by Maia Chance
“Everybody does, darling.”
“Rumor has it that the two of you bumped off Kathleen Toddzilla last night because she managed to convince City Hall to raze the Stagecoach Inn at the end of the week—is it true?”
Effie made a noncommittal noise.
Avi went on, “People are saying that you were heard arguing loudly with Kathleen at the inn around midnight and that she’s been found dead—oh, and that you, Agnes, having been dumped by your boy-genius professor fiancé—”
“Boy genius?” I said. “Roger is twenty-nine! He’s losing his hair!”
“He is losing his hair,” Effie said.
“Well, anyway,” Avi said with a nervous hand-swipe over his own head, “they’re saying that you’re at the end of your rope because Boy Wonder dumped you for that gorgeous little Pilates instructor, Shelby, and that Boy Wonder likes Shelby because she doesn’t correct people when they pronounce escape like excape.”
Why was Roger broadcasting my pet peeves? And there is no X in escape!
“Agnes, stop chewing your fingernails,” Effie said.
“Who told you all this?” I asked Avi. “We need to know.”
“Let me think.” Avi tipped his head. “I heard about Boy Wonder and Shelby from Allen at the dry cleaner’s, and he heard it straight from Boy Wonder himself. He was picking up a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Allen said. But the rumor about the argument at the inn? I heard it from no one in particular.”
“No one in particular?” I said. “How is that possible?”
“Well, when I went to the Black Drop first thing this morning for my steamed milk—I never drink coffee”—Avi tapped a brilliant chopper—“the shop opened a few minutes late, and everyone waiting out on the sidewalk was talking about the argument and about how Kathleen wasn’t answering her phone or coming to her door.”
“What time was this?” I asked.
“Eight o’clock AM sharp.”
“Okay,” I said, “and who was there on the sidewalk talking about the rumor?” My heart pumped hard.
“Six people,” Avi said and ticked off on his fingers as he listed, “Bud Budzinski, Gracelyn Roy, Dorrie Tucker, Roland Pascal, Jodi Todd, and Susie Pak—Susie, by the way, ordered a double Americano even though she’s coming in to see me for laser whitening this week and really shouldn’t ever drink coffee again.” Avi tsked his tongue.
“Hold on,” I said. I turned to Effie. “Could I borrow that pad of paper and pencil you have in your purse?”
Effie handed the paper and pencil over.
“Okay, could you tell me those six names again?” I said to Avi. “Slowly?”
Avi repeated the names, and I wrote them down. Then he filled me in a bit on who they were. I’d seen Gracelyn Roy’s poster yesterday in the library. I was pretty sure that the frumpy woman who had been hauling boxes of Pyrex with Kathleen Todd at the library had been called Dorrie Tucker.
My list ended up looking like this:
Bud Budzinski. Owner of Club Xenon nightclub/Main Street.
Gracelyn Roy. Local author.
Dorrie Tucker. Kathleen Todd’s best friend.
Jodi Todd. Kathleen Todd’s daughter.
Roland Pascal. Carpenter working on McGrundell Mansion repairs.
Susie Pak. Owner of Susie’s Speedy Maids.
“But you have no idea which one of these people was the original source of the rumor?” I asked Avi.
“No. I was the last one to arrive outside the coffee shop, you see, and they were already talking about it. Jodi was pretty nervous since the rumor was about her mom—although of course everyone knows Jodi and Kathleen haven’t spoken for years.”
“No one seemed to be the gossip ringleader?” I asked.
“No.”
“How was everyone behaving?”
“Jodi left, I assume to go and call her mom or go to her mom’s house. Dorrie Tucker went all weepy and said she was going to faint, but she did the exact same thing at the Garden Club ice cream social in July. Just between us, she’s kind of a wimp. She always asks for double Novocain when she comes in to see me, you know. Now let’s see. The rest of them—Bud Budzinski, Gracelyn Roy, Roland Pascal, and Susie Pak—were all suitably shocked, but as soon as Jodi left to check on her mom, no one really had to do anything except wait for the coffee shop to open . . . or, yes, now I remember, Dorrie Tucker wandered off. Now I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to dash. I’ve got a hair appointment.” Avi made a smoochy noise in Effie’s direction and skittered away.
I looked at my list. “I think I should take this information to the police. Has Albright called or texted back?”
“No. Of course you should tell Detective Albright all about what Avi told us, although if you aren’t going to mention the bit about my sound machine, it doesn’t really add up to much.” A pause. “I can tell by the look in your eye, Agnes, that you’d also like to look into the matter yourself.”
I hated that Effie could read me so easily. And what was she, some kind of scofflaw enabler? Still, I was itching to investigate the rumor. When Albright called, I’d tell him what Avi Gupta had told us . . . but it wouldn’t hurt to satisfy my curiosity in the meantime.
Chapter 5
I led Aunt Effie the block and a half to Club Xenon, on the corner of Main and Oak. I would start my questioning there since it was close, and because I didn’t know where to find Dorrie Tucker. I’d never been inside Club Xenon, but I had noticed it since moving back to Naneda. It occupied the old Davis’s Department Store building.
I raised my eyebrows. Here was something new—a neon sign? Bright blue, although unlit, reading, Club Xenon. As a college town, Naneda always has a nightclub or two, but not within the historical district. “How did they get a neon sign past the historical society?” I said.
“Is neon on their no-no list?” Effie asked.
“Yep.” The club was dark inside—the doors were glass—but just for the hey of it, I tried one. It opened.
“What luck,” Effie said, stepping inside.
I followed. Inside, we found ourselves in a big, dim space that stank of beer and the sinus-shriveling cologne of a hundred frat boys.
“Good lord,” Effie said. Her shoe crunched on shattered glass.
“Look, there’s a light on back there,” I whispered, pointing past the bar.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“I remember when this used to be the department store, before everyone started doing their shopping at the mall in Lucerne.” Lucerne was the next town over. “See the balconies? Every Christmas they were hung with swags of holly and ribbons, and on Christmas Eve, there were always carolers singing up on the top balcony.”
I squinted up at the three levels of wooden balconies. It looked like a recipe for disaster to me. The kind of disaster involving Jell-O shots and sorority pledges.
We crossed the dance floor with its huge disco ball. A bar curved around two sides. Tap pulls and liquor bottles gleamed in the dim light. We went past the bar and down a corridor, passing doors marked “Guys” and “Girls.” We rounded a corner, and light beamed through an open door.
“Hey! Who’s out there?” a gruff male voice shouted.
Effie and I stopped in the doorway. A burly, hairy man, maybe thirty-five years old, lolled in a chair with his bare feet on a desk. Untidy papers, a chunky nineties computer, and an open package of Oreo cookies cluttered the desk. I smelled BO and citrusy perfume. A kind of stomach-turning combo.
The man narrowed his eyes at Effie and me. “What the—? You two don’t look like the AC repairmen. I’m sweating buckets in here. Jesus!”
It was true. His shirt had creeping sweat stains under the arms and those little sweat speckles down the front. Oh, and he’d stripped down to his boxer shorts.
“Bud?” I said.
“Yeah. That’s me. Who the hell are you? We filled the barmaid position, and anyway you’re, ah, not exactly the typ
e. And what’s with the celery?” Bud glanced at Effie. “You could make an okay barmaid, I guess, if you dyed your hair.”
“You’d hire her but not me?” I said.
“What do you want?” Bud asked. “A drink? We’re closed.”
“We’re here to confront you about a rumor,” I said.
“Agnes, darling, don’t ever use the word confront,” Effie said. “It puts people on their guard.”
“Yeah,” Bud said. “Listen to your grandma.”
Effie sniffed.
“We heard a rumor, Bud,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Fascinating. Now if you don’t mind, I got work to do.”
“Like eating Oreos?” I said.
“I am Euphemia Winters,” Effie cut in. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Oh.” Understanding glimmered on Bud’s Cro-Magnon features. “The mayor’s aunt. Yeah, I’ve heard of you. And this must be Agnes, the niece who got dumped by the new genius professor up at the university. Yeah, okay.”
What I wanted to know was, who the heck was spreading the rumor about Roger being a genius? Sure, he’d gotten his PhD at an ivy league school, but he didn’t even know how to load a dishwasher.
“We have it on good authority that you were spreading a pretty nasty rumor about us this morning while you were waiting for the Black Drop to open,” I said.
“Just making conversation. I’m kind of new to town and not exactly Mr. Popularity. These townsfolk want to pretend they live on the set of Leave it To Beaver even though it’s a college town, and so it’s got college kids who’ve got some steam to blow off on the weekends. Beats drinking Sour Apple Pucker in a dorm room. Which, by the way, is banned here at the club. Have you seen Sour Apple Pucker puke? It doesn’t come out of the carpet.”
“What does this have to do with you spreading malicious and unfounded rumors?” I said.
“Listen, cut the Judge Judy crap, all right? Everyone in this town has their dirty little secrets, trust me, and there’s nothing they like better than gossiping about other people’s dirty secrets. So shoot me if I try to warm their bitter hearts with some gossip. Just being sociable.”
“That explains why you spread the rumor,” I said, “but you still haven’t told me who told it to you.”
“Who told me? That little weepy marshmallow of a lady who was always glued to Kathleen Todd’s side. Retired kindergarten teacher . . . what’s her name? Lori or something.”
“Dorrie Tucker?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s it. Dorrie. She sort of stumbled on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop, and I helped her up, see, and picked up her purse. She was crying, which is why she tripped in the first place I guess, so I asked her what was the matter—come to think of it, I was pretty goddam chivalrous—and she filled me in on the facts about you two arguing with Kathleen at the inn last night and about Kathleen not answering her phone.”
“Facts?” I said.
“Well, you know. The info. She didn’t even say thanks to me for helping her up! It doesn’t pay to be a Boy Scout with that type. Always so busy feeling sorry for themselves, they’re too busy to give a crap about other people.”
“Who else was there when Dorrie told you the rumor?” I asked.
“Four or five other people. I recognized Jodi, the blonde hippie chick with the dreads.”
“You’re talking about Kathleen Todd’s daughter?”
“Uh-huh. She spazzed when she heard the news about her mom not answering her phone and then went off somewhere. The dentist was there—everyone knows him. Dr. Gupta? What a motormouth.”
“Who do you think killed Kathleen Todd?” I asked.
“Who cares? She harassed half the town about stupid rules and was always siccing that Susie’s maid service on anyone who doesn’t reek of fabric softener. I could never figure out why anyone did what she wanted. She had this weird hold on people.”
“Well, I thought you might care who murdered her, Bud,” I said, “since she probably gave you hell about that neon sign you have out front. Neon, as far as I know, is crime number one in the historical society’s ordinances, and your club sits smack-dab in the middle of the historical district.”
Bud beetled his eyebrows, swung his feet off his desk, and lunged forward. “Is that why you’re really here? Come to rough me up on account of some historical society crapspackle?”
Effie and I shrank back. This guy was suddenly scary. But what the heck? He though we were going to rough him up? A bird-boned old lady and a young woman who had several conspiracy theories about exercise equipment?
“Has the, uh, historical society ever roughed you up before?” I asked Bud.
“Hell, no.” Bud sat back in his chair and rustled an Oreo from the package on his desk. “I was just joking.” He took a bite.
It hadn’t seemed like he was joking.
“You know what?” Bud said through a mouthful of cookie. “I’ve had enough of you two, and I got work to do.” He jerked a thumb. “Out. Or I’ll call the cops and tell them I’m being harassed by a couple of crazy lady murder suspects.”
Another helping of the cops? No, thanks. Effie and I speed walked out of Bud’s office, through the club, and outside.
* * *
“Did you smell Bud’s office?” Effie asked. She paused on the sidewalk in front of Club Xenon to rummage past the oranges in her handbag for a cigarette.
“Those will kill you,” I said.
“I know.” She stuck one between her lips and clicked her lighter. “I’m switching to one of those electronic cigarettes just as soon as I get myself together. Things have been a little . . . hectic the past week or so.”
“Because you stole that guy Paul’s Cadillac.” I looked down at the bunch of celery in my arms. I was pretty thirsty and beyond hungry, so I snapped off a stalk, wiped the dirt off on my jeans, and crunched into it.
“Not because I stole Paul’s Cadillac—”
“So you admit to stealing it.”
“It’s not that simple, but fine. Yes. I stole it. He deserved it. Don’t sidetrack me, Agnes. I still have jet lag, and I’m trying to focus.”
“Jet lag? I thought you drove up from Florida.”
“Please!” Effie puffed smoke.
I quietly chewed celery. Well, as quietly as one can chew celery.
“Did you smell Bud’s office?” Effie asked me again.
“Sure. BO like a locker room. Maybe a little rancid cheeseburger or something.”
“Not that. The perfume.”
“Oh yeah. It did smell like perfume.”
“It was Burberry Brit.”
“Okaaay. Great. Bud wears Burberry Brit.”
“It’s a woman’s perfume. A rather costly woman’s perfume, and I’m dead certain it wasn’t a drugstore imitation. Those always hit me at the back of the throat like Pine-Sol.”
“So?”
“So Bud has been entertaining a Burberry Brit–wearing woman in his office recently.”
“Who would want to touch that big, sweaty brontosaurus? Can I see your phone? I just realized we can look up Dorrie Tucker’s address online.”
“I cannot imagine who’d want to touch Bud,” Effie said, digging in her purse for her phone. “But there are all sorts of women, Agnes, you know that, as well as all sorts of reasons why a woman might want to—or need to—touch a man, brontosaurus or no. Speaking of men . . . my, my.” She tucked her chin to look over the tops of her sunglasses. “Here comes a big slice of home-baked heaven.”
Gross. I snatched the phone out of Effie’s hand, took another bite of celery, and turned to see what she was staring at.
Oh. Crud. Otis Hatch. No motorcycle and helmet this time, just faded blue jeans, a green ringer tee, and a cowboyish loping stride. His hair wafted back from his face. He carried a watermelon-sized hunk of metal. A car part, I guessed.
“He has a Dukes of Hazzard hairdo,” I said. “Lame.” Gorgeous. I swiped Effie’s phone to life and poked the Internet icon.
“Not quite Dukes of Hazzard,” Effie said. “Too straight. But yes, that hair would be laughable on a . . . lesser man.”
“Stop leering like that, Aunt Effie! I know him!” I typed Naneda NY white pages.
“You do?”
“Yes, and he’s a—”
“Talking about me?” Otis said with a grin. “Hey, Agnes.”
“No. Um. I was talking about the nightclub owner.” I gulped down celery and made a feeble gesture at the Club Xenon doors.
“Oh, yeah, Budzinski. He can be abrasive.” Otis studied Aunt Effie with smiling eyes. He hadn’t shaved, and his jaw glinted with dark-gold stubble. Darn him. “Hi, I’m Otis Hatch.” He stuck out a strong-looking hand.
Effie gave him a shake. “Euphemia Winters. Agnes’s aunt.”
I noticed she never admitted to being my great-aunt.
“Right,” Otis said, nodding. “I heard Kathleen Todd died last night and that you two found the body this morning?”
“Yeah,” I said, “unfortunately.” A celery string was stuck between my teeth.
“You must be Harlan Hatch’s boy,” Effie said to Otis.
“Yep.”
“I remember he owned the filling station out on Post Road.”
“That’s right. The family business. It’s still there, actually. Dad passed away a couple years ago, so my grandpa Hank and I run it.” Otis looked at me. “You ought to come out and visit some time, Agnes. You’d like the auto shop—I remember you were really handy in shop class back in high school.”
“You took shop class, Agnes?” Effie asked in a shocked tone.
“It was either that or sewing, and I was going to learn sewing when pigs fly.” Now, of course, I wished I could sew. If only so I could alter the waistband of these too-tight jeans. “Hey, Otis, do you know this lady named Dorrie Tucker? Supposedly Kathleen Todd’s best friend?”
“Dorrie Tucker? Yeah, she was a kindergarten teacher at Barkley Elementary for years, and don’t you remember her husband used to teach social studies at the high school?”
“No. I had Mrs. Chang for social studies.”
