Molly shook her head, took another swig of beer and sat down. “He wanted us to get back together. I told him no.”
Stephanie sat down next to her. “What about Eddie Hatchett? Did he tell you anything?”
Molly nodded. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t hear myself think.”
Abandoning the rest of their beer, they made their way to the door and out into the chilly darkness.
Leaning against Molly’s car, Clara let out her breath on a long sigh. “I hope we don’t have to go there again. I hate that place.”
Stephanie buttoned her coat and turned up the collar. “Me, too.” She turned to Molly. “Tell us what Eddie Hatchett said.”
Molly shivered. “Let’s get in the car. It’ll be warmer in there.” She unlocked the doors and the cousins scrambled inside.
Turning on the engine, Molly sighed. “That’s better. My ears are still ringing from all that noise.”
Stephanie leaned forward from the backseat. “Okay, so spill it.”
Molly turned so she could look at both cousins. “You can take him off your list of suspects. He was in the ER in Mittleford the night Scott died. Apparently Eddie started working with his father when he got fired from the construction site. He was on his way home on his bike around five thirty that night. It was getting dark and he hit the curb going around the corner. He fell off and sprained his wrist. His called his girlfriend, Stacey, and she drove him to the hospital.”
Clara frowned. “Do you think he was telling the truth?”
Molly shrugged. “I guess so. His wrist is all bandaged up.”
“Do you know this Stacey?”
“I’ve seen her a couple of times, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, I guess that gives us one less suspect.” Clara gazed out the window. Mist swirled around the streetlamp, casting an eerie orange glow against the night sky. “Looks like it’s back to the drawing board.”
Stephanie laughed, though it sounded a little hollow. “You really didn’t think it was that easy, did you?”
Molly looked from one to the other. “Are you two sure about this? I mean, about someone killing Scott? It could have just been an accident, like they said, right?”
Stephanie gave Clara a look that clearly asked, What did you tell her?
Clara cleared her throat. “Look, Molly, all we can say is that we have good reason to believe that Scott was murdered. We can’t tell you any more than that right now. We’re just asking you to trust us, and not to say anything to anyone about our suspicions, okay?”
Molly nodded so hard a thick hank of her red hair fell across her forehead. She tossed it back with a flick of her head, saying earnestly, “Of course I trust you both. I want to help as much as I can. If Karen’s husband was murdered, I want to see the killer in jail. Which reminds me, the funeral is tomorrow afternoon. Are you both going?”
Stephanie gasped. “Is it that soon? I didn’t know.” She raised her chin and stared at the roof of the car for a moment. “I think we should close the bookstore for the afternoon, so that we can all go. I’m sure our customers will understand.”
Molly smiled. “That’s nice. The service is at two o’clock, at Marlowe’s Funeral Home.”
“I’ll be there.” Stephanie glanced at her watch. “Guess I’d better be getting back. See you two tomorrow.”
“I’ll get to the store early,” Clara promised as her cousin climbed out of the car, “since we’re closing for the afternoon.”
“Thanks.” Stephanie waved a good-bye and headed off to her car.
“Wait until she’s heading out,” Clara said, as Molly slid the gear into drive. “I want to be sure she’s on her way.”
Molly gave her an odd look. “What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know.” Clara hunched her shoulders. “I just don’t trust some of those guys in there.”
Moments later, Stephanie’s car pulled away from the curb, and Clara could relax again. Molly chattered all the way back to the bookstore, but Clara listened with only half an ear, murmuring an answer now and then when it seemed necessary.
Her mind was on her vision and the two people struggling on the scaffolding with the body of Scott Delwyn between them. How she wished she could have seen their faces. The darkness and the rain had made it difficult to see much at all. She couldn’t say now if they were short or tall, thin or fat.
She closed her eyes, seeing again the shadowy figures heaving the body over the edge to the ground below. Deep in concentration, she jumped violently when Molly spoke.
“Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine.” She managed a light laugh. “Just tired, I guess.”
“So what are we going to do now? Look for another suspect?”
Clara hesitated, reluctant to get Molly any further involved in what could very well be a wild-goose chase. After all, the Sense hadn’t been too reliable in the past. Even as she thought it, she was dismissing the doubts. She knew what she’d seen.
She’d been there, on that scaffolding, watching a murder unfold. Whether Scott Delwyn had been unconscious or dead when he was shoved off, those two people were responsible for depriving two little girls of a father, and a young woman had lost her husband.
She was probably the only one, besides the killers, who really knew the truth and nothing or nobody was going to get in her way, Clara vowed, until they were safely behind bars.
6
The following afternoon, Molly and the cousins sat near the rear of the room in the funeral home, listening to the glowing and sometimes tearful remembrances of Scott Delwyn. It was hard for all in attendance. Molly had tears running down her cheeks, and Stephanie kept dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
Clara managed to hold her emotions in check, though she ached with sadness for the weeping widow and her young girls. Scott, it seemed, was well-liked in the community, judging by the number of people present at the service. Neither Lionel Clapham nor Josh Millstone had chosen to join the mourners, which really didn’t surprise her. Neither one of them had shown much regret over Scott’s death.
After the service and burial, everyone was invited back to the widow’s house for a celebration of Scott’s life. Clara would rather have gone home from the cemetery, but Stephanie and Molly wanted to go to the reception, and not wanting to appear unsociable, Clara tagged along.
Standing in the crowded living room, Clara listened to Stephanie and Molly making small talk with a couple of the bookstore’s customers. Now and again she managed to get a word or two into the conversation, but after a while she became restless. Chatting with comparative strangers was never her strong point, and she longed to be out of there and home with Tatters.
Some of the men in the room could possibly have been Scott’s coworkers. If so, she would have liked to talk to them. Since Scott died as he was finishing up his shift, one of those guys must have been the last person to see him alive. If she could figure out who that was, she might be able to find out something helpful.
She was tempted to go around asking questions, but somehow this didn’t seem the right time or place. Besides, the last thing she wanted was for Karen to find out her husband had been murdered.
Deciding that her questions would have to wait, she managed to signal to her cousin that she was leaving and started edging to the door. As she passed the kitchen, she spotted Karen, standing by herself in front of the sink, looking out the window. Scott’s widow looked lost, staring into space as if unaware of all the commotion going on around her.
So far Clara had avoided talking to her, worried that she would say the wrong thing and arouse the woman’s suspicions. She could hardly leave, however, without saying something to the grieving widow. Reminding herself to monitor her words, she walked into the kitchen.
Karen must have heard her footsteps, and she turned around, her eyes red and puffy from weeping. “Clara, it was good of you to come.” She held out her hands. “Thank you.”
Cl
ara nodded, and grasped the cold hands in hers. “I’m so very sorry,” she said quietly. “I know it sounds trite, but if there’s anything I can do. . . ”
“Thank you,” Karen said quickly, pulling her hands from Clara’s fingers. “We’ll be fine. We have to make some adjustments, of course. The girls—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed, tears once more spilling down her cheeks.
A fierce stab of fury took Clara’s breath away. Whoever did this deserved to be hung, drawn and quartered. She put an arm around Karen’s shaking shoulders. “Call me if you need help. In any way. I mean that sincerely.”
“I know you do.” Karen tugged a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Stephanie, too. You’re both good friends.”
Afraid she’d bawl if she stayed, Clara gave her a tight nod and hurried out of the kitchen. Blinded by tears, she smacked full tilt into a short, tubby woman, almost sending her to the floor.
“I’m so sorry!” Angry with herself, she peered down at the woman, who was straightening her glasses. “Are you all right?”
“Sure I am, honey!” The woman smiled, baring tiny white teeth. “I have plenty of padding to help me bounce right back.”
Clara couldn’t help smiling.
“I’m Thelma Hogan,” the woman added, crinkling her forehead. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Clara Quinn.” She held out her hand and it was immediately squeezed by thick, warm fingers. “Are you a relative of Karen’s?”
“Oh, no.” The woman’s gray curls bounced as she shook her head. “We live next door. Me and my son, that is.” She flicked her fingers at the middle of the room. “That’s Ray, over there. Making a pig of himself, as usual. I don’t know how that man eats so much and stays so thin.”
Clara followed the gesture and saw the back of a lean man with a dark ponytail at the refreshment table.
Before she could comment, Thelma added, “Such a dreadful shame about Scott. He was such a nice man.” She shook her head, her face lined with sorrow. “He was always offering to do things for me. Real clever with his hands, he was. Not like my son.” She tossed her head in the direction of the table. “Useless when it comes to fixing things. He’s out of work and has the time. Just doesn’t have the know-how. I don’t know what we’re going to do now that Scott’s gone. We can’t afford to pay repairmen, not with what they charge nowadays.”
Clara nodded in sympathy, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. She could tell that Thelma loved to talk, and Clara was in no mood to listen to a stranger’s life story.
She made a big production of glancing at her watch. “Wow, is that the time? I’d better get going.” She smiled at the woman. “Nice talking to you.”
Thelma, it seemed, having snagged a listener, wasn’t ready to let her go. She beamed up at Clara. “Are you a friend of Karen’s?”
Eying the door, Clara figured she’d have to shove the woman aside to get there. Right now Karen’s neighbor was wedged between a group of people and a big-screen TV. Hoping someone would move, and soon, Clara murmured, “Karen’s a regular customer at the Raven’s Nest bookstore, where I work.”
Thelma’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I know where that is. Right at the top of the hill on Main Street, right? There’s a knitting shop across the street a little ways down.”
Clara nodded.
“Yes, well, I haven’t been inside your store. I don’t read much. Prefer to watch TV. A lot less hard work.” She laughed, a deep-throated gurgle that shook her body. Then the amusement on her face vanished, to be replaced by sadness again. “Scott fixed my TV when it broke down. Didn’t cost me a dime. He was in my house the day before he died, fixing my dishwasher.” She shook her head again, making her curls bounce once more. “He was a good soul. I’m going to miss him, that’s for sure.”
Clara caught sight of Stephanie watching her from across the room and pulled a face. Her cousin caught on at once and started toward her.
“It’s been really nice talking to you,” she said quickly as Thelma opened her mouth to say something else. “I really have to run now. I hope you find someone else to fix your appliances.”
Stephanie arrived at her side and took hold of her arm. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d left ages ago.”
“I’m just leaving.” Clara nodded at Thelma. “I’ve been talking to Karen’s neighbor. This is Thelma . . . I’m sorry, I forgot your last name.”
“Hogan.” The woman beamed at Stephanie.
“This is my cousin, Stephanie Dowd. She owns the Raven’s Nest bookstore.”
Again the woman’s face lit up. “Really? We were just talking about that. I was just saying . . .”
Clara saw a space open up as someone from the group in front of them left. “I’ll call you later,” she said, and before her cousin had a chance to answer, she slipped through the crowd and out of the door.
Tatters was waiting for her as usual when she arrived home, and the wet and furry welcome chased away her depression. Jessie had left a note to say she had gone out to dinner, and had left a salad in the fridge.
Clara found the plate of greens loaded with hard-boiled egg, ham and cheese and carried it into the living room. Switching on the TV with the remote, she tuned into the local news and settled back to watch.
Halfway through the program, the anchor mentioned Scott Delwyn’s funeral. At the end of the brief account, he added that the construction site where Scott had worked had passed the inspection and the crew expected to report to work on Monday.
Clara stared moodily at the screen as the cameras switched to the sports announcer. So that was the end of it. Scott Delwyn was dead and buried, and everything was going to go back to normal. How normal would it be for Karen and the girls? How could anything be normal for them again?
She finished her salad, only half listening to the weather forecast. It was the end of February. She didn’t need a weather expert to tell her there was still a month of winter left. Tatters whined and got up from the rug where he’d been lying ever since she’d sat down.
She looked him in the eye and he wagged his tail. “What’s the matter, boy? Want to go out?”
What do you think?
She put down her plate with a grunt of disgust. “Don’t do that! It’s unnerving.”
Tatters slowly waved his tail back and forth, and she felt bad. He didn’t know she could read his mind. Or even if he did, it wasn’t his fault she had the stupid Sense. She got up and carried her plate out into the kitchen.
A glass of wine sounded good, but first she needed to get out of the house and give both herself and the dog a breath of fresh air. Tatters waited eagerly by the front door as she dragged her coat on again and wound a scarf around her neck.
“Come on, then.” She opened the door and Tatters shot through it, only to be brought up short when she yelled at him. “You know I have to put your leash on, or you’ll be under the wheels of someone’s car.” She fastened the leash, and was nearly pulled off her feet as Tatters leapt forward. “Wait!”
He paused, looked back at her, then set off at a quick trot. Following behind him, past lawns shriveled by frost and trees barren of leaves, she thought about the news anchor’s words. The construction crew was going back to work on Monday. Next week would be a good time to question some of the guys who worked with Scott.
She made a mental note to talk to Stephanie about it, then put it all out of her mind. Right now she needed some breathing space. All she wanted to think about was how to keep up with a determined dog that seemed intent on breaking all speed records on his way to the beach.
Clara enjoyed Sundays in the bookstore, despite the fact that she was there on her own. When she’d agreed to work for Stephanie, she’d also agreed to take just one day off a week, thus giving her cousin Sundays off to be with her family. Molly had Sundays and Mondays off, and Clara took Tuesday as her day off. The arrangement seemed to work well, since early in the week was usually quiet in the store.
Sun
days, on the other hand, kept Clara busy most of the day, and that’s how she liked it. It was a short day. She opened at noon and closed at five, and the time quickly passed. This Sunday, however, for some reason was unusually quiet.
After tidying and stocking the shelves, Clara decided to unpack some more books, leaving the door open so she could hear the front doorbell. She had just opened the first crate when she heard the faint jingling from the front of the store.
Hurrying up the aisle, she felt the familiar flutter in her stomach when she heard Rick’s voice calling out. “He-ll-o-o! Anyone home?”
By the time she reached the end of the aisle, she had everything under control. “Hi, yourself.” She flashed him a smile. “What are you doing here? Looking for new cookbooks?”
He grinned back at her, and waved his hand at the cookbooks table. “I’m always on the lookout. Got anything interesting?”
“Of course. All our cookbooks are loaded with fascinating ideas.” She paused by the table to pick up one of the heavy volumes. “Like this one, but I think you saw this the last time you were over here.”
She handed him the book and he flipped through the pages. “Yeah, I did. Recipes for the diet-conscious.” He put the book down again. “If I had to worry about diet when I cooked, I’d hang up my chef’s hat.”
She laughed. “That would be a terrible loss for your lady friends.”
He had a glint in his eye that made her fidgety. “What makes you think I have lady friends?”
Wishing she hadn’t made such an idiotic remark, she shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Eligible bachelor, great car, small town. . . .”
He nodded. “Ah, yes. Now if only I had the wealth and fame to go with it.”
“Not every woman wants a wealthy playboy.”
He gave her a look that she felt all the way down to her toes. “No? What about you? What are you looking for?”
She stared at him, trying desperately to think of something cute and flip that would defuse what felt like a serious turn of the conversation. “I’m not sure I’m looking for anything in particular.”
Trouble Vision Page 7
