy—but I really don't care one way or the other. Although, I'd imagine knowing in advance would make it easier to decorate the nursery."
"Well, I don't care whether it's a boy or a girl, either, as long as it's healthy. I'm thrilled for both of you—and me too, of course. My first grandchild—imagine that! I'll bet Clay is as excited as we are," I said. I was going out on a fishing expedition.
"Oh, I'm sure he will be, once he gets used to the idea of being a father," she replied after a short hesitation. I thought I was getting a nibble.
"Clay does want children, doesn't he?" I needed just a tad more bait on the hook.
"Yeah, sure, of course he does," Wendy said, and laughed in a nervous reaction to my question. "He just doesn't know it yet."
Now that was definitely a bite! My fishing trip had been successful. I'd found out what I wanted to know. Wendy's response told me Clay was not happy about having another pregnant wife on his hands. Now I knew I had to do something to get my daughter away from this man, and do it soon. When his first wife became pregnant, she ended up dead. I couldn't stand by and allow this same fate to befall Wendy.
We spoke for a few more minutes. Be
fore I hung up I asked her if she still had Mr. Van Patten's number handy. I didn't have it with me, and I was going to have to call him and try to explain my daughter's frantic phone call to him. Besides, it might help convince Wendy that Stone and I weren't involved in some hot and heavy, clandestine affair. I'd surely know his phone number if that were the case.
"I've got to go, honey. I need to get this phone back to the nice lady I borrowed it from. I won't be out here too much longer, and we'll talk more about the baby when I get back. Okay? I love you, Wendy."
"I love you too, Mom. Promise me you'll be careful."
"You know I will. Don't you worry."
"Well, all right. I'll try not to worry. Keep in touch."
"I will. Bye-bye now, Wendy."
"Bye, Mom."
Chapter 9
"Mr. Van Patten?" I spoke, hesitantly, into the pay phone.
"Yes, this is he."
"This is Lexie Starr. You're working on locating charms for a bracelet for me."
"Of course, Lexie. Where are you? I had a hysterical phone call from your daughter yesterday, and I've been worried sick about you since. She caught me off guard, and I'm afraid I only made her more concerned."
What a sweet man, I thought. He was worried sick about me and we'd never even met. It felt kind of nice to have a man concerned about my well-being.
"Oh, well, er—Mr. Van Patten—"
"It's Stone—"
"Stone. It's a very long, rather embarrassing story and—"
"Go on—"
"Well, you see, to protect her from knowing too much, I had to tell my daughter that I was going to Myrtle Beach to meet you. Remember you offered to be my tour guide and all? The leaves are all so pretty back here this time of year. And the crabs are good too, I'm sure." I was floundering, humiliated to the bone, and probably making no sense at all. I felt as if I was beginning to hyperventilate and feared I'd soon need to breathe into a brown paper bag. "But to make a long story short, Stone, I'm just fine."
"That much is a relief. I'm not sure I understood the rest of what you said, but I think I'd like to hear all the details. And, of course, the tour guide offer still stands."
"Well, actually I'm not in Myrtle Beach at all. I'm in Schenectady, New York."
"Now I think I'd really enjoy hearing all the details." He laughed pleasantly into the phone. "Say, a thought just occurred to me. I've got to fly up to New York City in a couple of days. I need to pick up some diamonds at a shop up there. I'll have a rental car and some spare time before my return flight. Any possibility of meeting me for lunch one day this week? I'll book my flight for whatever day works for you. I'm flexible on which day I pick up my diamond order. If we meet for lunch, you'll be able to explain it all to me then. I sincerely would like to meet you, Ms. Starr."
"Have lunch with a guy hauling a load of diamonds around with him? How could I pass up an offer like that? Diamonds are a girl's best friend, you know." And for some reason, I really wanted someone to hear my ideas who might offer suggestions and opinions. I'd welcome someone to talk to, someone with whom I could share my concerns. Perhaps then I wouldn't feel so overwhelmed by trying to tackle all this alone. Stone seemed like just the type of person I was visualizing.
Stone laughed again at my comment about girls loving diamonds. He asked me to take the ferry to Liberty Island on Thursday morning, and he'd meet me at the top of the Statue of Liberty at eleven o'clock. I told him I'd never been there before, and he insisted that no trip to New York was complete without a visit to the statue. He'd pick up something at a nearby deli on the way. We could talk and have a picnic on the grounds of Liberty Island. It sounded like fun to me, and I was looking forward to Thursday. I sincerely hoped he was as nice a guy in person as he seemed on the phone. Of course, Ted Bundy could have easily charmed a lady into meeting him on Liberty Island too. Oh, goodness, I thought. What had I gotten myself into?
As Wendy had said, I didn't know him from Adam. When I expressed concern about how I'd recognize him in a crowd of strangers, he said, "I'll be the one wearing a T-shirt that says, 'Myrtle Beach is for Lovers.' Will that work?"
I blushed. I was thankful he couldn't see my reaction to his remark over the phone. "I guess that'll work," I said, and chuckled nervously. "See you at eleven on Thursday, Stone."
* * *
I spent the next few days at the Schenectady Public Library on Clinton Street, on one of their computers, searching through databases of old editions of the local newspapers. I also searched again through the microfilm I'd borrowed from the library where I volunteered my services, in case I'd overlooked something about the case. I didn't find out much, but I hoped what little I did discover might prove useful at some point.
One article mentioned that since the murder of his wife, Clayton had been staying in Boston with a friend, Jake Jacoby, during the week, and returning home to New York on weekends. It was too far to commute to the police academy in Boston each day. Clay had told the reporter it was hard enough to go home to an empty house on Friday nights.
Clay claimed to be at a library in Boston, studying by himself, on the day Eliza disappeared. So far no one had come forward to substantiate that claim other than Jacoby, whose credibility was also questionable. That answered one of my questions—Clay had moved from the Boston motel to his friend's house after Eliza's death. Only on weekends did he travel back to his home in Schenectady.
Another article mentioned that when the hiker, Rod Crowfoot, had stumbled across the body some twenty feet off a hiking trail in the Adirondacks, there'd been a thirty-aught-six cartridge found near the crime scene, although there were no bullet wounds in the body. The authorities had yet to determine if the high-powered rifle cartridge was connected in any way to the murder, or murderer.
One last bit of information gleaned from the newspaper articles was that Eliza's car was found in the Food Pantry's parking lot with several bags of groceries in the trunk. A young employee of the grocery store, Kale Miller, had carried the bags to her car, placed them in her trunk, and headed back into the store. According to Kale, Mrs. Pitt was rearranging the contents of her trunk as he walked away from her. He didn't recall anyone else in the parking lot, but admitted he hadn't been paying much attention at the time. Eliza apparently had been abducted from the parking lot after she'd closed the trunk, and before she'd gotten into the car.
I made photocopies of every article I could find about the case and stored them in my notebook. I promised myself I'd go about this impromptu investigation in an organized manner, even though "organized" was not one of my natural traits. So far, so good, I thought.
The rest of my spare time was spent reading and relaxing on Harriet's back porch. I had found another little diner, several blocks west of the Camelot B&B, which served sourdough English muffins for breakfast. I went there each morning, and to the Union Street Diner for supper.
I had fallen into a comfortable routine. Harriet usually joined me on the back porch in the evenings for a quick chat. She allowed herself about ten minutes of downtime each day. She'd sit on her rusty bucket and smoke three cigarettes in ten minutes before rushing off to tackle another chore.
During her ten-minute break on Wednesday evening, I asked her about her family. She told me she had one son living in Schenectady, and another son in Florida. Her husband had been killed in a boating mishap when her boys were both in high school. He was drunk one day, Harriet said, and capsized his fishing boat by running it into a submerged log. Her husband drowned when the boat sank to the bottom of the lake.
"Oh, Harriet, I'm so sorry. That was really a terrible tragedy," I said.
"Yeah, it shore were," she said and nodded. "It were a brand-spanking-new boat."
Chapter 10
I crawled out of bed early on Thursday morning, even earlier than Harriet. I knew it'd take me a while to drive to Battery Park in New York. From there I planned to take the ferry across to Liberty Island. I preferred to get there a bit early and wait for
Stone than to get there late and have him waiting for me. I wasn't familiar with New York or the traffic there, so I didn't know with any degree of accuracy how to estimate the time it would take to drive there.
Since my four and a half days were up on my fuss-free hairstyle, I had to spend a good twenty minutes with the curling iron. Then I had to spend another ten or fifteen minutes changing into every outfit I'd brought with me before finally settling on the first outfit I'd tried on. The thought occurred to me that getting back into the dating scene required almost more time and trouble than I was prepared to sacrifice.
I bypassed my morning English muffin since we'd have an early lunch and I didn't want to run the risk of arriving late. Not to mention I was leaving Schenectady in what seemed like the middle of the night. As it turned out, I got turned around a couple of times in New York City, driving through a tunnel three times before I recognized it as the same Holland Tunnel I'd already passed through twice before. I finally arrived at Battery Park at about ten-twenty-five. I paid the ten-dollar fee to take the ten-thirty ferry across to the island. Crossing over to the island on the ferry, I overheard two young women chatting.
One of them remarked, "Too bad we can't go up in the statue." I wondered why they couldn't. Neither one of them looked to be handicapped.
I found out soon enough that no one could go up in the statue. It'd been closed to tourists since the September eleventh terrorist attacks in 2001. Because of the mob of people milling about the grounds, I wondered whether I'd even find Stone. I was too vain to wear my glasses, so I'd left them in my car's glove compartment. Now I had to get within about ten feet of a fellow to read the front of his T-shirt. I walked around for forty-five minutes staring at every man's chest that drew near me.
I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already almost noon. Would Stone wait for me or had he left? I wondered. Maybe he'd decided I'd stood him up when I didn't appear at eleven. Then again, maybe he had stood me up! I didn't think he'd do something that inconsiderate. From what little I knew of him, it didn't seem his style at all. Mine, maybe, but not Stone's.
Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set Page 6
