A first-rate gossip, like Mother, would have been able to lip-read.
Someone shouted, “The third clue is out!”
Suddenly folks bolted from their tables and began rushing out of the coffee shop. It was like a saloon in the Old West where everyone had just heard about a gold strike.
“Oh!” Amy exclaimed. “We’ve got to go!”
“Wish us luck,” Jessica said, on her feet now. They pushed their chairs back in place, and Amy tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table.
Then they vaporized.
I left money for the tea and tip and wandered out onto the sidewalk with Sushi. A slip of paper fluttered by my feet. I stomped on it to a stop, and picked it up.
; 48 2++! 6) 5; ;+. =(5]8(
Which I knew said that the Poe book was at Top Drawer, not because I’d memorized the code but because a mob was descending on the mayor’s antiques store up the street.
Now, it seemed, might be a good time to drop in on Mr. Wally Thorp.
The narrow aisles of Junk ’n’ Stuff were deserted, so I easily wound my way through the mounds of junk to the owner’s untidy little office.
He was behind a metal desk, in a different short-sleeved plaid shirt (note that I did not say “fresh” short-sleeved plaid shirt), sitting there looking dejected, perhaps because his store was now empty of customers.
I knocked on the doorjamb to get his attention, and he looked my way, his head moving slowly on his neck.
I asked, “Can we talk?”
He shrugged. “I seem to have the time.”
I approached the desk, then came right out with it. “Mr. Thorp, were you having an affair with Morella Crafton?”
His fleshy cheeks reddened. “No. Of course not.”
“But weren’t you giving her money on a regular basis?”
He stood, the chair rolling backward and then hitting the wall with a clunk. “Who told you that?”
“Someone who saw you giving her a handful of cash.” I added, “And the sheriff knows from Morella’s bank statements that the young woman was depositing more than her paycheck.”
His sigh took a while. “All right . . . yes. I was helping her out. Two hundred bucks a week—what crime is there in that?”
“None, but what reason is there for it? You were also seen having an argument with her. What about?”
He almost snarled his answer. “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”
Sushi, in my arms, not liking his tone, growled.
“Better to tell me now,” I said, “than the sheriff in an interview room at the Serenity county jail.”
Wally thought about that. “I just . . . well, I didn’t think she was making . . . good decisions for herself.”
“What made it your business?”
He shrugged. “Just trying to help out a decent kid. I don’t care what it looked like, that’s what she was . . . a nice kid. Just a little . . . confused.”
“In what way?”
“I . . . I thought she was dating someone she shouldn’t.”
“A married man possibly?”
He swallowed. “She denied it, but the way she was sneaking around? That’s how I took it. I didn’t believe her when she said otherwise.”
“You were jealous,” I said.
“No!”
Another growl from Sushi.
“You were in love with her,” I pressed, leaning toward him, “and she rebuffed you.”
“It wasn’t like that at all. Not at all!”
“I see,” I said with some sarcasm. “It was more like a fatherly thing.”
Wally dropped down into the chair, and his shoulders slumped.
“Yes, it was,” he said. “You see . . . I am her father.”
And he fell back into his chair, burying his head in his hands, elbows on the armrests.
Stunned, I said, “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Thorp. I had no idea.”
His eyes, filled with tears and pain, met mine. “No one did. Morella didn’t want anyone to know. And, well . . . I didn’t either.”
I found a chair and sat down, Sushi in my lap now.
He was saying, “A long time ago, I had an affair on a buying trip out of state. It was during a rocky period in my marriage. But the woman never told me she’d got pregnant! I never even saw her again.” A rough hand wiped away a tear. “Then, about . . . two years ago . . . Morella showed up on my doorstep saying her mother recently told her I was her father. A DNA test showed that was true.”
“And Morella began making demands of you.”
Wally shook his head slowly. “Not really. At first I thought she might make trouble—my wife would never have forgiven me if she found out—but all Morella wanted was a little help, which I gladly offered, as best as I could.”
“Did your wife know about the weekly cash?”
“I do the books here, so no. And Stella always thought the upstairs could bring in some extra cash as an apartment and was in favor of renting it out.”
I asked, “Why do you think Morella came looking for you? She didn’t seem to want people to know you were related. Was she running away from something?”
His bushy eyebrows went up. “I don’t really know. Morella didn’t talk much about her life before coming here.”
“But this new life in Antiqua didn’t seem to suit her, did it? She seems to’ve always been complaining about it.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “She got bored real quick with small-town life.”
We fell silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry I caused you pain,” I said. “I won’t say anything about your relationship to Morella . . . except to the sheriff, of course.”
And when it came to something like this, Mother could be trusted not to be an Amy or a Jessica. Or her usual self.
“I’d appreciate that,” he said. “I hope Sheriff Borne catches whoever did that terrible thing to my . . . my daughter.”
“Trust me,” I said. “She will.”
Wally nodded. He was working to hold back more tears. Then he blurted, “Oh! What’s going on with the mayor? I hear he’s gone AWOL.”
I smiled. “No, he’s turned up. He’s fine.”
“Good to hear.”
Wally’s response seemed genuine enough. And for now, I didn’t think he needed the details. Mother would have to say how that should be played.
I left, and once again went back outside into the heat.
Just because Wally was Morella’s biological father didn’t rule out him hitting her in some fit of rage; if he’d hit her unintentionally hard, and thought she was dead, he could have panicked and hidden her in the sarcophagus. Then—believing Myron was his daughter’s lover—he might have taken revenge on the mayor, serving up some Poe-etic justice.
My thoughts were interrupted by noises from the next block over—an altercation?
I headed that way. In the street, just outside Top Drawer, two men were fighting, really going at it—one slender, the other burly—like a bar brawl gotten out of hand.
Three guesses who was trying to break it up . . .
.... and the first two don’t count.
It was Mother, of course.
“Gentlemen!” she said, “Please! Fisticuffs are never a suitable method of settling a dispute!”
When the slender guy shoved her, Sushi jumped from my arms, ran like a jackrabbit, and flung herself onto the man.
I sighed.
What more could possibly happen?
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
If a pristine book is what you desire, but beyond your price range, consider buying one of lesser value and condition. You may be able to trade it later for a better one, upgrading over time. Another possibility is a second (or even later) edition from the first issue, having the same book jacket and inner book save for a “first printing” designation on the indicia page. Some book club editions have the same book jacket and typesetting within as the first editions—Rex Stout novels, for example, can be had in th
eir original form for a fraction of the collector’s price. My favorite collectible book is The Message in the Hollow Oak, Nancy Drew #12 by Carolyn Keene, a 1962 edition of a book copyright 1935. So there!
Chapter Seven
Poe Tableau
Vivian here once again, that is, Sheriff Vivian J. Borne. Things seem to be getting a little gloomy, don’t you think, what with all this grisly murder in the air? I think a little levity might be in order—do you agree? Good! We’re all due some respite from this steady diet of murder and mayhem.
Here are some truisms I’ve discovered while traversing the highways and byways of life:
1. Never ask a person older than seventy how they’re feeling, because they will probably tell you.
2. Calories in food eaten over the sink while doing the dishes don’t count.
3. Housework won’t kill you. But why take the chance?
4. Have the wisdom to know, ahead of time, that your skills do not include wallpapering.
5. Accentuate the positives. Medicate the negatives.
This is a joke I recently heard around the water cooler at the county jail. It’s a little risqué but will not likely offend my readers, who are sophisticated and seasoned in the ways of the world. Just in case, however, I’ll leaven the telling by utilizing my much-admired upper-crust British accent, which admittedly you won’t be able to hear—except on the audio book—but you can think it as you read.
(British accent, remember!) There were several elderly chaps who wanted to give their widowed mate (as in friend, not spouse) a present for his eightieth birthday. So they hired a lady of the evening to go to the man’s flat. The birthday boy opened the door to find, standing there, a voluptuous (as in Page Three Girl) lass—I mean, bird.
“ ’lo gov,” she said, out of breath. “Blimey! You sure could use a lift in this place.” (Elevator, not spirits—but that, too!)
“What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked.
She purred, “It’s what I can do for you, you lucky bloke.”
He queried, “Whatever do you mean, miss?”
And she said, “Your mates ’ave sent me ’round to give you super sex.”
The gentleman thought a moment, then replied, “I believe I’ll have the soup.”
Isn’t that cute?
Back to the unpleasantness at hand. (You may cease with imagining my British accent—unless you really enjoy it.)
After Caroline Hatcher hauled her husband home, I lingered at the church, waiting for Serenity PD forensics to arrive. Brandy had returned to our Pullman to check on Sushi, who had no doubt been waiting patiently to be put outside. Having a housebroken pet is such a pleasure!
The pastor and I moved to the back of the church and sat together in the last pew, where I took the opportunity to question the man of the cloth further, since Brandy had advised me not to discount him as a suspect.
I asked, conversationally, “I understand you don’t much care for the annual E. A. Poe Days.”
“Frankly, no,” he said. “I find it most distasteful.”
“How so?”
He studied me a moment. “It’s a profane display. As I told your daughter, lionization of that man and his degenerate works is an offense in the sight of God.”
“I see.” I chose my next words carefully (but then I choose all of my words carefully). “Do you dislike the event enough to ever do something about it?”
He looked at me with open irritation. “Enough to perhaps wall up one of my parishioners in the basement of my church?” The pastor granted me a small, forgiving smile. “No. I hold the sixth commandment above all else.”
“ ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ ” I said. “One of my favorites.” I changed the subject. “Am I right in assuming that you live in the parsonage behind the church?”
“That’s right.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.” His voice tightened. “I was married once, but . . . well, this life of sacrifice just didn’t suit her.”
I nodded. “How much of the church can you see from the parsonage?”
He glanced at me curiously. “In the winter, quite a bit, when the trees are bare. Not so much now, with the leaves full.”
“Would car headlights pulling into the church draw your attention?”
He considered that. “Occasionally they do. From time to time, I’ve had to go out and check if anyone was doing mischief.”
“And last night?”
“I’d gone to bed by ten. And, again, the trees are full with leaves this time of year.”
I moved on. “How is attendance here?”
“Good. Well . . . could be better, always. But good.”
“And the members, their tithing keeps you afloat?”
“They give what they can.” He shrugged. “The whole town is hurting financially, you know.”
I was discovering that. “Is the mayor as popular as his wife seems to think?”
He paused, then said, “Well, what man in his position hasn’t ruffled a few feathers? But as a whole, Myron is well liked. He’s been a regular at Sunday services, and a faithful member of the congregation . . . when others of his standing have found more prosperous churches to attend, in surrounding towns. I don’t think he’d mind my telling you that he’s spearheaded the basement renovation, sometimes supervising the work himself.”
He’d recently gotten a little too close a look, hadn’t he?
“So,” I said, “he would have a key to the church?”
A quick laugh. “No need. The doors here are left unlocked, day and night. The house of God is open to any suffering soul who needs comfort . . . or salvation—no matter the hour.”
“That seems awfully trusting, coming from a man of God who has such strong views about ‘evil.’ ”
Pastor Creed gestured with an open hand. “Perhaps, but frankly, what’s there to take? Look around, Sheriff. And as for my office, there’s nothing of value. Who would want a ten-year-old computer? Vandalism is always a risk, but we’ve had little of that.”
I shifted on the hard pew. “Was Mike Everhart a member here?”
“Yes. Both he and his wife, Lottie. Oh, they didn’t attend regularly—Easter, Christmas, a few other times in-between. But they’re members.”
“Did Mike ever come to you for counsel?”
I perceived a stiffening in the pastor’s posture. “Spiritual?”
“Marital.”
He tasted his mouth and didn’t seem to care for the flavor. “I’m not a gossip, Sheriff, nor do I divulge the private conversations between me and my flock.”
“Oh, I understand. It’s a bit like the confessional the Catholics have.”
He nodded, his body relaxing.
“But,” I said, “tell me this, would you? Did you ever sit down with Mike, after the sale of the Poe portrait became public? Post Poe Folly? His eventual suicide indicates he was suffering.”
Creed nodded. “I went to see Mike at his store, to offer him comfort because . . . as you indicate . . . I was aware that he would likely be upset.”
“And is that how you found him—upset?”
“He obviously was, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Just wouldn’t open up. Still, I certainly didn’t think the man would . . .”
“Take his own life.”
“Yes. I failed him.”
“You tried. Anyway, more than the embarrassment, and financial loss, of that picture could have been weighing him down.”
The pastor, who only sporadically had met my eyes, looked at me now, steadily. “I would say that’s fair. Thank you.”
Through the windows I could see the forensics utility van drive into the parking lot and come to a stop. Two men got out wearing blue jumpsuits with Serenity PD markings. After thanking him for his time, I left the pastor alone in the pew and went outside to meet the team.
The van’s rear double doors were open, revealing metal shelves along each side, neatly loaded with equipment, some in closed plastic tub
s, others in suitcases: fingerprint kit, camera devices, trace evidence kit, bodily fluid collection kit, and containers with such essentials as evidence markers, evidence bags, measuring devices, and personal protective equipment such as gloves, booties, and masks.
As I approached, Wilson—younger of the pair—said ruefully, “This trip is gettin’ a little old, Sheriff. I’m starting to feel like I’m commuting.”
Wilson was dark-complected with a shaved head, flat nose, and sharp eyes that didn’t miss much.
His partner, Henderson—overweight, with salt-and-pepper hair and a world-weary face—quipped, “Maybe we should just book rooms at the motel. What’s going on in this town, anyway?”
“I’m not sure, gentlemen,” I replied honestly. “I’m hoping you can shed some light on what are starting to look like weirdly staged crimes.”
I brought the pair up to speed on the ordeal Mayor Hatcher had survived, filling them in on the Poe aspects that might tie Morella’s murder in with the attempted one on Myron. I also informed the specialists of the two workmen, their truck and tools, and the movements of Brandy, Pastor Creed, and myself inside and outside the church.
Wilson worked the perimeter around the back while Henderson took the cellar; for the next hour, I went between them wearing protective blue booties, watching as they worked (I was watching, not the booties).
Henderson grumbled about the cellar area being so compromised he doubted anything substantial would come from his efforts. Since he would find the proximity around the mayor’s car similarly spoiled, I decided not to bring the subject up.
Wilson, however, provided an interesting analysis of his cordoned-off patch: The only tire tracks he could find belonged to the workmen’s truck.
Which raised an interesting question: What assailant would park his car in the gravel lot of the church and carry an unconscious man around to the back? Someone not wishing to leave tracks on the earth? Someone who had a helper? Were we looking for more than one perp?
Suddenly the list of suspects expanded to include the workmen.
My cell phone rang—or rather played: the Hawaii Five-O theme, which was my new ringtone as sheriff (replacing the frisky piano opening number of Murder, She Wrote).
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