Wreath of Deception

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “Oh?” Jo didn’t like the sound of this.

  “It accused you of having arranged the explosion that killed your husband up in New York.”

  Jo sank down into a nearby chair.

  “Anonymous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then he certainly can’t put any credibility into it, can he?”

  “I don’t know about that. You said he already had been looking into the accident enough to question it, so there’s obviously interest in that direction already. I just thought you should know that things may heat up for you. Maybe you need to prepare yourself – gather whatever reports you have on the explosion, whatever. Perhaps talk to your lawyer.”

  Jo laughed. Right, bring Earnest C. Ainsworthy in on this. That would help.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “Who could have sent such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, and I agree, it is ridiculous. But there it is. I thought it was better for you to be forewarned.”

  “Yes. Thank you Deirdre.”

  “I’d better go. Alden doesn’t know I’m calling, and he’s probably regretting he let it slip out. I half-promised him I wouldn’t say anything, but sometimes loyalty to one’s friends has to take precedence over other concerns.”

  Jo hung up, her thoughts spinning, wondering who hated her enough to have written that letter. Niles Sandborn? Would his grudge against her push him to such lengths? Jo couldn’t see him exerting himself to that extent, but it was possible.

  Deirdre never said where the letter had come from, and Jo hadn’t asked. She wished she had. Surely it had to come from New York, though, didn’t it?

  Or was it from someone here in Abbotsville?

  Jo stared into space until the aroma of Javonne’s casserole heating in the oven reminded her it was suppertime.

  Too bad she didn’t feel hungry.

  CHAPTER 24

  Jo had her car back, having picked it up from Hanson’s, and was pleased with this return to some normalcy and independence. However, the price of that return – her check covering the large deductible – put her in an even deeper financial hole, which would deepen even further when the hospital bill arrived. She knew it would take a frightening amount of time to climb out of debt.

  Much of the pleasure she expected to feel at being back behind the wheel was tempered by Deirdre’s call the night before. She’d tried to put it aside for the time being, but this morning it continued to weigh heavily on her. In addition, she was surprised to discover that driving was making her feel shaky; a post-traumatic reaction, she figured. It would be a while, she feared, before she would again travel on auto-pilot, her fingers relaxed on the wheel as she listened to the radio, rather than her present state: steering with a white-knuckle grip and hearing every knock and chug of this rolling metal box.

  But at least she could now travel solo, which was a bonus, and the first place she was going to was Bethanne Fowler’s apartment for a one-on-one talk. Jo had reached Bethanne by phone and arranged the meeting, explaining that it was to talk about Genna. Bethanne had agreed, probably assuming it to be a condolence call for the loss of her good friend.

  Jo approached the Wildwood apartments by the same route she had driven the night of her accident. She saw the remains of the tree she had hit, broken and partially cleared away; the sight produced a shiver and a flash of nausea as the memories flooded back. Jo blinked hard, and took a deep breath before driving on and turning into the Wildwood’s parking lot.

  She followed the numbers to the correct building, parked, and climbed out. She took a few more deep breaths to gain full composure, then adjusted the red baseball cap that had replaced her scarf and headed for the door. She was conscious of the bruises that were still highly visible through her make-up. It wasn't her favorite look for making new acquaintances, but it would have to do.

  Jo checked the row of apartment buzzers and pressed the one for 304. It buzzed back in a moment, and she pulled open the outer door and began her two-flight climb. About halfway up the first flight she heard the sound of a door closing up above. Footsteps tramped downward toward her. On the first landing a well-dressed, forty-something man swept by without comment. He seemed familiar, but Jo couldn’t think why. Was he someone she had encountered around town? Possibly.

  She continued her climb and soon found apartment 304. A couple of taps with the metal knocker brought a “just a minute” response, and Jo waited, hearing noises inside and picturing Bethanne doing some last minute tidying.

  The door opened, and the woman whose photo Jo had seen on the tennis shop wall stood before her wearing a white V-neck sweater and dark pants. There was definite resemblance to Genna as far as coloring and features. But whereas Genna had projected an air of sensitivity and naiveté, Bethanne’s expression was harder and more assertive, though the touch of redness about the eyes hinted at the struggle of the last few days.

  “Jo McAllister?” she asked.

  “Yes. Thank you, Bethanne, for giving me some of your time.”

  “No problem.” Bethanne stepped back to let Jo in. “I haven’t been going in to work the last few days. It’s been, well, it’s been tough.”

  “I’m sure it has, and I’m so sorry. From what I understand, you and Genna were friends since childhood.”

  “Kindergarten.” Bethanne led the way to the living room. “Nearly eighteen years. We were like sisters. Each of us was an only-child, so we latched onto each other right away.”

  “You could almost be sisters. I saw the resemblance right away.”

  Bethanne laughed slightly. “Everyone said that.” She fingered the turquoise pendant that hung from a silver chain around her neck. “But that was the only similarity. Inside we were like night and day. But maybe that’s why we got along so well. We never competed for the same things.”

  “No, I guess not, since you’re into tennis and she loved the theater. That’s how I got to know Genna, by the way, through the Abbotsville Playhouse.”

  “Oh, I see. Would you like some coffee? I have a pot made.”

  “That would be great. Black is fine.”

  Bethanne left to get it, and Jo sank down on the beige tweed sofa. As she listened to the soft clatter coming from the kitchen she looked around the pleasant but impersonal room. It held a new-looking sofa and chairs, end tables and lamps, all coordinated and looking as though they had been scooped up in one swoop from a furniture store display – and not a very high-end one at that. She figured this would be the usual process for two young, single women who likely considered their life here a stopgap of sorts and who had probably chipped in together on the purchase.

  Where were all their personal items, though, such as photos or mementos? In their own bedrooms? Jo hoped so, since this room offered little to identify its occupants. There were no book cases or scattered magazines. Even the pictures on the wall seemed to have been selected for their colors and size rather than the art. Then Jo spotted a book on the end table, lying slightly beyond the lamp, and reached over to pick it up. A book of poetry. 100 Love Sonnets by Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, translated from Spanish. She flipped it open and read a few of the lyrical, sensual lines. Was this Genna’s? Perhaps a gift from Pete? If so, there was a whole other side of Pete she hadn’t seen.

  Jo heard a soft yip come from another part of the apartment and remembered about Bethanne’s dog. She returned the book to where she’d found it as Bethanne came out of the kitchen carrying a small tray, which she then set down on the uncluttered coffee table.

  “So,” Bethanne said, holding out a mug, “you acted at the playhouse too?”

  “No, I was doing jewelry and set design for the production.” Jo took a sip of the coffee. It was strong – just as she liked it. “I own the new craft shop on Main Street. The place where Kyle Sandborn died.”

  Bethanne froze in the middle of stirring sugar into her coffee, her face blanching, but only briefly, and a split second later she tapped her spoon on the edge of the mug
and carefully set it down.

  “I heard about your shop. Wasn’t Kyle, uh, that is, didn’t it happen during your grand opening?”

  Jo nodded.

  “Well,” Bethanne took a sip from her mug, “you seem to have become closely associated with Abbotsville’s two recent deaths. How very unfortunate.”

  “I agree. However, it’s beginning to seem like nearly everyone in this town is connected to those two people, in one way or another.”

  Bethanne nodded. “Quite possibly. And they were connected to each other, obviously, through the playhouse. Although Kyle’s death, of course, was murder.”

  “Yes, it was. But I’m not so sure Genna’s wasn’t.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I don’t see any good reason why Genna would have fallen accidentally. And knowing her, although briefly, I can’t believe she jumped to her own death, after first carefully tying the dog – your dog – to a tree.”

  At the mention of her dog, Bethanne’s lip began to tremble.

  “If I hadn’t called and asked her to walk him....” Bethanne stood up and walked to the balcony window, her back to Jo. “I stayed late at the club. Jane Watson was asking my advice on a new tennis racquet. Then she wanted to try the demo. I agreed to hit a few balls with her. If I had just come home....”

  “If you had taken your dog out yourself, you might be dead.”

  Bethanne spun around. “What do you mean? That someone killed Genna thinking it was me?”

  “I think that’s very possible, possible enough for me to warn you.”

  “But why? Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  “That’s what I hoped you could tell me.”

  Jo watched Bethanne’s face as a series of emotions flew across it – disbelief, anger, then fear. “I don’t know! I can’t imagine.”

  “Bethanne, so far the only person I can connect with both you and Kyle is Hank Schroder. Hank had good reason to have murderous feelings toward Kyle. Did he have any problems with you?”

  “Hank? No, nothing. He was responsible for keeping the tennis courts clean, and once in a while his crew did a lousy job and I had to get after him about it. But I don’t see that he’d want to kill me for that. That’s crazy.”

  “Nothing else? Anything more personal?”

  “Personal? With Hank?” Bethanne’s lip curled at the thought. “We had very little to do with each other. Unless he had some kind of perverted fantasies about me, there was nothing between us other than what I’ve told you.”

  “Fantasies? Did you ever get any uneasy feeling in that direction?”

  “No,” Bethanne waved a hand dismissively. “Just making a sick joke. Women in short tennis skirts sometimes draw unwanted attention.” She sat down across from Jo. “Hank Schroder never struck me as a person who spared a thought for anything beyond his work.”

  “Could he have felt you jeopardized his job by making complaints?”

  “I doubt that. Everyone knew running that crew of high school kids was a major hassle. I never went to Bob Gordon about it, always directly to Hank. I doubt he took it personally. Look,” she said, “I really don’t think someone was after me. Or poor Genna, either. It had to be an accident. Maybe she was reaching for something on the edge. She could have tied up Mojo before doing that, to keep him back.”

  “Maybe. What about Genna’s boyfriend, Pete? Could he have been with her? I know there were some problems between them, and he has an explosive temper. Perhaps an argument between them turned violent?”

  “Pete?” Bethanne frowned. “I know what you saying. Pete really has anger issues. But I’ve seen him lately, and he’s devastated over this. There’s no way he could have caused Genna’s death. Really. No way.”

  Jo nodded. “I tend to agree with you on that. But I still think there’s a strong possibility Genna may have been mistaken for you. Even if I can’t figure out yet by whom, I think you should be very careful.”

  The yip Jo had heard earlier from the back of the apartment escalated to frantic barking. Bethanne got up. “Mojo doesn’t like to be closed up too long.” She walked down the hall and opened a bedroom door, releasing a small dog that reminded Jo of the toy poodle her Aunt Martha had owned, years ago. The dog scampered excitedly to the living room, sniffing first at Jo’s feet, then bouncing on and off the sofa, trying to get on her lap, or lick her face. Jo fended him off, laughing.

  “Mojo!” Bethanne scolded, scooping him up into her arms and holding tightly. “Sorry, he gets excited with visitors. That’s why I try to keep him away.”

  “That’s quite all right. Oh, your necklace!” The little dog had wiggled about and nipped at Bethanne’s turquoise pendant.

  “Stop that, Mojo.” Bethanne pushed the dog’s muzzle away, and set him on the floor.

  “That’s a lovely piece,” Jo said. “I noticed it right away. Isn’t it a Roberta Sawyer? The New Mexican designer?”

  Bethanne looked down at her pendant, rubbing it clean and smiling. “I’m not sure. It was a gift. All I know is it’s very beautiful. And unique.”

  And expensive, Jo added, mentally. She knew the jewelry designer by reputation and had long admired her work for its simplicity and subtle Southwestern touches.

  “Well,” Bethanne said, “I’m afraid Mojo is telling me he needs to go out.” The dog had started running back and forth to the door, barking excitedly. Jo got up as Bethanne reached for the leash hanging near by.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do about him once I go back to work," Bethanne said. "When it was Genna and me here, he was never alone for very long because of our alternate schedules.” At mentioning her lost friend, Bethanne’s eyes glistened, and she crouched down to the little dog and clicked on his leash.

  “Poor thing,” she said, hugging him, “he misses her, I know, almost as much as I do. I’ve found him wandering around her room as though he’s still expecting to find her there.” She looked up at Jo. “Genna was the one who came up with his name. Mojo. Funny thing, though. Part of the reason we both liked it was because it means ‘good luck charm’.”

  She looked somberly at Mojo, and ruffled his fur.

  “Isn’t that a crock?”

  CHAPTER 25

  Jo followed Mojo as he led Bethanne out of the building. They parted ways in the parking lot, Bethanne promising to heed Jo’s warning and be cautious. Jo hoped she meant it, though she wasn’t sure she had convinced the woman she might be in danger.

  As she climbed back in her car to head back to the shop, Jo remembered that Carrie planned to take off at one o’clock to run errands. If Jo wanted lunch, she’d better pick it up before going back. She drove to The Abbott’s Kitchen, a couple of blocks down Main from the shop, where she often got carryout. Carrie had often joked that Bert and Ruthie Conway had been running the lunch shop since Colonial days, and the aged and dusty brick building made the joke seem likely. Inside, though, all was spick-and-span, and Bert’s sandwiches, in Jo’s opinion, were to die for. Her mouth watered at the thought of her favorite turkey-bacon roll-up, dripping with Bert’s special sauce.

  As she walked through the door, Rafe Rulenski was just settling down at a small table, having picked up his lunch order at Ruthie’s counter. He looked up and immediately pulled out the chair next to his.

  “What a pleasant surprise. Won’t you join me, Mrs. McAllister?”

  Jo hesitated. She had planned on carryout. But spending a few moments getting to know Rafe Rulenski a bit better was tempting. “That would be nice,” she said, smiling. “But I’ll have to be quick.” She gave her order to Ruthie, who nodded and winked one aged eye, obviously recognizing what had become a regular choice for Jo, then called it back to her husband.

  “Want coffee with that?” Ruthie asked.

  Jo decided she’d had her fill of caffeine for a while and chose bottled water instead. She paid, then carried her water to Rafe’s table.

  “If we’re going to dine together, you’ll really
have to start calling me Jo,” she said.

  “Deal.”

  Rafe still had his day’s growth of beard, and he wore a denim jacket over his usual dark tee. Something seemed different about him, though, and it took Jo a moment to realize it was his manner, which was missing the fire she had seen at the theater.

  “What’s happening with the show,” she asked.

  Rafe groaned. “Nothing. Nothing at all, that’s what’s happening. The death of two of your stars tends to do that to a production.”

  “I can imagine the troupe is pretty upset.”

  Rafe nodded. “Of course. It’s all quite tragic, but we can’t let this mean the death of the Abbotsville Playhouse as well.”

  “It could be that serious?”

  “We were living on borrowed time as it was. If we can’t pull things back together....” Rafe took an enormous bite of his sandwich and chewed glumly.

  Ruthie called out that Jo’s turkey and bacon was ready, and Jo hopped up to get it. As she settled back at the table, Rafe asked, “What’s with the new look?” indicating Jo’s baseball cap and bruises.

  “My car and I had a little battle with a tree the other night. The tree won.”

  Rafe grunted. “Bummer.”

  “I’ve been having a few other problems of my own since Kyle’s murder. The police have been squinting at me with suspicious eyes because he was killed in the backroom of my shop.”

  “Oh yeah! I’d forgotten about that. So that was your shop?”

  “Uh-huh. Plus I was the one found him, and the knitting needle that killed him very likely came from my stock.”

  Rafe stared at her intently, but Jo wasn’t sure if it was from concern for her or if he might in fact be planning his next play: The Little Craft Shop of Horrors. Would he have her character sing a little ditty, she wondered? Perhaps tap dance her way into the storeroom? What would she be declared at the end – guilty or innocent?

  “Surely,” he said, “that’s not enough to incriminate you, is it? I mean, somebody has to find the body. And if he was killed in your shop, who more likely than you? Nor should it come as a huge surprise that he was killed with something from your store, especially if it wasn’t premeditated.”