by Patti Larsen
I stood, headed for the door and the hall. Noticed a bowl had been knocked over by the front door and went to fetch it. Ribbons, tiny colored slips of velvet, all for Cookie’s topknot. Pink and orange and green and…
Red.
I froze, heart pounding. Then shrugged it off. The red scrap of fabric in Fat Benny’s mouth. That’s where it had come from. Probably fell off when Cookie was using my garden as a bathroom. So not evidence of the murder at all. Right?
But the little dog only ever pooped by the fence and that was on the other side of the yard. I fingered the strips of velvet, mind beginning to spin. Well, the wind could have carried it into the water, and the koi were such idiots, they’d eat anything.
Silly. I obviously needed time away from mysteries because I was making them up in my head, now. Like the cane Peggy carried and how much the rubber bottom was about the size of an old fashioned ketchup bottle, ridges matching the ones in the hole near the pond…
“Put it together then, have you?”
I spun around, the bowl still in my hands, crouching over the fallen bits of fabric, staring down the hall at the silhouette of Peggy watching me. She didn’t seem so vulnerable anymore. If anything, the old lady loomed as much as Ruth had, threatening despite her small size. Holding her cane against her. My eyes traveled down to the base, to the perfect round tip. I was right. Just like the impression in the dirt beside the scuff mark where Pete slipped.
“You hit him with your cane.” The bruise Crew mentioned. On Pete’s leg. Perimortem but fresh, as if it hadn’t had time to develop before he died, evolved after he’d drowned. “He fell and hit his head.”
“But he didn’t die, the big idiot.” Not a trace of weariness or any sort of kindness in those words. I heard a click, looked up again, found the barrel of a gun in my face. And knew I’d been off track from minute one. “He was supposed to die.”
“So you used your cane to roll him into the water.” Where he drowned.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders, Cookie trotting out of the room behind her to sit shaking at Peggy’s feet. No sign of Petunia. My heart clenched, worry hitting me hard between the shoulders. What had she done to my pug? Sure, here I was with a gun pointed at me and I was worried about Petunia.
“Worked on Peter,” she said. “Figured it would work on that hideous cow, Ruth, too.” She leveled the barrel at me, obviously practiced with a gun.
“Why? Why kill him?” Not that it mattered, I guess. While I looked my death in the face and realized I was a terrible detective no matter what I thought otherwise.
She laughed. “You think either of those two morons had the mental capacity to run an operation as complex as this one?” Peggy’s disdain felt surreal, like I’d fallen into a film noir and stood on a cliff’s edge with my doom pending. “Please. The entire operation was mine. Has been for years. And those ungrateful brats,” she thudded the hardwood floor with the rubber end of her cane for emphasis, “thought they could muscle in on my carefully constructed process.”
Wow. Just, wow.
The photo on the top of the pile, from the shoe box she’d given me. The image of her with Grandmother Iris was of the sofa in the foyer of the nursing home. And the old man I’d seen her with, he was another victim, wasn’t he? “You were getting the signatures from the dying.” How sick.
“The latest of my schemes,” she shrugged. “Was lucrative until Pete got greedy and started mining still in towners. People with loved ones hanging around. Fake signatures, the fool. I only ever accepted the real thing.”
“And Ruth’s drug thefts? You had nothing to do with that?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Peggy took a step forward, Cookie hovering at her feet. Still no Petunia. My heart broke, mind imagining her lying in the sitting room, dead or injured, unable to come to me. And anger shattered any remaining fear. I stood up while Peggy’s aim didn’t waver. “I took advantage of the situation once my stupid grandniece admitted what she was up to. But that had to end. Too risky.” She wrinkled her nose, looking ridiculous suddenly, an old woman, tiny and frail in a faded dress holding a gun like she knew how to use it. “Too messy.” She stopped, stared at me with the most calculating expression. “Peter didn’t want to set up his son, but it was the only way. Your darling ex-boyfriend, Ryan is it? Gave me the idea. When we found out he was embezzling and set you up for the blame.” She laughed again, a solid cackle. “He’s a deplorable boy, dear. You really can do better.”
“You wanted the B&B, didn’t you?” The gleam in her eyes told me as much, the way her thin mouth tightened.
“Damn that old witch, she wouldn’t sign.” Peggy thudded her cane again, hand with the gun twitching enough I felt anxiety return. “Pete chose the fake signature, though I told him not to. But I owed your grandmother a thing or two, dear Fiona. So I let him do it.”
The box. “Why give me that box of photos, of her things?” How did that make sense?
“I had to know what you knew, of course,” she said. “And Iris, well, she never suspected we weren’t the best of friends, did she?” Her snort carried disdain. “She really was a fool. Like your father who never suspected me, not for a moment.” She obviously thought that a great joke.
“But, why was Pete in my yard that night?” The last piece of this insane puzzle.
“Some foolishness Iris told him on her deathbed,” Peggy snorted. “About a treasure she buried. He just couldn’t wait. The moron.” She snarled at the floor a moment as if remembering. “He came here first, looking for—”
I waited as she grunted. “The same thing Ruth was looking for today?”
The prompting worked, the old woman exhaling in frustrated impatience. “Not like it matters now,” she said. “You’re dead anyway. Yes, he came for my ledger. The one I keep with evidence of all my business dealings.” Peggy’s hand wavered slightly. Was she getting tired? “Ruth thought she could bully me if she got her hands on it, just like Pete did. But he was far easier to manipulate than she ever was.” She waved the gun at me. “That night, when I told him where he could go, he grumbled about not needing me anymore, some foolish hidden treasure and slipped through the fence. I went after him to chase him off. The last thing we needed was any kind of attention at that point.” I could only imagine. He took a risk wandering around like that. One guest up at the wrong time and he’d be under scrutiny. “He was going to drop the bank account blackmail information on you when you came to protest the signature.” Peggy did smile then, a horrible expression devoid of humanity. “I wished I could have been there!” She licked her lips, grin tightening before it fell. “He had to make trouble, didn’t he? Argue with me over who was running the show. Threaten to cut me out.” A little shrug, a bit of a brush off. “Doesn’t matter. I took care of him and I’ll have Petunia’s now anyway. Once you’re dead, that is.”
“How you figure?” I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, stuck with a gun in my face and no alternatives. I couldn’t even reach my phone in my back pocket without her seeing. Stupid, stupid. How could I have missed this?
“Ruth knows to keep her mouth shut and take the fall or I’ll make her life even more miserable than it’s already set up to be.” Peggy’s grin tightened. “And your parents will happily sell with you gone, I’m sure of it. I can convince that weakling boy, Jared, to buy the property for me. And then everything will be done.” Another cackle. “Round about, but perfect all the same.”
“What did Grandmother Iris do to you?” They’d looked like such friends in the photos.
“It doesn’t matter,” Peggy snapped. “Now, I’m done talking and you’re still alive. Something I need to rectify.”
“You can’t just shoot me,” I said, holding up both hands. “They’ll arrest you for murder.”
“Who, me?” Peggy’s voice dropped to a trembling whisper, her face morphing to weakness and despair. “But, I was so afraid after my horrible grandniece was here and my husband’s old gun, well. I keep it for protectio
n. Fee left, went home. I had no idea she’d come back. I thought she was an intruder and I… I…” She sobbed twice before stilling completely, voice cold. “I shot her thinking she was a burglar. Who could blame me after everything I’ve been through?”
In that moment I knew she’d get away with it. And that I was toast.
A fawn bundle of fur with black ears and a growl like a demon lurched from the sitting room, hitting Peggy in the back of the knees and driving her to the floor. She cried out, Cookie darting out of the way and I lunged, disarming the old woman with a quick twist of my wrist, hand grasping the barrel and jerking it loose from her grasp.
I might not have been in law enforcement, but Dad taught me to handle a gun.
Peggy snarled at me, swiped with her cane, but I was already dialing, weapon trained on her while Petunia limped to my side, sinking to sit on my feet, a cut over her right eye seeping blood.
“You’re going down, Peggy,” I said. “For all of it.”
She tried, I’ll give her that, face settling into her fragile old lady act. But I wasn’t having any, Crew answering as I spoke.
“Point a gun at me, fine,” I said. “But you tried to kill my dog, you bitch. You’re done.”
***
Chapter Forty
It was easy to smile at the adorably New England chic Mr. and Mrs. Thurston as I handed them their room keys, sunlight beaming into the foyer through the open door. I watched the happy young couple while they climbed the stairs to their room, ooh and ahhing over my place in their excitement to be here. Chatter from the dining room drifted toward me, the soft sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen while Betty whipped up fresh biscuits for afternoon tea, our second so far this week and met with great excitement by locals and tourists alike. The murder had added to our reach and notoriety and thanks to Daisy updating our social media with the successful resolution of Pete Wilkins’s death we’d seen a huge surge in followers and calls for new bookings.
Who knew murder was big business?
My plan to start offering little extras in the last week since Peggy’s arrest and my staff’s new leaf turn had made things busier around here, but I wasn’t complaining.
Daisy seemed to adore it, sweeping elegantly from table to table with all her charm beaming from her. Though, I wondered how long I’d get to keep her. She’d started dating someone new and was asking for more and more time off. Well, fair enough, except if I had to hire someone I really needed to look into it. August was just a week away and with no sign of things slowing down.
“Fee!” Speak of the devil, Daisy hurried from the dining room with a paper in her hands, shoving it at me with a beaming smile. “Look!”
I did, the front page exposé about Ruth, Pete and Peggy all the news in town the last few days. The state troopers had, in fact, shown up as Crew said they would—so not a liar, then—but by then he had Peggy in custody, thanks to me, and Ruth squealing on everyone involved for a deal. Not that I was a fan of deals, but if it meant taking Peggy down, I was all for it.
Petunia looked up at me from her usual place sitting on my feet. A cute little cartoon pug band aid covered the stitches over her eye, placed there—and replaced often—with loving adoration by Daisy when I brought the pug home from her vet visit shortly after Peggy’s attack. No worse for wear but milking her injury for everything it was worth, Petunia happily accepted all the snacks and love and attention everyone heaped on her.
“There’s my little hero,” Daisy said, rubbing the pug’s cheek. Petunia groaned her appreciation and I didn’t argue. She’d saved my butt, so she was owed a bit of latitude.
The byline on the piece was Pamela Shard, of course, but there was a rather smug triumphant feeling to the exposé. Not that I blamed her. She and Aundrea had been getting out and about together and from what I’d heard from the ever keen Daisy, the fact no one seemed to care—or find it a surprise—they were gay was a bit of a letdown for Aundrea and a huge relief for Pamela. After years of suffering, I guess the former Mrs. Wilkins was expecting a giant disaster and got crickets. Had to rankle.
Nice they had adopted Cookie, the little dog seemingly happier than she’d ever been.
“Look, Jared, how sweet is he?” Daisy pointed to the paragraph quoting the young Wilkins heir. “‘I’m already planning to return the bulk of the stolen properties to the rightful owners while offering partnerships where return isn’t possible.’”
Good kid, Jared.
Alicia, from the next paragraph’s information, was being credited with helping the police, but her brother, Pitch, was on the run and being sought for questioning. Any information would be kept strictly confidential and a reward was offered. Poor Pitch. He got the short end of the stick. But that’s the way he played it, so I wished him well despite his criminal activities. He did right by his sister, after all.
Dad was mentioned too, to my surprise, praised for refusing to give up on the investigation after Judge Anderson was identified as colluding with Pete, being blackmailed for having a prisoner turnover arrangement with the local prison. That was another big ball of wax and from what I heard the state troopers dropped Crew’s case like a rock and ran after that one before the FBI could snatch it up. And left our little town in its nice, quiet solitude—except for the multitude of tourists, that was—once more.
The nursing home was under new management, surprise, surprise. And, the small piece under the main article announcing the sale of Jacob’s Flowers caught my attention.
“Simon and Terri are splitting,” Daisy said, nose wrinkling in sympathy.
Terri I could muster empathy for.
My phone rang, the cell vibrating on the side board but one glance at the number and I ignored it.
“He’s still trying to talk to you?” Daisy covered her grin with one hand.
“Ryan’s in a heap of trouble,” I said, rather satisfied with that turn of events. The state troopers did one thing right, contacting his firm in New York before scrambling off to take down the judge. He’d been calling me in a panic ever since, but I wasn’t about to let the snake have the satisfaction of trying to wheedle his way out of this. If the long, rambling apologies and fake tears he sobbed into his messages were any indication, Ryan had completely underestimated me.
Sucker.
The front door opened, Vivian entering with—of all people—Crew on her arm. Well, she was on his arm, but same thing. He grimaced at me, an apology? All while the Queen of the Small Town Bakery swept past us and into my dining room. For tea. In my B&B.
On purpose, naturally. To show off the claws she had hooked firmly in our handsome sheriff. She was wasting her time. I had no interest in men right now. If ever. Still, he really did know how to work that butt.
“I’ll tell her to get her ass out.” Daisy fumed next to me, but I shrugged and grinned.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“If you say so,” she grumbled. Then brightened. “I’ll tell Mary to spit in her tea.” She spun, full skirt swirling around her and hurried off to the kitchen before I could stop her.
The door opened again and I turned back, shocked by my next guest. Malcolm Murray entered alone, the slim, spare old Irishman looking around with a happy expression, nodding to me.
“You kept the place the same as Iris,” he said, bending to pat Petunia who accepted his affection with her typical good grace. “Well done, Fiona.”
I gaped at him a moment before gesturing toward the dining room. “Tea?”
He winked. “Best in town,” he said. And drifted past me, pausing at the door. “You say hullo to your da for me?”
I nodded, swallowed. What was he after?
Malcolm laughed. “Excellent. Maybe I’ll pop round again sometime.”
And then he was gone inside and I was left panting my anxiety over whatever that was into the quiet air of the foyer.
Petunia followed me down to my apartment when Daisy returned with a smug grin. I didn’t ask, just escaped for a few minutes,
the same sunlight beaming into my kitchen and warming my face. I turned to pour myself some coffee and spotted the metal box, padlock hanging at a jaunty angle. And looked down at the farting pug on my feet.
Of course.
It took a bit of hunting through Grandmother Iris’s things, but I finally located the papers I was looking for. Petunia’s birthday worked as the combination, naturally. Fingers trembling, I popped open the protesting lid, the metal grinding a bit. But the hinges worked fine once I’d wiggled the top free and the lid fell to the counter, hanging there, contents exposed.
Not treasure or money or jewels. Letters. Dozens of them. Addressed to Grandmother Iris from the most unlikely source. Daniel Munroe. Adoring husband, I could only imagine, of one Peggy next door. No wonder she hated my grandmother. Love letters hot enough to make me blush and put them aside. Did Grandmother Iris know Peggy was on to her about the affair with her husband? Questions I’d have to ask someday. For now, it didn’t matter.
Because at the bottom of the box lay a key with a black plastic tag. B-562. A safety deposit box key. And another mystery to keep me going.
Daisy’s call for me from upstairs broke my excited reverie. “Coming!” I closed the box, pocketing the key. Looked down at Petunia and grinned at her sweet face, the adorable band aid. And went upstairs to see to my guests.
***
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Find Book Two
of the Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries at
http://bit.ly/chocolateheartsandmurder
And Book Three at
http://bit.ly/famefortuneandmurder
***
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