A Clue in the Stew

by Connie Archer

  “That’s fantastic. Thank you!” Lucky replied.

  Fern locked the door behind them and together they headed back toward the elevator bank. As they rode down, Fern explained, “Helen’s a friend of mine. She’s actually in the basement. They didn’t want to give her a fancy office on the first floor. Don’t ask me why. This place is run by a bunch of old fuddy-duddies. They don’t think what she does is that important.”

  “And you do,” Lucky stated.

  “Sure. It is important. I may have my gripes about this place, but the Salisbury does a lot of good. It’s important that people in Bournmouth see it as a positive contribution. Otherwise, you’d have the townspeople on the front lawn with torches in the middle of the night.”

  Lucky laughed out loud. “Terrific image.”

  “Here we go,” Fern said as the elevator doors opened. She limped down yet another tiled corridor toward a door at the end. “Helen! It’s me. Put that liquor bottle away, I’m bringin’ a visitor.”

  Helen wore a big grin as they turned into her office. She swiveled in her chair, away from a long worktable where photos were laid out. She smiled at Lucky. “Don’t believe a word she says. I’m a complete teetotaler.”

  “This is Lucky. She’s the one who came to see me the other day with her friend.”

  “Oh, yes.” Helen’s face became serious. “Fern told me about the murder of that famous writer in Snowflake. Just like Dr. Cranleigh. You’re trying to find one of our patients?”

  “I’m hoping to. Everyone I’ve talked to is suspicious of her. But I’d still like to find her.” Lucky deliberately neglected to mention that Hilary’s daughter was possibly already in Snowflake and well aware of her mother’s death.

  Helen nodded. She appeared to be the same generation as Fern and wore a bright pink blouse over a pair of black slacks. Her fair hair was cropped very short and her nails were painted in a color that matched her pink top.

  “Lucky’s hoping that maybe one of the newsletters has some photos with names. You know the kind of thing I mean, don’t you?”

  “Oh, sure,” Helen replied. “I take a lot of the pictures myself for these events. We want to make the hospital seem a friendly place, full of active people. Not just a dumping ground for neurotics or psychotics, you know. I always try to get the names of everyone for the newsletter, especially the volunteers. They work pretty hard for these things and it means a lot to them to see their pictures and their names in the newsletter. Good for self-esteem in my opinion.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Here, I’ll show you some of our older photos. You can see what this place looked like back in the dark ages.” Helen pulled a heavy binder down from a shelf above the worktable. “I like to keep these around to remind myself why I’m doing this job.” She opened the binder to display page after page of photographic reproductions in black and white of depressed-looking people. Even allowing for a modern perspective of clothing or good grooming, it was obvious these patients were suffering from mental or emotional issues. “They used to line up these folks and take pictures of them. Why, I have no idea. They’d hardly be good advertising for mental health,” Helen remarked. “Even in the early 1900s, you were legally insane if your behavior was anything other than what was considered normal. People were diagnosed as being maniacal, or suicidal or melancholic. Some diagnosis, huh?”

  “Now the catch-all phrase is paranoid schizophrenia,” Fern remarked bitterly. “All the vets in this country are diagnosed that way, no matter what kind of problems they’re having. Lazy damn shrinks. Not like Dr. Cynthia.”

  Helen reached over and squeezed Fern’s shoulder in sympathy. She turned to Lucky. “This has hit my friend hard.”

  “I can’t say I blame her.”

  “There were some hardworking, ethical doctors who really tried to keep these people with chronic problems from being dumped in a place like this, but none of their efforts were really significant. Even in the later years of the twentieth century, only four patients were actually released to return home. Can you believe that? The majority were senile and at the end of their lives. Rotten way to spend your life and your last years, wouldn’t you say?” Helen remarked rhetorically. “Now, thank heavens, it’s all different. We have programs for just about everything. We serve the gay and lesbian community, we have an addiction program. We have both inpatient and outpatient programs. We do have adults with severe and persistent mental health issues, but we like to think of ourselves as a safety net rather than a last resort.” Helen replaced the heavy binder on the shelf, “But I’m sure you’re not interested in all that history. You’d like to find a picture of this girl.”

  “Yes.” Lucky nodded. “If she was a regular visitor here, whether as an outpatient or not, she could have had her photo in a newsletter. I may have to come back another time though because I do have to get back to work soon.”

  “Where do you work?” Helen asked.

  “At the By the Spoonful Soup Shop in Snowflake. It’s my business.”

  “Oh, I’ve been there!” Helen exclaimed delightedly. She turned to Fern. “Remember the time my niece came to visit and we drove all over?” She turned back to Lucky. “That’s a great little restaurant.”

  Lucky smiled. “I think so. I hope you come again.”

  “I’ll do that. I will.” Helen smiled. “But if you’re in a hurry, I can loan you my CDs. I like to be organized. I keep hard copies of all the newsletters and I have them on my hard drive, but I also keep CDs, just in case my computer up and dies or something.”

  “Oh, would you?” Lucky asked. “That would be fantastic.”

  “Just return them to me in good shape, will you? I’d hate to have to rerecord all that stuff again. What time period are you interested in?”

  “I’m thinking just the last few years. We know she lived and worked locally and saw Dr. Cranleigh during that time. If she was involved in any events, I think it would be then.”

  “Good thought. Okay.” Helen moved to a file cabinet on the other side of the room. Lucky watched as her fingers clicked though stacks of plastic CD cases, moving several to the side. She lifted out a pile of six and wrapped a rubber band around them. “Here you go. No rush, just bring them back when you’re done.”

  “Thank you. I will. I really appreciate this.” Lucky smiled. “I’ll take good care of them.”

  “Nice to meet you, dear. I’ll make sure I say hello the next time I’m in Snowflake.”

  Chapter 47

  “I’M TERRIFIED, LUCKY,” Barbara Drake said. “I don’t know what’s going on in this house. If anything had ever happened to Meg . . . I can’t even think about it.”

  “You’re not to blame,” Lucky replied.

  “What’s so frightening is that we could have found the poor girl dead in the woods last night. It was just sheer luck that I spotted her jacket and ran after her.” She shivered, rubbing her arms. “My other guests have all checked out and I’m stuck with that lot upstairs. It must have been one of them. Anyone could have easily slipped out the front door and waited by the side of the road.” Barbara shivered again. “I can’t bear to think about it.”

  “Me neither. But I’ll be the one coming over from now on. I can’t have Meg put in any danger.” Lucky looked over Barbara’s shoulder and spotted Audra in the lounge, reading a magazine. “You know, while I’m here, I might as well let them know what our specials are for the next few days.”

  “Please,” Barbara said, “be my guest. It’s wonderful you’re willing to do this.”

  “Well, it’s not that big a deal and these are special circumstances.” Lucky didn’t mention she had an ulterior motive in being so generous with her time. “I see Audra. I’ll check with her.”

  Lucky approached the armchair where Audra sat. She still wore her black pants suit and high heels. Maybe it was the only outfit she ha
d packed. “Hi, Audra. I’m just checking if you or the others would like some soup specials for lunch. I’m making another trip over in a few hours. I thought I’d ask now while I’m here.”

  “Oh.” Audra looked up from flipping through a fashion magazine. “Anything is fine with me. Just no carbs, please. You’ll have to ask the others though. I have no idea what they’d like. Do you have a martini soup? That might be a good one for Sylvia,” she answered sarcastically.

  Lucky struggled to keep her tone neutral. “I assume you’ve heard what happened to Meg, our waitress, last night.”

  “I did. Are you sure it wasn’t some weirdo passing by? Or maybe an ex-boyfriend?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Meg. Did you happen to hear anyone moving around last night?”

  “Only Phoebe. I heard her door open and shut. A couple of times. Then our landlady started yelling for help. Scared me half to death. I thought someone else had been murdered.”

  “Audra.” Lucky sat in the armchair next to the blonde woman. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you don’t seem very concerned about Hilary’s death.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Audra flipped the magazine closed.

  “Just that it must be tough. You’ll be out of a job now and—”

  “Oh, I’m not worried.” Audra waved her hand airily. “I’ve had an offer from the publishing house to do more work for them.” She smiled slyly. “So if you’re implying I had a motive to kill Hilary, you’re wrong. I won’t be affected at all. And if you’re really curious about motives, have a look at Sylvia. Hilary hated her. She was furious when Derek married Sylvia.”

  “Was that a sudden thing?”

  “I’ll say!” Audra leaned closer. “Sylvia gave up an important career . . .” Audra said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “As an exotic dancer. Derek picked her up in one of those clubs. They had a weekend fling and ran off to a justice of the peace. Hilary was apoplectic. She was never crazy about Junior and now this. She even tried to buy Sylvia off, but it was no go.”

  “When did that happen?”

  Audra looked at her curiously. “Why are you asking?”

  “Oh, no reason. I thought I heard someone say they were newlyweds.”

  “Hah! That’s a good one. It was three weeks ago. But trust me, romance played no part. Sylvia saw dollar signs and Derek saw . . . well, you can imagine.”

  “Was Ms. Stone difficult to work with?”

  Audra shrugged. “Not particularly. I do have to say, I’ve been amazed at the success of this book. I don’t think even her husband thought she had it in her.”

  “Really?”

  Audra smirked. “Well it certainly made him sit up and take notice, didn’t it? Maybe that’s why she wrote it.”

  Lucky wondered if Audra had a point. If Derek Stone, Senior had been losing interest in his wife, what better way to get his attention. Especially if Sylvia’s gossip was correct and he was having an affair with his publicist. “You’ve been in this business a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Well, I’ve done this type of work for a while, but Derek”—she hesitated—“that’s Mr. Stone, Senior, helped me set up my company officially about a month ago and then hired me for this project. He’s been absolutely wonderful.”

  Lucky was sure he had. The gossip Meg extracted from Sylvia must be true.

  • • •

  HORACE SAT ON a park bench near the edge of the Village Green, very close to the pathway he had noticed Derek Stone using the morning before. He reached down and patted Cicero’s head. “Get ready, boy.” Cicero wagged his tail in anticipation. Horace finally saw Derek’s round figure approach in jogging clothes. Derek was walking though, not jogging. Horace waited until Derek was ten yards away and then leaned down to the dog’s ear. “Go get him, Cicero.”

  Cicero barked once and raced toward Derek. When Cicero reached his goal, he continued to bark, running in circles around the man. Horace knew Cicero wouldn’t hurt a fly. For the dog, it was all in good fun. Derek stopped in his tracks and made shooing motions with his hands. He looked frightened. Finally, Derek started to yell. “Somebody! Help! Get this damn dog away from me!”

  Horace jumped up and ran after Cicero, grabbing his collar. “I’m so sorry. Don’t let him scare you. He just wanted to play.”

  “Well, he has a strange way of showing it.” Derek’s face had blanched and he was sweating profusely. “Why isn’t he on a leash? Don’t you people have leash laws here?”

  “I sincerely apologize. Why don’t you take a seat for a minute. Let Cicero sniff your hand, so you won’t be a stranger.”

  Derek was visibly annoyed. “Fine. I’ll sit for a minute. But keep that mutt away from me.”

  Horace’s immediate reaction was to put Derek in his place. How dare he call Cicero a mutt. Cicero was a noble canine. But to say what he really felt would ruin the moment he had worked for. Horace slipped a treat from his pocket and passed it to Cicero as soon as Derek looked away. “You look like you’ve been running a little too hard.”

  “Just trying to keep the weight off,” Derek replied as he patted his paunch. “Doing the best I can while I’m stuck here. Is there no workout club or gym in town?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Horace thought it best not to mention the facilities at the Snowflake Resort. “Excuse me, but you’re Derek Stone, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” Derek looked surprised that someone would know his name.

  “Yes, I thought so. I heard you speak at your mother’s book signing. You did a wonderful job of keeping everything under control.”

  “Thank you.” He sniffed. “Not everyone has appreciated my efforts.”

  “I am very sorry for your loss. It’s such a terrible thing to lose someone.”

  “Yes.” Derek nodded sadly and looked down. His shoulders began to shake.

  Was he crying? Horace wondered. He hadn’t meant to elicit this much emotion from the man. “I’m very sorry,” he repeated.

  “Thank you.” Derek wiped his nose on his sleeve. “My mother was an amazing woman, so talented, so strong. I admired her and loved her so much. I’m just heartbroken. I don’t know how I’m going to cope now that she’s gone.”

  “You’ve worked with your mother for a long time?”

  “Oh, yes. While she was writing, she’d ask my advice and we’d bat around ideas for this book and the next one.”

  “I see.” Knowing what he knew about Hank’s claim, that Hilary hadn’t written a word of the book, Horace wondered if Derek was out and out lying, or completely delusional. “Then it’s really doubly hard.”

  Derek started to sob again. This time loudly. Horace felt in his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, offering it to Derek.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get this worked up. I was out running to get my mind off of all this. I can’t stand being here another day. I don’t know how long the police will insist we stay in Snowflake. And I can’t possibly leave until they release my mother’s body. It’s just ridiculous.”

  “I guess they’re no further along in their investigation?” Horace asked.

  “Country bumpkins, that’s what they are. I mean, really! I should insist they call in real crime scene investigators. They have got to get to the bottom of this. This should never have happened to my mother.”

  “Did someone mention you’re a newlywed? Congratulations. That should be some comfort in such a difficult time.”

  Derek snorted. “Yes. Sylvia and I were married three weeks ago. Mother was very angry. She had . . . well, she had chosen someone she wanted me to meet. She was very insistent but . . . well, Sylvia just swept me off my feet.”

  “Ah,” Horace replied noncomittally.

  “But now . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I
wonder now if I was too hasty.” He looked at Horace; his eyes were red-rimmed. “Do you think I was?” he asked earnestly.

  “Well, not if you’re in love. Not if someone that special comes into your life. If that’s the case, then you didn’t make a mistake.”

  Derek’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I just don’t know anything anymore.”

  Horace felt terribly sorry for Derek.

  • • •

  SOPHIE PICKED UP a basket at the entrance to the market and sauntered casually down an aisle, pretending to peruse the products on the shelves. She had been following Phoebe Hollister through town, as Phoebe stopped at the pharmacy, the bakery to purchase some cookies and now at the market, where Phoebe stood at the end of the aisle choosing a bottle of vitamins.

  Sophie turned her head to make sure Phoebe was still within range. Her timing was unfortunate because at that moment, Phoebe looked up and stared directly in Sophie’s eyes. Sophie looked away quickly and moved to the other side of the aisle, where a selection of hand lotions were on display. There was movement in her peripheral vision. She looked up quickly. Phoebe was gone.

  Sophie replaced the item on the shelf. Her basket was now empty. She walked slowly to the front of the store, where she could see the two checkout stands. She knew Phoebe had placed a few items in her basket so she would have to go through the checkout line to pay. Phoebe wasn’t there. Sophie walked around to the next aisle. No Phoebe. “Damn,” she muttered. How did I lose her? she thought. She had been trying to orchestrate a moment when she could casually strike up a conversation with the woman, but so far, she had been forced to hurry to keep up with Phoebe’s travels through town.

  Sophie walked the width of the front of the store, peering down each aisle in search of Phoebe. She had disappeared. Sophie sighed and spun around to leave. Phoebe was standing directly behind her, inches away. Sophie almost knocked foreheads with her.

  “I hope you don’t think you’ve fooled me.”

  “Wha . . .” Sophie was speechless.

  “You’ve been following me all over town.”