by Amanda Lee
We started into the dining room, and I nearly tripped over Angus, who’d been smelling the frying burgers from beneath the door. I sat at the counter, and Captain Moe presented Angus with his burger on a paper plate before joining me at the counter. Before we ate, Captain Moe bowed his head and said grace.
We ate in silence for a moment. I, for one, was savoring my burger. Angus had already Hoovered his and was staring at me with pleading eyes. I was trying to ignore him.
“Would you like to talk over what’s troubling you?” Captain Moe asked. “Sometimes it helps to lay it all out where you can see it better.”
So I did. I don’t know quite what came over me, but I did. I told him about the move, Timothy Enright, Mr. Trelawney, Lorraine, Mrs. Trelawney, and Sylvia. . . . I even found myself telling Captain Moe about Mr. Trelawney’s ledger and the names it contained.
Captain Moe let me ramble until I told him about the weird way the columns were separated by five random months.
“I think I might know what the months mean,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. “Is it some nautical thing?”
He shook his head. “It might be birthday months. Unless you had two people whose birthdays fell in the same month, that would be a great way to keep track of disbursements among a few people without actually naming names.”
“How clever,” I said. “I’ll ask one of the policemen to check and see if any of the Four Square people’s birthdays were in the months used to head up the columns.”
“Was one of the months December?”
“Yes, it was. How did you know?”
“I didn’t know, but it was a practical guess in putting my theory to the test. My brother was a member of Four Square Development, and his birthday is in December.”
“Your brother?”
He nodded. “Norm Patrick.”
My jaw dropped. “Um . . . I . . . I didn’t realize. . . .” I grabbed my purse. “I’d better go, Mr.—um . . . Captain—Moe. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”
“Come back anytime,” he said.
At the shop Monday morning, I sat in my red chair, working on my tote bag. The bell jingled, and I looked over my shoulder to see Detective Nash walk in.
“Hello, Detective,” I said, returning to my cross-stitching.
“Are you upset with Angus for some reason?”
“No, but it’s such a nice day, I let him stay home in the backyard.”
“I wasn’t talking about his absence,” Detective Nash said. “I was talking about the way you’re stabbing the needle into that depiction of his face.” He sat down on the sofa.
With a sigh, I set my work on the arm of the chair. “I’m such an idiot.”
“It was only one date,” he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “And the way he barged in here probably caught you completely off guard. Stop beating yourself up over it.”
“That’s not what I’m beating myself up over. How did you know I had a date with Todd, anyhow?”
“Isn’t that what he was doing here on Saturday?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“What are you beating yourself up over?”
“Yesterday I spilled my guts to Captain Moe. And then he told me he’s Norman Patrick’s brother. I mean, when I thought about it, Riley did call him Uncle Moe at one point the other day; but I thought she simply misspoke, or it was a friendly nickname. I didn’t think he was actually her uncle.”
“And?”
“And how could I be so foolish? I fell for Captain Moe’s bighearted Santa routine and told him everything I know about the Trelawney case.”
“Once again, I don’t see the problem,” Detective Nash said. “Captain Moe’s bighearted Santa routine isn’t a routine. He’s a genuinely nice guy.”
“But now Norman Patrick and who knows who else knows everything I know.”
“Captain Moe probably knew more about the case than you did to begin with. Everybody knows him, and everybody talks to him.”
“I still can’t believe I was stupid enough to speak of this to someone simply because he was nice to me, looked like Santa Claus, and made me a cheeseburger.”
“He made you a cheeseburger? At the diner?”
I nodded.
“But Captain Moe’s is closed on Sundays. No exceptions.” He took a moment to reflect on this. “You must’ve been really pitiful.”
“Thank you ever so much.”
He spread his hands. “Hey, I’m just saying.” He frowned slightly. “Then you were at the diner and didn’t make the connection between Maurice Patrick and Norman Patrick?”
“Who’s Maurice Patrick?”
“Captain Moe,” he said, slapping his hand to his head. “It’s right there on the business license, which is framed and hanging next to the coatrack by the door. Proprietor, Maurice Patrick.”
I glared at him. “Who reads business licenses?” Before he could answer, I continued. “Other than you?”
“Look, it’s really not a big deal that you talked with Captain Moe. He’s a good guy, and he’s fairly insightful. Did he give you any advice?”
“Well, he did provide a possible clue about Mr. Trelawney’s ledger. He said the months could represent the birthdays of the people involved.” I plucked a stray gray thread from my white sweater. “And he told me Norman Patrick’s birthday is in December. I called and left a message on Reggie’s voicemail yesterday telling her to tell Manu he might want to check the birthdates and ledger amounts to see how they correspond to the information he has on Four Square.”
“Good,” Detective Nash said. “I hope it can bring us closer to solving this case.” He looked down at the rug. “I’d hate to see you give up everything you’ve worked this hard for and go back to San Francisco.”
“You’ve been talking with Reggie?”
“Yes. She’s worried about you, and she’s hounding her husband and me to solve this case quickly, despite the fact that Chief Myers thinks it’s all a waste of time.”
“Is that why you stopped by? To put on your deerstalker hat and revisit the crime scene with your trusty magnifying glass?”
“No, I came by to tell you we got the autopsy report back on Timothy Enright. The cause of death was listed as alcohol poisoning.”
“You mean, he wasn’t poisoned? He was drunk after all?”
“It appears that way.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m convinced. The case is officially closed.”
Chapter Sixteen
Riley came in at lunchtime, still radiant and happy. “Hey, Marcy,” she called as she entered the shop. “Do you have any baby stuff?”
I got up from behind the counter, where I’d been eating my lunch—peanut butter crackers and a diet soda. “I have lots of baby stuff. What, in particular, are you looking for?”
“Oh, you know: bibs, blankets—the whole nine.”
“What’s your embroidery specialty?” I asked.
“Retail. I want my baby to have lots of adorable hand-stitched things made just for her.”
“But you don’t do embroidery.”
“Exactly.” She smiled as if pleased that I finally got it. “I want you to make them for me. You’ve got plenty of time—a little more than five months. Will you do it? I’ll pay you well.”
“Sure, but bear in mind that I might not be able to get a really intricate, detailed project done before the baby gets here.”
“That’s all right,” she said, “but let’s see what we wind up with before making a timeline.”
“Did you tell your dad this weekend that it’s a girl?” I asked as I led Riley over to the cross-stitch bibs and baby-pattern books.
“I did. He’s absolutely over the moon. I heard you paid a visit to Uncle Moe.”
“Yeah. I hadn’t really taken in the fact he’s your uncle.”
“Um . . . the Uncle Moe didn’t tip you off?” She grinned. “He did say y
ou were pretty blown away by that. He also said you didn’t stay long after you found out we’re related.” She picked up a bib kit that had a sleepy teddy bear on the front. “How sweet is this? Anyway, he asked if you and I were on good terms, and I told him you don’t quite trust me yet.” She handed me the kit. “I definitely want this one.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“What? That you don’t trust me? You don’t. Not that I blame you. We didn’t get off to the best of starts.” She handed me another bib kit. This one had a baby duck with a fork in one winglike hand and a spoon in the other.
We then took a stack of pattern books over to the sofa so Riley could be comfortable as she perused them. The rest of our conversation consisted of exclamations of “How cute” and “Isn’t this precious?” By the time Riley had finished looking through the pattern books, I’d agreed to make her the two bib kits, five additional bibs, and one small blanket.
We were finishing up when Lorraine Enright stormed into the shop.
“My husband’s death has been ruled an accident,” she said. “Can you believe it? An accident.”
“I heard,” Riley said. “I got a call from the chief this morning and was planning on calling you this afternoon. If you’ll bring any insurance policies and leave them at the front desk, I can get started filing those claims for you.”
“This isn’t about insurance,” Lorraine said, her face even redder than her hair. “This is about the fact that no one, like her”—she threw a venomous glance in my direction—“is paying for my husband’s death.”
“He is,” Riley said. “And if it was—as the coroner’s report indicates—an accident, then no one else is at fault.”
“Someone forced Timothy to drink,” Lorraine said. “I know they did. That or else he didn’t know what he was drinking.”
Riley handed me the pattern books and stood. “Come with me back to the office,” she said gently to Lorraine. “I don’t have any appointments until two p.m., and we can talk until then.” She looked at me. “Thanks, Marcy. I’ll talk with you in a day or two.”
Sadie came over after MacKenzies’ Mochas’ lunch rush. She looked pale and thin, and I could see she was still weak.
“Hi,” I said. “Glad to see you’re up and about.” I jerked my head toward the sofa. “Why don’t you lie down and take a quick nap?”
“Really?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the sofa that faced away from the window. “You don’t think anyone will mind?”
“I don’t. Jill, do you mind?” I looked toward the mannequin. “Jill doesn’t mind. And I don’t see anyone else in the shop except you.”
She took off her shoes and lay down. “This feels heavenly.” She closed her eyes. “Blake told me about the deal he made with Mr. Trelawney.”
“Did he?” I threaded black embroidery floss through the eye of my needle.
“Yes. He told me you convinced him to tell me before Manu did. Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.” I almost didn’t say any more—didn’t want to run the risk of kicking up any marital strife. But after a few stitches, I said, “It was completely by accident that I found out. I saw Blake’s name in the ledger and was afraid you guys had been victims of identity theft, as I had.”
“Blake talked with Manu about it.”
“Is he in any trouble?”
“No.”
I released a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“Manu said that since Blake hadn’t benefited from the fraudulent transaction,” Sadie continued, “he isn’t liable for what Mr. Trelawney did with the information. Plus, based on your situation, there’s evidence to support the fact that Mr. Trelawney would’ve used the information whether he had Blake’s permission or not.”
“Thank goodness,” I said. “I was afraid Blake might be forced to pay some sort of restitution or something.”
“No. What my husband did was incredibly stupid, but not criminal.”
“That tone tells me you haven’t entirely forgiven him yet.”
“I’ve forgiven him,” she said, “but I’m still angry . . . and hurt. It bothers me that he wasn’t honest with me from the beginning.” She yawned. “I wouldn’t have let Mr. Trelawney take advantage of him.” She snuggled against one of the sofa cushions. “Did I mention how great this sofa feels?”
“You did. Go ahead and take your nap. If you’re not awake by closing time, I’ll either wake you up or lock you in here with Jill.”
“Oh please, no.” She shuddered. “That would completely freak me out. I’d begin having those Chuckymonster nightmares all over again. Remember how afraid I used to be of that stupid doll?”
“I do,” I said, laughing. “I wouldn’t have connected Jill to that thing, though. She is neither a redhead nor evil.”
She giggled. “Yeah, yeah. Blondes have more fun and all that jazz.”
“Precisely. We do have more fun, and that’s why we aren’t evil.” I emphasized the e in evil and drew it out in my best Vincent Price voice . . . which wasn’t much, but it worked. It made Sadie laugh.
Then she dozed off, and I continued working on my tote bag. For a little while, life seemed normal again.
As I arrived home that evening, my cell phone started ringing in my bag. I juggled a few bags of groceries and managed to both keep them upright and answer it. It was Reggie.
“Your tip about the birthdays paid off,” she said. “The column headings correspond to Four Square Development major players’ birthday months.”
“So what about the fifth?”
“That’s what Manu is working on now. Today, he and some other officers—including a federal guy—went to talk with the men serving time in the Four Square case,” she said. “They’ll be asking about Bill Trelawney’s role and what Timothy Enright might’ve meant about Four Square’s fifth. I should know something tomorrow.”
“Great. Keep me posted, will you?”
“I sure will.”
After talking with Reggie, I unpacked the groceries, fed Angus, and made myself some chicken stir-fry and a salad. As I poured a glass of tomato juice and sat down to eat, I reflected on Lorraine Enright’s outburst.
She was adamant that her husband hadn’t drunk himself to death. I’d have been inclined to disagree before Bill Trelawney was murdered. Now I found myself agreeing with Lorraine. I came to the disturbing conclusion that Lorraine and I needed to compare notes.
I washed the dishes and straightened up the kitchen. I realized I was stalling, dreading making the attempt to speak rationally with Lorraine Enright. I picked up the phone book, half hoping Lorraine’s number was unlisted. It wasn’t.
I dialed the number. There was no answer, so I left a message.
“Hello, Lorraine. This is Marcy Singer. Like you, I don’t believe Mr. Enright’s death was accidental. I think someone is responsible, and I’d like to talk with you when—”
“I’m here,” Lorraine said, picking up the receiver. “What gives? Why are you siding with me all of a sudden?”
“I’ve never intentionally sided against you,” I said. “It seems to me that it’s been the other way around.”
“Why did you call me?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed. “I believe your husband’s death and the murder of Bill Trelawney are somehow connected. And I thought if you and I could put our heads together, we might be able to figure out who’d want both of them dead.”
She was so silent for so long, I started to think she’d hung up. Then she asked if she could come over.
It was a mild evening, so I put Angus in the backyard before Lorraine arrived. He’d never bitten anyone, but he was protective, and I didn’t know how long a truce with Lorraine Enright could last.
I heard her car pull into the driveway about fifteen minutes after speaking with her by phone. I hadn’t realized she lived that close. But Tallulah Falls is a small town. I suppose, in reality, everybody lives close to everybody here.
; I invited her in and offered her a cup of decaffeinated coffee.
“I’d like that,” she said, joining me in the kitchen.
I put the coffee on to brew, and then Lorraine and I sat down at the table.
“I was shocked when you called me,” she said. “I mean, I have caller ID—which is why I didn’t pick up right away. But when you started saying you believed me, I was surprised.”
With an index finger, I traced the pattern on my ecru tablecloth. It was a Hardanger tablecloth. I’d made it as a housewarming present to myself. “I do think your husband’s death and Mr. Trelawney’s death are connected. I could be completely wrong, but—”
“No. No, I think so, too,” she said. “I’ve always thought that.”
“What do you know about Four Square Development?”
“Not much. I know a bunch of people got caught up in some type of real estate fraud and went to jail. Riley’s dad was one of them.”
I got up to pour the coffee. “Reggie Singh found a ledger Mr. Trelawney had been keeping. The police are fairly certain it’s a dummy ledger for Four Square.” I placed the cups, spoons, sugar, and nonfat milk on the table and sat back down. “There were names in the ledger with notations thought to indicate straw buyers.”
“Was Tim’s name in the ledger?”
“Yes, and so was mine.”
She paused with the sugar spoon halfway to her cup. “Your name was in it?”
I nodded. “Yesterday I learned I’ve been the victim of identity theft. We think Mr. Trelawney was using people’s financial information—with or without their consent—for straw-buying purposes.”
Lorraine continued putting sugar and milk into her coffee. “I suspect Mr. Trelawney had Tim’s permission,” she said quietly, as she stirred her coffee. “Our last fight was about Tim working on some type of partnership with Mr. Trelawney. I asked what it was all about, but Tim told me to wait and see.” She placed her spoon on her napkin and sipped the coffee. “I kept waiting, but nothing ever happened.”
“This was during the Four Square Development debacle?” I asked.
