by Maia Chance
“God knows, but I applaud them.” Roland sipped his wine. “Miserable woman.”
“That does seem to be the consensus,” Effie said.
“I have an alibi, naturally,” Roland said, “but I would have enjoyed strangling her myself.”
Can you say eek?
Roland went on, “She hung over me like an overseer while I was working.”
“Who’s your alibi?” I asked.
“You need not bother yourself with that detail.”
“Okay,” I said. “And you were with this alibi of yours at . . . midnight?”
Roland twinkled.
Ew.
Speaking of ew: it was weird that Roland lived in such a junky trailer if he was such a meticulous restorer of buildings. The photos in his portfolio showed immaculate, detailed work.
Roland noticed my grossed-out glances around his trailer. “You do not approve of my domestic style?” he asked.
“Um . . .”
“I am an artist, but I am also a bachelor. Kathleen Todd attempted to convince me to hire Sally’s maid service—”
“Do you mean Susie’s Speedy Maids?” Effie asked.
“Yes.” Roland snapped his fingers. “Thank you. But I declined, for I do not desire for meddling women crawling like termites in my trailer. But I beg your pardon. It is only that I do not mince words. I am a passionate man. They say I blow hot and cold, to which I respond, I only blow hot, and hotter.”
“Do you blow hot enough to start rumors about people you don’t know?” I asked. Roland had somehow gone straight to chummy mode with Effie and me; I’d almost forgotten why we were there. “Do you blow hot enough to murder people?”
Roland chuckled. “I have been called a lady-killer, it is true, but I have different methods than murder. And the rumor? I repeated it merely to make conversation. It seemed a fascinating thing to speak of while waiting for the coffee shop to open its doors.”
I smeared more cheese on bread. “Who told you the rumor?”
“Jodi, the lovely young lady with the dreadlocks. You will find her, I believe, at her fruit and flower stall in the market called Shakti Organic Farm.”
That had definitely been Jodi swearing at Aunt Effie over the plums earlier, then.
Effie stood. “Back to the market, Agnes.”
I smashed a last bite of bread and cheese in my mouth and stood also. I tried to swallow. Too much bread. Too dry. I coughed.
Effie thrust my wineglass into my hands. “Drink, damn it!”
“No!” I spluttered. “Water!”
Roland swung to his sink, grabbed a smeary-looking glass, and filled it with water from a jug.
“Gross!” I choked out.
“Drink! No more dead bodies!” Roland yelled.
Effie thrust the wineglass into my narrowing field of vision. “One drink won’t hurt,” she said in a coaxing voice.
I had no choice. The dry bread wasn’t going down. I was going to puke and/or pass out. I gulped down the entire glass of wine. The bread subsided. I stood there blinking tears from my eyes. When my eyes focused, they randomly landed on something strange: Roland was still clutching the water glass, and he had those muscular worker’s hands with the bulging muscle between the base of the index finger and thumb. Right on that muscle on his right hand, he had a simple tattoo of five dots, just like on dice or dominoes.
Roland caught me looking. He waggled an eyebrow.
What the hey?
“Are you all right, Agnes?” Effie asked.
I nodded.
“Then let’s go. Thank you for the scrumptious Pinot, Roland, darling.”
* * *
Effie whizzed the Cadillac back toward Main Street.
“I’m going to get a rash from that wine,” I said. “I know it.” I scratched at both of my upper arms simultaneously.
“I don’t see anything.”
“You’re not even looking! And I swear, alcohol gives me a rash! I never drink.”
“When was the last time this happened? Do you need an EpiPen?”
“Maybe.” The truth was, I’d only ever drunk alcohol once, back when I was a fifteen. A raspberry wine cooler in my best friend Lauren’s room, as a matter of fact. The thing was, Lauren also had a parrot, and I’m allergic to birds, so the rash might have been from Dollface, not the wine cooler. But I hadn’t enjoyed the way the wine cooler had made me feel not in charge of my life, so I’d sworn off the stuff.
Until now, that is. A warm haze settled around me. I forgot exactly why I was so pissed off at Aunt Effie all the time, and the clench in my stomach that I’d had since Roger dumped me relaxed a notch.
“Do you want me to take you to the emergency room?” Effie said. “Because if I take a left here, the hospital—”
“No, it’s fine. I usually get the rash on my, um, only on my inner elbows.”
Effie didn’t say anything for a second. Then, “I think you’re lying to me, Agnes. You’re a control freak. Control freaks hate to drink.”
“Whatever,” I said.
“Isn’t it simply bizarre the way Susie’s Speedy Maids keep coming up in our conversations with people?” Effie asked. “We only want to talk about the rumor, but it’s Susie’s Speedy Maids this and Susie’s Speedy Maids that.”
“Only in tangential ways. This is a small town. Things get incestuous.”
“Ugh. You can say that again. God, what I wouldn’t give to be sipping Chartreuse in a sidewalk café in Paris right now.”
“Well, why aren’t you?”
“Agnes, you requested that I not speak of Roger, and I am in turn requesting that you not ask about the recent events that compelled me to return to this gossipy backwater, mm-kay?”
“Fair enough.”
Effie parked, and we plodded—well, Effie strutted and I plodded—back to Main Street.
The farmer’s market was wrapping up. Stray veggie leaves and smushed fruit littered the asphalt. Vendors loaded folding tables, awnings, and empty crates onto pickup trucks. I balled my fists and pumped my legs in my too-tight jeans; I was getting worked up. I had convinced myself that Jodi was the murderer and the origin of the rumor, and that made me really, really mad.
When I reached the spot where Jodi’s stall had been, it was empty.
“Oh, diddle,” Effie said, pulling up next to me. “She’s gone.”
I felt like karate-chopping a board in half, like in the movies—that’s how jacked up I was. “Could I have your phone?”
Effie passed me her phone. “Detective Albright still hasn’t gotten back to us. Oh, and program your phone number in there while you’re at it.”
I added my number to Effie’s contacts, and then I did a map search for Shakti Organic Farm. Nothing. I waved at a guy who was loading buckets into a truck with Hernandez Flowers on the side. “Hi,” I said. “Quick question.”
“Yeah?” the guy said, giving his Yankees cap a wiggle.
“Do you know where Shakti Organic Farm is located?”
“Matter of fact, I do, because I went out there to deliver some used hydro supplies just last week. You go out on Route 20 toward Lucerne, take a left on Route 14A, go a few miles, and then take a right on Douglas Road. There’s a black mailbox full of bullet holes at their turnout, about two miles up. Hard to miss.”
Bullet holes? Ummmmm . . .
“Jodi left real early today, anyway,” the guy said. “She said something happened to her mom.”
“Thanks,” I said. I turned to Effie. “Want to go to Jodi’s farm?” I would have asked to borrow the Cadillac, except that my driver’s license was in my wallet at my ex-apartment, and also, I didn’t really want to tool around in a stolen car.
Effie glanced at her wristwatch. “I really must get to the hardware store . . . But after that, yes.”
* * *
I felt jumpy stepping through the doors of the hardware store, and I trailed after Effie and her shopping cart expecting to bump into Otis at every turn. The jumbly she
lves and bad lighting even tricked me into thinking—for one belly-dipping second—that a strange man in the power tools aisle was Otis.
This was a familiar feeling, this blurry searching/hoping/dreading. The thing is, in the years since high school, I’d dreamed about Otis Hatch. A lot. Not sweet dreams, but one breathless recurring dream in which I jog through ill-lit high school hallways, tears streaming down my face, looking frantically for Otis. Looking for the beautiful, kind Otis who I’d loved so hard before that awful betrayal of the Sharpied sign on the locker. Looking for the Otis who had been my trusty lab partner in AP Chemistry, the Otis who’d cracked me up with his easy wit and impressed me with his kindness to everyone he interacted with. The Otis who, as it turns out, didn’t really exist.
When Effie finally thrust a paper sack of purchases in my arms and led me out of the hardware store, I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“—and then after that, we’ll go to Jodi’s farm,” Effie was saying.
“Wait,” I said. “After what?”
“You haven’t been listening! I saw you looking around in there, Agnes, and I know exactly who you were looking for, too.”
“No, you don’t,” I said in a crabby voice.
“Did you date?”
“Date who?”
“Otis.”
“No!” No, we hadn’t dated. We hadn’t even hung out, actually, outside of school activities. We’d had completely different circles of friends. Never in a million years would I have been invited to a party with the athletic, popular kids, and we’d sat with our own friends in the cafeteria. But every day of senior-year chem class, sitting next to Otis at our shared bench, had been pure bliss. We had both gotten an A+ each semester.
“I was saying,” Effie said, “the cashier said Chester was in the hardware store half an hour ago and that he’d expressed an intention of going to the brew pub next door. We must roust him out—he is supposed to be working on the inn’s wiring now.”
“Yeah, Chester may not have been your best choice for an electrician.”
“He was my only choice, Agnes, because he’s working for free, on spec. Who could say no to that? Ah. Here we are. The Pour House. Can’t you get a business license in this town if the name isn’t a pun?”
“I think puns entitle you to a tax break,” I said.
Unlike Club Xenon, the Pour House was a drinking establishment that clicked with Naneda’s own fantasy about itself. Its brick exterior had been recently pressure-washed, and the hand-painted sign called to mind an English pub. The dim interior boasted more clean exposed brick, a big fireplace, and a long, gleaming mahogany bar. Since it was barely past noon, the only patrons were two old dudes hunkered over beers in a booth and, at the bar, a young woman and a stumpy young man.
“Chester?” I said, squinting at the stumpy young man. I’d just seen him at Dad’s last Sunday dinner. We’d had a little spat about who got to eat the last slice of orange spice cake with cream cheese frosting, until Cordelia had suggested we split it. Somehow splitting it had not been a satisfying resolution.
“It is your cousin,” Effie said to me. She settled herself on a barstool next to Chester. I climbed onto the stool next to Effie. “I thought you said you were going to start rewiring the inn today, Chester,” Effie said. “We don’t have much time.”
“Can’t.” Chester swiveled on his stool, away from the young woman. Chester battles the same doughy Blythe genes that I do. He has a pleasant round face, curly brown hair, and intelligent hazel eyes, but that day he was sprouting an unfortunate soul patch. “Last time I checked, the police were still there. If I start ripping things apart, they’ll think I’m helping hide evidence for my homicidal relatives. Oh yeah, and did you forget that I’m not a licensed electrician?”
“What?” Effie cried. “You didn’t tell me that! You said you had no end of experience.”
“I do,” Chester said. “But no license.”
“But—”
“Calm down.” Chester sipped his beer and leaned in. “I can still do the work, okay? We just don’t want anyone seeing me doing the work. Then, when I’m finished, we’ll have the city electrical inspector come in, get his stamp of approval, get the new certificate of occupancy, and we’re in the clear.”
“And if your wiring job doesn’t get approved?” I said.
“It will. But if you guys are so worried about it, why don’t you go to the city code-compliance officer and have him hold off on the demolition? Kathleen Todd is dead, and she’s the one who bullied him into setting that date for razing the inn, right?”
“The code-compliance officer is responsible?” Effie said. “I spoke to him just two days ago. Karl Knudson. He was the one who explained to me that the inn was condemned simply on account of the ancient wiring. It’s odd, you know—when I originally spoke to him, he didn’t seem to think the wiring was such a big issue. Talking to him again isn’t a bad idea.”
“You’re welcome,” Chester said.
I snorted.
Chapter 8
The young woman next to Chester swiveled on her barstool. She was small and sturdy like a gymnast, with smeary aqua eyeliner that made her look haggard, although she probably wasn’t more than twenty-five. Pink residue scummed the inside of her empty glass. “Hey, be nice to Chester,” she said to Effie and me. “He’s an all right guy.” She sounded sloshed. “Barkeep! How about another of these fruity things?” she shouted toward the door behind the bar.
“Just a minute!” a man yelled back.
“Aunt Effie, Agnes,” Chester said, “this is Kimmie.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Charmed,” Effie said.
Kimmie pointed at Effie. “You look like a grandma in a soap opera, and you”—she pointed at me—“omigod, you look just like Velma from Scooby-Doo.”
“Shouldn’t we get going?” I grumbled to Effie. “I’m dying to talk to Jodi about that rumor.”
“What rumor?” Kimmie asked. “I love rumors.”
I loudly cleared my throat.
Effie ignored me and said, “The rumor that Jodi Todd has been propagating about us, dear.”
“Kathleen Todd’s daughter? The younger one with the dreads who was, like, totally getting screwed over by her mom?”
Wait. What? Hello, possible motive.
“Ah, delightful,” Cousin Chester murmured. “So exotic, so simple. Kimmie, my dear, in a past century, you would’ve been a milkmaid.” He caressed Kimmie’s Kona-tan shoulder.
“I liked you better before you started in with the poetic talk, Chester,” Kimmie said.
“But I’m wearing my janitor coveralls,” he said. “You said they were sexy.”
Chester was wearing his janitor coveralls. He worked night shifts at the middle school.
“Well, I changed my mind,” Kimmie said.
“I see,” Chester said in a hurt voice. He slapped some cash on the bar, said to Effie, “I’ll see you later at the inn,” and flounced out of the bar.
I should mention that Chester studied nineteenth-century British literature at Dartmouth, but he has a tough time holding down jobs because he spends most of his energy hitting on girls who can’t stand him.
“Where is the bartender?” Effie asked, tapping her nails on the bar.
“Bartender?” I said. “What about how Jodi was getting screwed over by her mom?”
The bartender appeared and asked what we would like.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” Effie said. “Extra olives.”
“I’ll have another of these fruity things,” Kimmie said, shoving her glass across the counter.
“All right,” the bartender said. “But Kimmie, this one’s going to be a virgin, all right?”
Kimmie giggled. “Oh, Luke.”
Luke got to work. The blender whirred. The shaker clacked. Two drinks were set before us, and then Luke went off to tend to some other customers who’d come in.
I turned sideways on my stool to face Kimmie; Kimmi
e shrank back. “Okay. How was Jodi getting screwed over exactly?” I asked.
Kimmie chewed her beige-glossed lip. “Kathleen Todd has—had—two daughters, right? Megan, she’s the older one, and Jodi. Jodi runs a stand at the farmer’s market—some hippie name—oh yeah, Shakti Organic Farms, I think? Megan’s a rich bitch. Drives a Range Rover. She gets her nails done, like, twice a week at Tracy’s Nail Heaven.”
“Fast-forward to the part about Jodi being screwed over,” I said. “What did you mean by that?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. Boss will be so mad.”
“We won’t breathe a word to your boss,” I said.
“Mr. Solomon is super touchy about privacy.”
“Mr. Solomon, of Solomon and Fitch?” I said. That was the law firm above the stationery store just down the street.
“Yeah. I’m Mr. Solomon’s paralegal.”
“You said something about Kathleen Todd?” Effie prompted.
“I really shouldn’t say.”
Effie lowered her voice. “Luke made your drink a virgin, the old meanie.” She poked Kimmie’s drink.
Kimmie sighed. “I know.”
“You look sad, darling.”
“He cuts me off.”
“I don’t think I should have this martini after all,” Effie said, “because I might need to drive . . .” She hadn’t yet taken a sip.
“You’re unconscionable,” I hissed.
“Here, Kimmie,” Effie said. “Take it.”
“Okay!” Kimmie said, stretching out a hand.
Effie whisked the martini out of her reach. “Ah-ah!” She shook a finger. “Not until you tell us about Kathleen Todd’s will.”
I am the great-niece of a she-wolf.
“Okay.” Kimmie licked her lips. “Kathleen was going to sign her will next week, and I helped Mr. Solomon prepare the final version, and everything was going to the older daughter, Megan, and Jodi wasn’t going to get, like, anything.”
“Kathleen Todd didn’t already have a will?” Effie asked. She slid the martini toward Kimmie.
Kimmie took a deep swallow. “I guess not. Which is, like, weird, since she actually seemed like she was pretty rich. You wouldn’t know it from meeting Jodi, though. She and her boyfriend Jentry are granola types. My friend Chuck went to a party at their place once, and he said it’s really rundown because Jodi and Jentry are, like, total do-it-yourselfers. Homesteaders, sort of.” Kimmie gulped the rest of the martini and struggled off her barstool. “You know what? I just totally remembered that I have to go do something, like, right now.”
