by Liz Mugavero
“So Betty and Helga didn’t get along?” Stan asked slowly.
“Not all the time. It had its ups and downs. But recently they weren’t doing so well. I think there was even a period last month where they weren’t talking at all. I hope they made up before she passed. Who knows, maybe that’s Betty’s problem. She regrets the fighting.” Char stood. “Thank you for letting me talk that out. I have to get back and get working on my dinner menu. You have a little extra fish and étouffée for the next few days. Keep the cooker until you’re done.”
“Thank you so much. This was awesome,” Stan said.
“I’ll pick you up for the meeting? Around six-thirty? We want to get a good seat.”
“I’ll be ready.” Stan walked her to the door and watched her drive away as she worked this new piece of information into the puzzle. To hear Betty tell it, she and Helga couldn’t have been closer. But they had their problems, too.
She’d no sooner shut the door when the bell rang again. Char must’ve forgotten something. But when she opened the door, Cyril Pierce stood there.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “You could’ve just called.”
Cyril gave her a funny look, like he wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “I need your help,” he said.
Chapter 19
What could Cyril Pierce need her help with? And why was she suddenly everyone’s Dear Abby? This was happening entirely too often.
“Come on in,” she said, swinging the door wider. Cyril looked troubled. And he wasn’t dressed in his reporter clothes. Meaning, he wasn’t wearing his trench coat, which Stan didn’t think she’d ever seen the man without, even in the dead of summer. Instead, he wore a regular winter parka. Stan could see frays in the fabric of the shoulders. He also wasn’t carrying a notebook. She shushed the dogs, who had raced down the hall barking excitedly. Lots of company to entertain them today. Stan knew they were thinking, Did this guy bring us food, too?
“I left you a voice mail. That’s why I thought you were here,” Stan said, closing the door behind him. “I stopped by your office earlier.”
“I haven’t checked my phone.” Cyril awkwardly wiped his big boots on her tiny welcome mat. “Is this, uh, a bad time?” Cyril waited while Henry and Scruffy sniffed every inch of him they could reach. Then Scruffy sat down and woo-wooed at him.
Cyril looked at Stan warily.
She smiled. “She’s friendly. The most she’ll do is lick you to death. And, no, it’s not a bad time. Would you like some shrimp étouffée? Or catfish? Char just came by with a feast.”
“I saw her. I waited until she left. I’m not hungry, thanks.”
He saw Char but waited until she left? That was weird. Should she worry about this guy? She didn’t know Cyril well. Like most other people in town, she kind of took him for granted. She got annoyed with him at times, but that was a hazard of his profession. Used to seeing him at public events, she still didn’t particularly enjoy when he approached her with a notebook and pen. Aside from that, mostly she didn’t think much about him. And here she was, letting him into her house. The dogs weren’t freaking out, though, which made her feel better. Besides, he looked depressed, not crazy as he followed her to the kitchen.
“Sit,” Stan said, waving at the table. “Want coffee?”
That seemed to perk him up. “Sure.” He hung his coat over one of the chairs and sat. He hesitated, then said, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed to talk to you alone.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m listening.” She set up the coffee maker and turned it on. He watched, tapping his fingers on the table incessantly. She tried to ignore the repetitive noise.
They both watched the coffee drip into the pot. Painfully slow, it seemed to Stan. She grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. “How do you take it?”
“Cream and sugar, please.”
Stan drank hers black, but kept a small carton of cream on hand for occasions such as this. She got his mug ready. Finally, the coffee beeped. She filled both mugs and carried them to the table and decided to jump right in. Otherwise, this conversation would continue in its current black hole of nothingness. “So what do you need my help with?”
“Don’t worry.” He finally cracked a smile. “I don’t need a quote.”
“Well, hallelujah. Because I probably have no comment.”
“I need a favor.” He sipped. “This is really good coffee.”
“Thanks. It’s from Izzy’s shop. I would think as a journalist you’d be all over good coffee.”
He shook his head. “Too expensive.”
“You have to treat yourself once in a while. Especially with coffee, being a newspaper guy. So, a favor? From me? What kind of favor?” Maybe he’d gotten a dog or cat and needed some food.
Cyril took a deep breath and adjusted his shirt. It was buttoned incorrectly, leaving one side hanging lower than the other at the bottom. “I need a reporter.”
Stan frowned. “Okay. So what does that have to do with me?”
“The only person I know of who would know how to be a reporter is you.”
“Me?” Stan stared at him, setting her mug down before even taking a sip. What the heck was going on around here? From her mother’s ridiculous coaching request this week to last year’s stint at the Happy Cow Dairy Farm, people seemed to think she was in need of a new profession. Or three. Did this whole town think she needed things to do because she “only” cooked dog biscuits for a living? “Cyril. What in the world are you talking about?”
He stopped fidgeting and leaned forward. “Maybe I’m not being clear. I need someone to write a story for the paper.”
“Okay. I’m sure we could find you a reporter somewhere. You must know people from being in the business. Are you using your website to advertise? Social media? With the colleges around here, I’m sure you could find someone. Maybe an intern?”
He sighed. When he spoke again frustration tinged his voice. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t need a full-time reporter. I need someone to write a story. One. Tomorrow.”
“Why? Are you going on vacation or something?”
“No, I don’t take vacations. As a matter of fact, it’s been about five years since I’ve left Frog Ledge. The paper has kept me busy.” He frowned. “I really should do something about that.”
“Yeah, you should,” Stan said. “So, if you’re not going on vacation, why can’t you write your story?”
“I’ll help with all the background stuff,” he said, ignoring her question. “I promise I won’t make it hard for you. I just need someone to do the interviews and carry the byline.”
“Wait.” Stan held up a hand. “I’m confused. Let’s start over.” This conversation required more coffee than she had in the house. And Cyril really needed a lesson in effective communication skills. But she wasn’t about to say that, or next thing she knew she’d be coaching him, too.
Cyril sighed. He toyed with the handle of his mug, spinning it around and around on the table. “Sorry. I know I’m all over the place. The story is breaking news. Someone has been questioned in the death of Helga Oliver. The state police have reason to believe they’re looking at a murder.”
Stan’s mouth dropped open, her mind racing. Had Betty finally come to her senses and gone to Pasquale? “What? Why?” she managed finally.
“The why is what we’ll—you’ll—have to find out. You’re the best person in town to do it. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you. I can give you fifty dollars.”
Thankfully she hadn’t gone to journalism school. Then she’d be poor on top of everything else. “I still don’t understand why you need me. Why aren’t you doing it?”
“Because I can’t. It’s a conflict of interest.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I’m the person of interest Pasquale questioned earlier today.”
Chapter 20
“This is so silly. It’s not like they can vote against the ghost hunt.” Char leaned forward, her bulk dangerously straining the small foldi
ng chair in the meeting room at town hall. She’d dressed for the impromptu town meeting as only Char could—a black dress, red platform heels, and a scarf with skulls. Her bright orange hair had been tamed, if you could call it that, by a headband sporting voodoo dolls in various stages of being jabbed with pins. A treat from her hometown of New Orleans, Stan figured. Where else could you get authentic voodoo paraphernalia?
“Closest thing I had to something ghostly,” she said with a shrug when she noticed Stan admiring it. “I wanted to show my support for Adrian.”
The hastily convened meeting had drawn a crowd. After Fox and his team arrived in town, word spread fast. It spread even faster when the location of the investigation was confirmed.
Char had gotten most of the scoop. Dissenters—she couldn’t confirm who but had her suspicions—had arranged the meeting, likely as a way to get names on a petition they could give to the mayor. Supporters heard about it and had worked virtually overnight to get the word out for their side. Both efforts were rewarded with a jam-packed meeting room in the basement of the town hall. Stan figured the meetings held there in the past had been of a different nature, perhaps town committees discussing their party’s nominee, or a group exploring a new rule or regulation. She felt fairly certain this was the first time folks had gathered to discuss ghosts. Or at least the possibility of a ghost hunter coming to town to tell old secrets.
“A meeting like this seems typical around here,” Stan said in response to Char’s earlier comment. “Part of the reality that everyone is involved in everyone else’s business. Speaking of that, I didn’t get to tell you about bumping into Dale Hatmaker.” She filled Char in on her visit to the historical society and subsequently the museum, and Dale Hatmaker’s project to remove certain items.
“I don’t trust that rat,” Char said. “Who’s directing him?”
Stan shrugged. “The mayor, sounds like.”
“Can you mention it to your mother?”
“Ugh.” She hadn’t told Char about that debacle. “Actually, I’m not sure I can do that right now.” She filled Char in.
“Good heavens,” Char said. “Maybe I’ll try to talk to her. Speaking of the rat Hatmaker, he’s already here and in the front row.” She pointed.
Stan spotted him through a gap in the growing crowd. He sat alone, on the opposite side of the room near the side exit, consulting a leather-bound notebook on his lap. She checked other faces to see who she knew. Cyril was there, notebook in hand. He didn’t glance her way. They had agreed to keep her “freelancing” on the down low until the murder story was done. At least he was still free to cover this story. Pasquale hadn’t thrown him in the slammer yet. Though he’d evaded her question on why Pasquale had pegged him as a suspect, other than citing his proximity to the museum early on Sunday morning. And, given the immediacy of this new development, she’d never even gotten to ask Cyril about his father, and Arthur’s coverage of the Felix Constantine murder.
It had taken her a while to get on board with his harebrained scheme to hire her, but she’d finally agreed to help him with the story. Part of it was that small-town sense of duty. If someone had killed Helga—and it wasn’t Cyril, which she certainly hoped it wasn’t since she’d let him in her house and had agreed to work with him—then someone needed to follow the story. The other part was just plain self-serving. She wanted to know what was going on. The small-town mentality was contagious.
She didn’t think Cyril was a killer. So that begged the question of who killed Helga, if indeed this was a murder. Same question she’d been asking Betty, to no avail.
She continued scanning the room. Don and Carla Miller sat a few rows in front of Stan and Char, all the way to the left, as far from the crowd as they could get. They looked like they were arguing, too. Carla’s heated voice rose and fell, sending a few words back to Stan: “. . . should really put out a plea to stop this nonsense . . . enough going on around here . . . detracting from your mother’s memory . . .” Miller angled himself away from his wife and didn’t look like he had a response.
Betty Meany was up front, next to Burt. At least she’d made an appearance. Stan was surprised Burt had come, given the level of engagement he seemed to have in his wife’s life. Betty, meanwhile, looked stressed and agitated. Because of Burt maybe. Or Helga and the ghost hunt. Maybe she’d tipped off Pasquale and now she was worried about what she’d started. Had she been the one to plant Cyril’s name as killer? Betty had been around the general vicinity of the museum and the green early on Sunday morning, too, setting up for the Groundhog Day celebration. If Cyril was there, of course she would’ve seen him. But he couldn’t have been the only one there at that time.
The town cranks also joined the meeting. That was Char’s name for the regulars who showed up to council meetings to complain—like Sam Osterling and Mickey Cronin. Other attendees included farmers and shop owners, soccer moms and teenagers. The teenagers were interesting. Either their parents had dragged them, or they’d caught wind of Adrian Fox’s presence in town. And though it was an unofficial meeting, Char had heard Tony Falco planned to attend just to hear people’s thoughts on the subject.
Stan didn’t see Amara anywhere. She’d tried calling her again about the DNA report still sitting on her counter, but they hadn’t connected. Amara was crazed with getting the clinic ready to open.
Char riffled through her enormous bag and pulled out her lipstick. “I still think it’s a waste of time. This has Edgar Fenwick written all over it,” she said. “He’s one of those change-haters. But he’s a people-hater, really.”
“A people-hater?” Stan chuckled. “Doesn’t he volunteer at the War Office? He has to sort of like people.”
Char scoffed. “He’s afraid of anything new or different. Although around here it’s the typical New England attitude—‘Stay out of my business, but I want to know your business.’ Do you agree?”
“I guess you’re right,” Stan said. “But really, this shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s not like Adrian and his team are going to go into every house in town, find some ghosts, and do a reality show.”
“Ha! Now that would be hilarious. And devastating for half these folks.” Char finished layering her lipstick and tossed the tube back in her bag.
Voices quieted as Adrian Fox, accompanied by Max from Mississippi, walked in. Haters could say what they wanted—Fox had presence. Stan swooned, just a bit, before snapping herself back to reality.
Char, on the other hand, fanned herself. “My, my, my,” she murmured. “I love my Raymond, but I’ll tell you what . . .”
Stan laughed. “It’s worth it to have a few ghosts in town.” She dropped her voice as the woman sitting in front of her turned to glare.
“You can poke fun all you want, but they’ll turn our town into a circus! This should not be allowed.” The woman looked like she was about to cry.
Next to her, a man rolled his eyes. “Lena, get a grip. It’s a TV show. They’ll be here for a few more days, do their thing, and it’s over. We’ll get new people coming to leave money in our town.”
“We don’t want new people!” Lena burst into tears. Char looked like she was about to offer her own opinion, but was interrupted by Tony Falco, who strode in and headed to the front of the room. Her mother, to Stan’s surprise, was nowhere in sight.
“Folks, thanks for coming,” Falco said, holding up his hands for quiet. “This isn’t a town meeting, but the gentlemen who organized it asked if I would come and say a few unbiased words to all of you.” He observed the audience, perhaps waiting to see if anyone would challenge him. An older gentleman Stan didn’t recognize took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. Falco waited a few seconds for the noise to cease, then continued. “We have some visitors in Frog Ledge, which is presumably why you’re all here. First and foremost, they are guests in our town, and I would ask that you welcome them as you would anyone new who came to visit.”
A couple of snickers, but mostly everyone behaved.
“Our town, as you all know, has a long and rich history. Our dear friend Helga, who left us this week, would tell you that any opportunities to learn about our past are important and should not be squandered. So whatever Mr. Fox and his team’s investigation brings, please use this experience to learn. Get involved. Stop by the museum and read about the historical places in our town. See what secrets some of our buildings hold. There are stories here that have yet to be told.
“Now, I promise you that we, and Mr. Fox, are taking any concerns quite seriously. We have no interest in attracting unsavory people to Frog Ledge, or capitalizing on this opportunity. We don’t want people to feel like their privacy is being invaded, although this is private property and we can’t legally prevent them from doing this investigation, as long as the owners agree. Once again, Mr. Fox and his team have years of experience, and they have assured us they will do everything in their power to protect the people of Frog Ledge.”
A smattering of applause went through the seats.
Falco nodded. “I’d like to thank Edgar Fenwick and Jeremiah Dunlap, who were kind enough to organize this meeting, and turn the floor to them. Thank you.”
Char rolled her eyes. “Told you,” she whispered loudly.
Falco took a seat in the first row as Edgar and Jeremiah rose and made their way to the front of the room. Edgar looked like he’d just rolled off a tractor at one of the local farms. He hadn’t bothered to dress at all. His jeans had stains on one knee, and his shirt looked like it had been washed upward of a hundred times. The buttons strained against his portly frame.
