A Vintage Death

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “But they didn’t charge you,” Lyssa said, stating what she knew.

  “No, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. Jane, of course, assured them I never left the cottage on Tuesday night. Thank heavens she was here! Otherwise there would have been no one to back me up on that. Poor Jane, though. To be dragged into such a horrible situation.”

  At the sound of her name, Dorothy’s cousin emerged from the back office. She had the drawn look of one who hadn’t slept much either. Her dark hair, which had been arranged so tidily the day they’d decorated the Cove, appeared to have been merely pushed out of the way. A dab of lipstick, instead of helping, seemed only to accentuate her sallowness, as did the brightly colored cardigan, its cheeriness incongruous to the situation.

  “Nobody had to drag me into doing what I could for you, Dorothy.” Jane turned to Callie and Lyssa. “I told the police, over and over, how absolutely sure I was that Dorothy never left the cottage all night. I was up, you see, more than once. Sleeping in a strange bed has always been difficult for me. At one point, I even warmed a pan of milk, hoping it would help. I didn’t worry about waking you,” she said, turning to Dorothy, “because I know how you’ve always slept like a log. And I could hear you.” Jane squeezed her cousin affectionately on the arm. “Not exactly snoring, my dear, but clearly in a deep sleep. I had to repeat that so many times to the police. And in the end, I’m not sure I truly convinced them.”

  “But you’re both back home,” Lyssa said. “That’s something.”

  “Yes,” Dorothy agreed. “But I feel a huge cloud of suspicion hanging over me. It’s awful. Hardly any friends have come by.”

  “They’re probably just learning that you’re here,” Callie said. “Give them a little time.”

  “Not a single customer has been in either. They’ve probably heard my name linked with Cliff’s on TV so often that they believe I’m a murderer!”

  Callie thought of the wild statements Lyssa had overheard at the café and knew there was truth to that. But the distressed woman in front of her didn’t look strong enough at the moment to push through a revolving door, much less stab someone to death. Add to that Dorothy’s mild, kindly ways and no one appeared less like a murderer, at least to Callie.

  “Dorothy, you’re not alone in this,” she said. “Lyssa and I believe whole-heartedly that you are innocent.”

  “Thank you,” Dorothy said, her smile quivering.

  “And,” Lyssa said, “if the police are as bumbleheaded as they seem to be, we’re going to do their work for them and find out who actually committed that awful deed. Then everyone else will see you’re innocent, too.”

  “Oh, that would be so wonderful. But how will you do that?”

  Good question, Callie thought, but Lyssa, looking filled with confidence, winked. “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “We have a few tricks up our sleeves. We’ll need your help, of course.

  “Yes,” Callie agreed. “For one thing, what can you tell us about the scissors that the killer used?”

  “Oh, those scissors!” Dorothy wailed, shaking her head. “They were a lovely pair, English, made by G. R. Rodgers around 1800.”

  “Sharp?” Lyssa asked.

  “Very. They were patterned on an old Persian design that allowed them to also be used as a dagger. That’s exactly what they were called. ‘Georgian dagger scissors.’”

  Callie winced. “And you told that to the police?”

  “I’m afraid so, when they showed them to me in one of those plastic bags. I was only trying to be thorough and helpful at the time. That was before I realized what they were thinking.”

  “Did you keep those scissors out in the open?” Callie asked.

  “Right over here.” Dorothy walked over to an area on the wall shelf halfway between her counter and the door. “I showed the police the empty space.”

  “But they hadn’t been sold?”

  Dorothy shook her head.

  “Anyone could have walked off with them,” Jane said. “Dorothy doesn’t have security tags on most of her things.”

  “With the number of items I carry, many quite small, it would be overwhelming and too expensive,” Dorothy explained. “I keep the more valuable pieces in the display case. Like that antique sewing box.” She gestured toward the wooden item, the size of many of Callie’s music boxes and safely inside the under-counter glass case. It had been opened to show a velvet-lined interior in perfect condition, with the usual removable shelf for needles and threads. “That sewing box is worth two hundred dollars. The dagger scissors, old as they were, were priced at only thirty. I made things in the lower price ranges more accessible. People like to pick them up to examine. I’ve always found my customers to be honest and respectful of my shop. Until now, that is.”

  “You weren’t aware that those scissors had gone missing?” Lyssa asked.

  “Not at all. They must have been taken late Tuesday is all I can figure. I was a little busy that afternoon, and with Jane visiting, I closed up in more of a hurry than I usually do. Not your fault at all, Jane,” Dorothy assured her cousin, who had winced guiltily.

  “It’s clear how easily it could happen,” Callie said. “With the cooler weather, people are wearing coats or jackets that have pockets. Or an open-topped tote bag could have been used.”

  “Absolutely. I usually do notice tote bags, particularly on customers unfamiliar to me. But I don’t remember seeing any that day.”

  “Well, however it happened, someone did take them, Dorothy,” Jane said.

  “And seemed to want to throw suspicion on you by using them as they did,” Callie added.

  “But who could do such a thing?”

  “Exactly,” Lyssa said. “Who? You need to think about that.”

  Callie could tell that the idea of someone perhaps deliberately wanting to implicate Dorothy had further upset the shopkeeper, and she was sorry to see it. But it was an important point. To steal a pair of vintage scissors was one thing. But to steal them in order to murder the husband of the scissors’ owner was quite another.

  Jane put an arm around her cousin to comfort her, but she looked nearly as rattled herself.

  “Perhaps what we should focus on right now,” Callie said, “is who would want to kill Clifford?”

  Dorothy shook her head helplessly. “He had his shortcomings, definitely, but murder? I can’t imagine the monster who’d go that far.”

  Six

  C allie would have liked to talk to Dorothy longer, but Pearl Poe- pelman pushed through the door of the vintage sewing shop, full of commiserations. Laurie Hart could also be seen crossing the street toward the shop, both women likely having just realized that Dorothy had returned. Sure that more shopkeepers would be showing up, Callie cut their visit short and promised Dorothy to return before leaving with Lyssa.

  As they walked back to House of Melody, Callie said, “Dorothy couldn’t come up with anyone who’d have a reason to kill Clifford, but that unfortunately leaves her as the only suspect. If the police don’t have any physical evidence other than the dagger scissors, we’ll have to dig up a motive for somebody other than Dorothy to want her husband dead. As Dorothy said, he had his shortcomings, but there has to be more. I don’t suppose you picked up anything in the short time you’ve spent at the inn?”

  “Other than that Ashby was obnoxiously overbearing? No, I avoided the man as much as possible. But we could talk to the woman who worked for him. I overheard him speak pretty shabbily to her. He wasn’t always the jolly Santa Claus figure he tried to present to us.”

  “Who was that?” Callie asked.

  “Paula Something-or-other. She runs the kitchen, and seems to manage the entire B&B from what I can tell. Efficient, but very much a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I don’t know what Ashby was ragging on her about, but she was practically cowering, at least before he r
ealized the kitchen door was open and shut it.”

  “Sounds like someone we should definitely talk to.”

  “I didn’t mean that she could be a suspect from that, although if it were me, I’d have definitely thought of murder! But I didn’t see enough backbone in the poor thing to believe she’d actually act on it.”

  “She might be able to tell us a lot about Ashby and his day-to-day dealings. Things Dorothy might not know.”

  “Right. See, I knew you were the right person to handle this.”

  Callie didn’t feel like she was handling anything. Floundering blindly was more like it. But she had to at least try. “Is Paula still at the inn?”

  “Yes, for now, at least.”

  “Good. How about I run over about twelve-ish to talk to her? With you, I mean. Is that a good time?”

  “Sure. I’ll check that she’ll be around as soon I get back, which I need to do right now. I’ve fallen behind on my book. But I’ll be ready for a break around twelve.”

  Callie’s brows went up. “You can actually write during all this?”

  “Oh, sure. Once I sit in front of that screen, I turn everything else off and sink into the story. If I waited for the perfect time, I’d never write.”

  Though still impressed, Callie realized that she did some compartmentalizing herself out of necessity. When dealing with customers, her focus turned to the world of music boxes and away from her personal life. That hadn’t always been easy, especially when her grief over Aunt Mel’s death was fresh. But somehow she’d managed it.

  “That reminds me,” Lyssa said. “Is my book event still on?”

  “Wow, I haven’t even thought of that! But yes, it should be. All the plans have been put in place and the publicity notices sent out. So it’s just a matter of last-minute setting up. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “As long as there isn’t another murder,” Lyssa said with a sideways glance and a curl to her lips. Callie knew the author was joking, but she felt a shiver go down her spine all the same.

  Was it so unlikely? Maybe not.

  Finding two customers waiting at House of Melody, Callie hurriedly unlocked the door and waved them in with apologies for the delay. At least news of the murder hadn’t totally kept shoppers away from Keepsake Cove. But as the women browsed, they also tossed out questions about the situation, possibly hoping for inside information. Callie deflected the questions politely until finally one of the women purchased a small music box and they both left.

  Callie feared that would be the pattern the rest of the day, and she was glad when Tabitha arrived to help. Her assistant had returned to her creative-dressing mode, though toned down a bit. In fact, Callie wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was creative, at first seeing only that Tabitha’s long hair had been parted in the middle, flattened, and tucked unflatteringly behind her ears, and that she wore roundish glasses. Had Tabitha ever worn glasses before?

  The clothing was unremarkable to the point of bland: denim skirt, dull-colored vest over a buttoned-up shirt, and dark leggings. Then Tabitha, seeing Callie’s puzzlement, hummed a familiar theme song, and Callie caught on.

  “Amy! Of The Big Bang Theory.”

  “You got it.” Tabitha jiggled her glasses. “Found these buried in a drawer. Clear glass, and left over from some other outfit. When I put them on and looked in the mirror, the rest just fell into place.”

  Callie was glad that her assistant had come in character, which many of their regular customers had come to expect and enjoyed. Being dressed as someone who was less than obvious that day might keep the questions on that subject and off the murder.

  By the time the clock edged closer to twelve, though, Callie had learned that no distraction was going to keep people from discussing the much-more-exciting topic. She was glad, then, to get a break from it all, though aware of the irony that it was in order to pose her own questions to the Foxwood Inn employee. Her own motives, she hoped, were loftier—to help a friend rather than out of idle curiosity. What her inquiry would produce, though, was yet to be determined.

  When she drove up the inn’s driveway, she saw Lyssa standing at the top, waiting for her. “Paula’s in the kitchen,” Lyssa said when Callie climbed out of her car.

  “Have you talked to her yet?” Callie asked.

  “Not about Ashby. Her last name is Shull, by the way.” Lyssa spoke over her shoulder as she led the way into the inn, then nearly bumped into an older man in a dark suit who’d just come down the stairs.

  “Excuse me, Miss Hammond,” the man apologized.

  “My fault, George, and please call me Lyssa. Heading out?”

  “Yes, for a quick lunch before my meeting.”

  “I can recommend the Keepsake Café. They’re quick and much better than the burger chains. It’s right across from my friend’s music box shop,” Lyssa said, introducing Callie to George Cole.

  “A music box shop?” Cole asked Callie, adding politely, “How interesting,” though his tone hinted that he was not a keepsake collector. “Are your shop and the café anywhere near Mrs. Ashby’s sewing shop?”

  “About half a block away,” Callie said, hoping she wasn’t in for more of the gossipy-type questions she’d just escaped from.

  But Cole simply nodded and said to Lyssa, “Thank you for the recommendation. I’ve definitely had my fill of burgers and fries.”

  Before he made it out the door, Lyssa asked, “Will you be staying on?”

  “Possibly,” he said, turning. “It depends on a few things, including, of course, Miss Shull’s willingness to keep the place going.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll hope for the best.”

  He bid them a good day and left, Lyssa looking after him thoughtfully. “Cole makes a good point about our stay here being iffy,” she said. “I want to hang on, but I’d be happier not to be the lone guest. Most of the others have taken off. Well, one more thing to bring up with Ms. Shull.”

  They headed toward the partially closed door at the far end of the hall, and Lyssa leaned into the room, asking, “Paula, got a minute?” Without waiting for an answer, she led the way into a large, beautifully updated kitchen with stainless steel appliances and loads of butcher block counter space. The Victorian theme, Callie thought, had been halted at the hall. A second doorway opened into the dining room.

  “Paula, this is Callie Reed. She’s a friend of Dorothy Ashby.”

  Paula was leaning over a mound of bread dough, which she’d been punching and kneading. Flour covered her board as well as dotted areas of her face and dark hair. Some, Callie thought, even floated in the air. Though they were not obviously muscular, Callie saw that the woman’s hands manipulated the thick dough with ease, probably from much practice, she thought.

  “Glad to meet you,” Paula said, glancing up quickly, “but I can’t stop right now. Please excuse the mess.”

  “I’d be very suspicious of a kitchen that wasn’t messy,” Lyssa assured her. “Love that yeasty smell, don’t you, Callie? Is it for tomorrow’s breakfast, I hope?”

  Paula nodded. “Brown bread, made with oats and molasses. It was my mother’s recipe.”

  “My grandmother made something like that, too,” Callie said. “We loved it when she brought some with her. She said it was a lot of work.”

  “It is,” Paula agreed, keeping her eyes on her task as she folded and kneaded. “But I like to keep busy, especially after what’s happened. This helps keep my mind off of it.”

  “I hope that also means you’ll keep the inn running,” Lyssa said.

  “I’m willing, but it might not be up to me. Mrs. Ashby owns it now.”

  “If that’s the case,” Callie said, “Dorothy will probably be grateful to leave it in your hands for the time being. She’s dealing with quite a lot at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened to her husband,�
� Paula said. She transferred her smoothly rounded mound into a large greased bowl, turned it over once, and covered it lightly with a towel. She set the bowl in a sunny window, then turned away from Callie and Lyssa to wash her hands at the sink. “I should tell Mrs. Ashby that,” she added.

  “She’d appreciate it, I know,” Callie said, moving to the counter beside the sink. “You might be able to help in another way. Dorothy’s under a lot of pressure right now because of the police. It was her scissors, you know, that killed Cliff Ashby.”

  “Yes, I heard that,” Paula said, scrubbing sticky dough and flour from her hands.

  “So, you see,” Callie said, “it puts Dorothy in a tricky situation. She has a lot to gain, financially, from her husband’s death, and the murder weapon belonged to her. On top of that, her alibi—that she was home, sleeping—comes from her cousin. Given their close relationship, the police might be skeptical.”

  “Oh! I didn’t realize that.” Paula looked over to Callie. “I’m sorry to hear it, but I’m not sure what you think I can do. Isn’t it all up to the police?”

  “Only if we let it be,” Lyssa said, sliding onto a nearby stool. “We want to make sure they look beyond Dorothy, but we’ll need to have something to point them to. You’ve been working around Ashby probably daily. You must have picked up things about him, right? People he met with? Or maybe certain phone conversations? Anything sinister about them?”

  “Sinister!” Paula seemed shocked by the word. She reached for a towel and clutched it to her.

  “‘Unusual’ might be a better word,” Callie suggested soothingly. “Anything that seemed off or puzzling. Somebody murdered Cliff Ashby deliberately, not randomly, so there was something going on in his life that brought it on. I only spent minutes with the man, so I need your help to know him. What was he like, generally? Did you like him?”

  “Like him?” Paula was less shocked but still seemed surprised, as if the idea had never occurred to her. “He was my boss. I did my job, and he paid me. I needed the job, so I was grateful.”